A rooster flapped his wings and crowed A merrysome cockadoodledoo, As out of the west a cowboy rode To the land where the peach and the clapboard grew, Humming a gentle tralalaloo. "O insect with the gilded wing," The cowboy cried, "Pray tell me true Why do you crane your neck and sing That wearisome cockadoodledoo? Would you like to learn the tralalaloo?" Now the rooster squawked an impudent word Whereat the angered cowboy threw His lariat at the haughty bird And choked him until his gills were blue And his eyes hung out an inch or two. "Now hear _me_ sing," the cowboy cried; "It ain't no cockadoodledoo-- It's a song we sing on the prairies wide-- The simple song of tralalaloo, Which is cowboy slang for 12 to 2." ME AND BILKAMMLE. I will, if you choose, Impart you some news That will greatly astound you, I know; You would never suspect My ambition was wreck'd 'Till you heard my confession of woe. 'Tis not that my boom Has ascended the flume-- In other words, gone up the spout-- I could smile a sweet smile This tempestuous while, But me and Bilkammle are out! Being timid and shrinkin', He did all the thinkin', When _I_ did the talkin' worth mention; 'Twas my constant ambition To soar to position So I gave it exclusive attention; And supposin' that he Would of course be for me, I rambled and prattled about 'Till I found to my horror, Vexation, and sorror, That me and Bilkammle were out. As I tore my red hair In a fit of despair I heard my Achates complain That the gent with the coffer Had nothing to offer In the way of relieving his pain! * * * * * If there's mortal to blame For this villainous game Which has snuffed a great man beyond doubt. It's that treacherous mammal Entitled Bilkammle-- Which accounts for us two bein' out! TO THE DETROIT BASEBALL CLUB. You've scooped the vealy city crowd Of glory and of purse-- Why shouldn't Pegasus be proud To trot you out in a verse? Chicago hoped to wallop you By a tremendous score, But bit off more than it could chew, As witness: "5 to 4." Well done, you 'Ganders! here's a hand To every one of you; These record-breakers of the land Now break themselves in two. Well get their pennant--it shall float Upon our distant shore, So let each patriotic throat Hurrah for "5 to 4." A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS. Ther ben a knyght, Sir Hoten hight, That on a time did swere In mighty store othes mickle sore, Whiche grieved his wiffe to here. Soth, whenne she scoft, his wiffe did oft Swere as a lady may; "I'faith," "I'sooth," or "lawk" in truth Ben alle that wiffe wold say.