Rose of the Rancho,
Flower-like you are,
A rose indeed,
But—even more, a Starr!

Dear David Harum, your quaint wisdom comes
Fresh from the land we love to call our own.
It is the bird that sings, the bee that hums,
The wind that blows across a grove o'ergrown;
In him who voices you, you live again,
We know not which is Harum,—
Which is Crane!

Our Ethel Barrymore,
Queen of Queens
In Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines,
Has made us thrill as she laughs and leans,
To the Captain in the army.
For she is a Siren through and through,
And she calls to me and she calls to you,
That is the way that Sirens do,
To the Captains in Life's Army.

Creator by your rare impersonation
Of Melisande, a Master's fine creation,
At your seductive charm, we cry again,
“May God have pity on the hearts of men.”

Have you heard of Jack Marbury, he from the West?
He's a terror at cards—
But his heart is the best.
Oh! the maids he caressed,
And the sins he confessed.
But he's white just the same
For he'll take all the blame,—
Have you heard of Jack Marbury, he from the West?

Could “Everyman” and every woman too,
But hear your voice as we were wont to do,
In deep rich tones invoking prayer or praise,
Then Every Man were better all his days.

I am the Tragic Muse;
Born of the web of my brain,
Lo! my children shall pass,
Poverty, Pathos, and Pain;
Labor,—and Love forsworn,
Each in their turn I name.
Jealousy, evil born
Sorrow, and Sin and Shame.
I am the World's despair,
I am the heart's despite,
Woven of me is fear,
Shadow of mine is night;
I am the Muse that weeps,
Out of my grief is Strife,
Tragedy, I am called,
I am the mirror of Life!

I AM the Comic Muse,
Soft as the summer rain,
Come the children I bear
Out of the breath of my brain;
Love,—and Laughter that lifts,
Joy with the lilt of a song,
Beauty that's born of praise,
And Faith that has righted wrong.
I am the heart of a child,
I am the trust of a maid,
Spirit and passion of man,
Love that is unbetrayed;
I am the Muse that smiles,
Lo! and gladness is rife,
Comedy, I am called,
I am the mirror of Life.

That which their zeale, whose onely zeale was bent
To shew the best they could that might delight
Your royall minde, did lately represent
Renowned Empresse to your Princely sight:
Is now the offring of their humblenesse,
Here consecrated to your glorious name;
Whose happy presence did vouchsafe to blesse
So poore presentments, and to grace the same:
And though it be in th'humblest ranke of words,
And in the lowest region of our speach,
Yet is it in that kinde, as best accords
With rurall passions; which vse not to reach

Prove his own love of peace and sanction theirs,
The very quaintness of that precedent,
Which sought to baulk a warrior-king's intent
By quiet looks, and unofficial prayers,—
Blended with somewhat chivalrous and bold,
Even in the very act of their appeal
To him, full autocrat from head to heel,
Sworn to his own great plans, a lifetime old—
Might hit his fancy with a pleasant zest,
Might haunt his memory with a dim control,
Among a thousand thoughts the last and best,
While that stern leaguer of Sebastopol
Alternately exalted, and deprest,