THE FLATHOUSE ROOF I linger on the flathouse roof, the moonlight is divine. But my heart is all a-flutter like the washing on the line. I long to be a heroine, I long to be serene, But my feet, they dance in answer to a distant tambourine. And, oh! the dreams of ecstasy. Oh! Babylon and Troy. I’ve a hero in the basement, he’s the janitor’s red-haired boy. There’s the music of his mallet and the jigging of his saw; I wonder what he’s making on that lovely cellar floor? He loves me, for he said it when we met upon the stair, And that is why I’m on the roof to get a breath of air. He said it! Oh! He said it! And the only thing I said Was, “Roger Jones, I like you, for your hair is very red.” We parted when intruders came a-tramping through the hall; He’s got my pocket handkerchief and I have got his ball. And so it is I’m on the roof. Oh! Babylon and Troy! I’m very sure that I’m in love with someone else’s boy. Alone, upon the starry heights, I’m dancing on a green, To the jingling and the jangling of a distant tambourine. To the stamping of a hammer and the jigging of a saw, And the secret sort of feeling I’m in love forever more. Do you think it’s any wonder, with the moonlight so divine, That my heart is all a-flutter, like the washing on the line? JOHN PAUL JONES ’Tis John Paul Jones--the janitor’s boy, He lives on the gun-deck floor, Where all of the windows are action ports, And the dumbwaiters rattle and roar. The old trash tins are our hand grenades And the rugs on the backyard lines-- Are the mains of the Britisher Serapis That we fight with our bursting “Nines.” ’Tis John Paul Jones--my Admiral; His hair is a glorious red; And I am the maiden who serves as the mate To see that the sawdust is spread. He leans on the rail of the laundry tubs As the Serapis lifts on our lee; Our gun crews chant by the carronades And the powder boys yell in their glee. For he who stands in Colonial rags, Is born to the gift of the game-- Of shaking the dust from a Serapis, Or the dust from the halls of fame. I whirl the wheel of the wash machine In the spray of a soap-suds sea; But I know in my heart that the daring Jones Is winning the fight for me. And I think it is sweet of John Paul Jones, In playing the good old game, To do all the fighting just for love-- With never a thought of fame. THE ROVERS “Oh, wilt thou go a-sailing,” said the janitor’s boy to me: “It’s raining, but I’ve got a raft rigged with a canopy. “We carry boisterous batteries, our cannon balls are stones, But I’ll wager all your loveliness you’re safe with John Paul Jones.” I asked him very faintly was he competent to steer? He said he was authority on rafts and running gear. Then suddenly his voice sank low to slow and gentle tones, And off I went a-sailing with my captain, John Paul Jones.