Oh, wild and free
Is a pig like me!
When the moon is riding high
I dive and swoop at her,
Whiz around Jupiter—
Oh this is the life for I!
Ranch and Range
HOME ON THE FARM
O give me a home
Where no buffaloes roam,
But the pigs and the porcupines play,
If it rains, we’ve the barn,
So we don’t give a darn
When the skies are all cloudy and grey.
Home, home on the farm,
Where the corn and the cantaloupes sprout;
Where often is seen
Mr. William F. Bean,
With his pipe either burning or out.
TWO-GUN FREDDY
When the moon rides high on the pine tree branch,
Then Two-Gun Freddy of the Lone Pig Ranch
(Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yip!)
He takes his guitar, and he tightens up the strings,
And he jumps in the saddle, and this is what he sings:
Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yap, yop, yowp,
Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
Oh, the wild wind moans o’er the lone prai-ree
But Two-Gun Freddy, oh, louder moans he;
(Sing hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yip!)
He shouts this song till the whole sky rings,
As he sits in the saddle and twangles on the strings:
Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yap, yop, yowp,
Oh, hi, yi, yippy-yippy-yings!
FROM THE BALLAD OF TWO-GUN FREDDY
Up to the ranch rides cowboy Freddy;
His heart is stout and his hand is steady;
He yells: “Come out” but Flint is yeller
And he shakes and he shivers and he hides in the cellar.
Oh, yip, yip, yippy-doodle-dee!
When Freddy finds him he falls on his knees,
And he says, “Oh, mercy!” and he says, “Oh, please!”
But Freddy just laughs and pulls his moustache,
And he plugs old Flint in the middle of his sash.
Sing yip,yip, yippy-doodle-do.
WARNING TO RUSTLERS
Yippy-i-dee! Yippy-i-day!
Cowboy Bean is coming this way.
He’s sharp as a needle and bright as a dollar,
Wears a No. 3 shoe and a 16 collar.
He’s full of vim and he’s full of vigor,
Fast on the draw and quick on the trigger.
So all you bandits and thieves take warning,
Or you’ll be in a hospital bed by morning,
And the doc’ll give you kind of a shake,
And he’ll hear the rattle that the bullets make,
And he’ll shake his head and he’ll say: “O my!
I can’t cure this and I ain’t going to try,
Yippy-i-day! Yippy-i-dy!
For Two-Gun Freddy has plugged this guy.”
LAMENT
O gimme my boots, and gimme my saddle,
For back to the range I’m goin’ to skedaddle.
Yip, yip, yippee! O my! O my!
O saddle up the pinto and saddle up the grey,
For I ain’t goin’ to stay here—no, I ain’t goin’ to stay
Where the skies are dreary and the folks ain’t gay.
O my!
Yip, yip!
O my!
I’m goin’ back home now: I’m goin’ back home,
Where I never use a toothbrush, never use a comb.
Yip, yip, yippee! O my! O my!
Goin’ back to the prairie, for the only sound that’ll
Make me happy again is the rattlesnake’s rattle
As he sidewinds along; a-chasin’ of the cattle.
O my!
Yip, yip!
O my!
SERENADE WITH YODELS
When the sun is gone,
(Ooly ooly hey!)
When the shadows fall,
When across the lawn
(Ooly ooly hey!)
Bugs begin to crawl.
By your window, sweet,
(La di doodle day!)
Then I strike my lute.
I look pretty neat,
(La di doodle day!)
Wearing my best suit.
So I tell my love
(Ho di wowly wow!)
Underneath the moon,
Cooing like a dove,
(Ho di wowly wow!)
Slightly out of tune.
O, be mine! Be mine!
(Bungle o li bang!)
Tell me I’m desired;
Give me but a sign;
(Bungle o li bang!)
I am very tired.
It is very late.
(Hi de heedle ho!)
Show me that you care
Do not make me wait:
(Hi de heedle ho!)
Throw me out a chair.
Ah, she sleeps, alas!
(Ooly ooly hey!)
Does not hear my song.
Dew is on the grass;
(Ooly ooly hey!)
Better get along.
Silent is the lute;
(Ho di wowly wow!)
Vain my tuneful pleas.
She don’t give a hoot.
(Ho di wowly wow!)
I am going to sneeze.
Horribles
Official name of a group of ten rabbits, organized for self-protection. Although enlarged later to include some thirty rabbits, there is now a long waiting list.
CHANT OF THE HORRIBLE TEN
We are the Horrible Ten,
Neither animals nor men;
Neither men nor animiles,
And we’re meaner than crocodiles,
Much wickeder and horrider
Than alligators in Florida.
And we take our enemies’ lives
With our ten sharp little knives,
In using which, our system
Is to stick ’em in and twist ’em.
Our teeth are blue and our eyes are red;
We’ve got bad manners; we’re not well bred.
We think it silly to be polite,
So we snatch and snarl and scratch and bite.
Oh, horrible indeed are we;
To look at we are awful!
We shout and howl and yell with glee
When doing deeds unlawful.
So let our enemies beware,
And hide in caves and cellars,
For when we catch one by the hair,
We pinch him till he bellers.
Oh, we are the Ten, the Horrible Ten,
Bears, when they hear us, cower in their den,
Elephants tremble, and lions shudder—
Hide their heads and yell for their mudder.
MORE HORRIBLES
Shut your eyes. Cover your head.
Or better still, get under the bed.
For the Horrible Ten are out tonight,
And they’re full of meanness and rage and spite.
Oh, what is that! Does something crawl
Among the shadows along the wall?
In the dark—under the chair,
Do you see red eyes? Is there something there?
What’s that reflection in the mirror?
Is it a Horrible creeping nearer?
Look! Look! Run for your lives!
I see the flash of the Horribles’ knives!
Yes! Yes! We’re out tonight
To giggle and dance in the pale moonlight.
Run! Run, if you’d save your skin,
For we’re mean and wicked and full of sin.
We love to pinch our little sisters,
To make ’em yelp and raise large blisters;
To stick long pins in our favorite aunts;
Pour ink on our uncles’ Sunday pants.
Our mothers cry and our fathers roar,
But we just run out and slam the door.
Our knives are sharp and we’re close behind you;
You haven’t a chance; we’re sure to find you.
We’re really awful; you might as well
Just lie down flat and begin to yell.
PURSUIT OF BANNISTER BY HORRIBLES
Oh, here we are back again,
The horrible, Horrible Ten,
More horrible than ever,
It’s our conscientious endeavor
To catch a butler once a week,
To tie him up and make him squeak,
We make him squeak and we make him squeal
As we chop him up for our evening meal.
And since Bannister’s a butler, he
Had better beware of our cutlery,
For it’s getting late, and this time of night
We always have a good appetite.
CHANT OF THE HORRIBLE TWENTY
We are the Horrible Twenty,
Of ferocity, boy! we’ve got plenty!
Plenty, sufficient and lots!
We weave diabolical plots
To capture our victims alive.
And when we have caught four or five
We sing and we yell and we dance and we haul
Them down to the kitchen and chop them up small,
Add lemon and peper and salt, and a dash
Of Worcestershire sauce. For enemy hash
Is the dish of all dishes that crowns all our wishes,
We eat it for breakfast and dinner and lunch,
We munch and we crunch, we gobble and scrunch,
Oh gosh, we’re a terribly villainous bunch!
SALUTE TO THE FEARLESS SKUNK
O Sniffy, we salute you,
And hereby constitute you
A Horrible (first class) and we
Do therefore solemnly agree
To back you up in any fight.
Provided you’re not in the right.
But in the wrong, we’ll stand by you.
(Good deeds of course, we never do.)
If you have enemies, we’ll help
To make them holler; squirm and yelp;
We’ll pinch them black, we’ll punch them blue!
Oh, we’ll do anything for you!
CHANT OF THE HORRIBLE THIRTY
We are the Horrible Thirty,
Wild-eyed, blood-thirsty and dirty!
Our manners are simply atrocious—
Impudent, rude and ferocious.
At home, disobedient creatures;
In school, we throw things at teachers.
Punished, we stick out our tongues,
Scream at the top of our lungs.
Folks we don’t like, we attack ’em,
Out come our knives and we hack ’em.
Even the bravest are nervous
When in the gloom they observe us.
As through the trees we come creeping
Even the boldest start weeping,
Even the calmest will bellow,
Shake like a bowlful of jello.
Oh, how we laugh when they holler!
Sometimes they offer a dollar
Not to be hashed up and fried.
Often we’ve laughed till we’ve cried,
Keeping—of course—right on hashing,
Paying no heed to their thrashing
All we want’s enemy hash;
Don’t give a hoot for their cash.
We are the Horrible Thirty,
Red-eyed, bloodthirsty and dirty.
We like to hear our enemies squall,
As we chop ’em fine and we chop ’em small.
We like to hear our enemies squeal,
As we chop ’em up for our evening meal.
We like to see our enemies squinch,
As we chop ’em slowly, inch by inch.
Not about Pigs
ANTS, ALTHOUGH ADMIRABLE, ARE AWFULLY AGGRAVATING
The busy ant works hard all day
And never stops to rest or play.
He carries things ten times his size,
And never grumbles, whines or cries.
And even climbing flower stalks,
He always runs, he never walks.
He loves his work, he never tires,
And never puffs, pants or perspires.
Yet though I praise his boundless vim
I am not really fond of him.
BEES, BOTHERED BY BOLD BEARS, BEHAVE BADLY
“Your honey or your life!” says the bold burglar bear,
As he climbs up the tree where the bees have their lair.
“Burglars! Burglars!” The tree begins to hum.
“Sharpen up your stings, brothers! Tighten up your wings, brothers!
“Beat the alarm on the big bass drum!
“Watch yourself, bear, for
here
we
come!”
Then the big black bees buzz out from their lair,
With sharp stings ready zoom down on the bear.
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Don’t be so rough!”
He slithers down the tree, squalling, “Hey, let me be!” Bawling,
“Keep your old honey. Horrid sticky stuff!
“I’m going home, for
I’ve
had
enough!”
TRIBUTE TO THE EAGLE
O eagle, mightiest of all living things,
Nor Death nor Destiny spreads stronger wings.
Thy claws of brass, thy beak of burnished steel,
Make malefactor pigs in terror squeal.
The fearless eagle cleaves the stormy air;
With mighty wings he sweeps the clouds asunder;
He screams defiance at the lightning’s glare,
And at the thunder’s crash he laughs like thunder.
SONG OF THE HOMESICK SPIDER
Oh, a life of adventure is gay and free,
And danger has its thrill;
And no spider of spirit will bound his life
By the web on the windowsill.
Yet many a wandering spider sighs
For the pleasant tang of the home-grown flies.
But one tires at last of wandering
As summer fades to fall.
And the year is old, and the wind grows cold,
And the flies are few and small.
Then each spider knows that, by Jan. or Feb.,
He’ll be better off in the old home web.
DIET OF ROBINS
To say that worms are edible
Will seem to you incredible.
For you to eat a measuring worm
Would take more courage and determination that to take a dive into a clump of poison ivy.
Yet robins eat them every day;
They smack their beaks and shout Hooray!
They gobble them with joy and pride
And do not seem upset inside.
The moral here is plain to see:
What pleases you does not please me;
What pleases me to you is hateful,
And for this fact we should be grateful.
SUGGESTED VERSE BY MR. POMEROY
To say that worms are edible may seem to you incredible,
And yet I most emphatically assert
That hardly any dishes are more filling or deliciouser
Than angleworms pulled freshly from the dirt.
VALENTINE FOR JERRY
Here’s to you, Jerry*; we all join together
In welcoming you to our home.
You came all this way in the worst kind of weather,
For it couldn’t be colder in Nome.
You had no red flannels to keep yourself warm
And you had no galoshes or hat,
But you plugged right along in the teeth of the storm,
And we surely admire you for that.
So you’re here, and we’re glad, and we all want to say,
Though of valentines we’ve quite a few,
&nbs
p; The best of the valentines we’ll get today
Is from our friend Boomschmidt—it’s YOU!
* Rhinoceros with Boomschmidt’s Circus
Laments
EARTHBOUND
Contented with my earthly lot,
My soul rejoicing sings
Until I gaze into the sky—
Then through my mind there rings
That saddest of all earthly thoughts:
Why do not pigs have wings?
When unimportant birds and bugs
And bats and other things
Can soar and wheel and flit, and know
The joy that flying brings—
Why is the pig denied the air?
Why do not pigs have wings?
My feet must stay upon the ground
In all my wanderings.
Yet still desire fills all my heart
With anxious questionings—
If even men have learned to fly,
Why can’t this pig have wings?
I FEEL AWFUL
When life’s at its darkest and everything’s black,
I don’t want my friends to come patting my back.
I scorn consolation, can’t they let me alone?
I just want to snivel, sob, bellow, and groan.
There’s pleasure in weeping, a joy in despair;
There’s a great satisfaction in tearing my hair.
Don’t tell me I’m handsome: I want to be plain;
I don’t want the sunshine; I want it to rain.
Why can’t my friends see, when I’m feeling so low,
That the lower I get, then the higher I’ll go
Later on. For before you can rise, you must drop;
If you haven’t hit bottom, you can’t reach the top.
For the way to be helpful to those who are down
Is not to be merry and act like a clown,
But to look on the dark side, and groan, and predict
That ruin impends, and they’re finally licked.
So when I feel awful, just point out my faults,
The Collected Poems of Freddy the Pig Page 3
