Our army numbered three in all--Marc Antony's was four; Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore! And when we reached Philippi, at the outset we were met With an inartistic gusto I can never quite forget. For Antony's overwhelming force of thumpers seemed to be Resolved to do "them Kansas jays"--and that meant Jack and me! My lips were sealed but that it seems quite proper you should know That Rome was nowhere in it at Philippi in St. Jo!
I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious pain Accruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane; Away out West I've witnessed Bandmann's peerless hardihood, With Arthur Cambridge have I wrought where walking was not good; In every phase of horror have I bravely borne my part, And even on my uppers have I proudly stood for Art! And, after all my suffering, it were not hard to show That I got my allopathic dose with Brutus at St. Jo!
That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rage And scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage; My toga rent, my helmet gone and smashed to smithereens, They picked me up and hove me through whole centuries of scenes! I sailed through Christian eras and mediæval gloom And fell from Arden forest into Juliet's painted tomb! Oh, yes, I travelled far and fast that night, and I can show The scars of honest wounds I got with Brutus in St. Jo!
Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot, And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot; Fred Warde, the papers tell me, in far woolly western lands Still flaunts the banner of high Tragic Art at one-night stands; And Jack and I, in Charley Hoyt's Bostonian dramas wreak Our vengeance on creation at some eensty dolls per week. By which you see that public taste has fallen mighty low Since we fought as Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isle Of Boo in a southern sea; They clambered and rollicked in heathenish style In the boughs of their cocoanut tree. They didn't fret much about clothing and such And they recked not a whit of the ills That sometimes accrue From having to do With tailor and laundry bills.
The two little skeezucks once heard of a Fair Far off from their native isle, And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't go there To take in the sights for awhile. Now old King Fan Was a good-natured man (As good-natured monarchs go), And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a bore, He hadn't the heart to say "No."