Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.
There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.
"TIDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-BUM! BUM!"
BY WILBUR D. NESBIT
When our town band gets on the square
On concert night you'll find me there.
I'm right beside Elijah Plumb,
Who plays th' cymbals an' bass drum;
An' next to him is Henry Dunn,
Who taps the little tenor one.
I like to hear our town band play,
But, best it does, I want to say,
Is when they tell a tune's to come
With
"Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-
Bum-Bum!"
O' course, there's some that likes the tunes
Like _Lily Dale_ an' _Ragtime Coons_;
Some likes a solo or duet
By Charley Green--B-flat cornet--
An' Ernest Brown--th' trombone man.
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