L'Envoi.

I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler
    Who used to be so great,
They took my poor, neglected bones
    And piled them on a plate.
Reader, shed a kindly tear
    For my unhappy fate.

This is the common lot of all
    Upon the world's great chart;
We've got to leave a pile of bones--
    The stupid and the smart.
Even when Napoleon died
    He left a Bonaparte.

We are merely puppets
    Moving on a string,
And when we think that we are IT,
    The axe will fall--"Gezing!"
O, Grave, where is thy victory?
    O, Death, where is thy sting?

Edwin C. Ranck

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

Alas.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

At The Telephone.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

Modern Maud Muller.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

Vitascope Pictures.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

English

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L'Envoi

    My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready,
    My word-battalions marching verse by verse;
    Here stanza-companies are none too steady;
    There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse.
    And as in marshalled order I review them,
    My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray,
    My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them
    Immortal visions of an epic day.

    It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley;
    The hidden heavies round me crash and thud;
    A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley;
    The rising sun is like a ball of blood.
    Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring,
    And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . .
    Then back again I see the red tide pouring,
    Along the reeking road from Hebutern...

Robert William Service

L' Envoi

Ye voices, that arose
After the Evening's close,
And whispered to my restless heart repose!

Go, breathe it in the ear
Of all who doubt and fear,
And say to them, "Be of good cheer!"

Ye sounds, so low and calm,
That in the groves of balm
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!

Go, mingle yet once more
With the perpetual roar
Of the pine forest dark and hoar!

Tongues of the dead, not lost
But speaking from deaths frost,
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!

Glimmer, as funeral lamps,
Amid the chills and damps
Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My Life And Death.

(By A. Turkey Gobbler.)


I'm just a turkey gobbler,
    But I've got a word to say
And I'd like to say it quickly
    Before I pass away,
For I will get it in the neck
    Upon Thanksgiving Day.

I cannot keep from thinking
    Of poor Marie Antoinette,
She lost her head completely,
    But this is what I'll get--
They'll knock the stuffin' out o' me
    Without the least regret.

I've just a few days left now
    Before I meet my fate,
For every turkey gets the axe,
    The little and the great.
There never was a turkey born
    Who didn't fill a plate.

Only three days left now,
    Goodness, how time flies!
It brings a sadness to my heart
    And teardrops to my eyes.
Does every turkey feel that w...

Edwin C. Ranck

The Happy Corpse

In a rich land, fertile, replete with snails
I'd like to dig myself a spacious pit
Where I might spread at leisure myoid bones
And sleep unnoticed, like a shark at sea.

I hate both testaments and epitaphs;
Sooner than beg remembrance from the world
I would, alive, invite the hungry crows
To bleed my tainted carcass inch by inch.

O worms! dark playmates minus ear or eye,
Prepare to meet a free and happy corpse;
Droll philosophies, children of rottenness,

Go then along my ruin guiltlessly,
And say if any torture still exists
For this old soulless corpse, dead with the dead!

Charles Baudelaire

The Curate And The Corpse.

A dead man going slowly, sadly,
To occupy his last abode,
A curate by him, rather gladly,
Did holy service on the road.
Within a coach the dead was borne,
A robe around him duly worn,
Of which I wot he was not proud -
That ghostly garment call'd a shroud.
In summer's blaze and winter's blast,
That robe is changeless - 'tis the last.
The curate, with his priestly dress on,
Recited all the church's prayers,
The psalm, the verse, response, and lesson,
In fullest style of such affairs.
Sir Corpse, we beg you, do not fear
A lack of such things on your bier;
They'll give abundance every way,
Provided only that you pay.
The Reverend John Cabbagepate
Watch'd o'er the corpse as if it were
A treasure needing guardian care;
And all the while, his...

Jean de La Fontaine

Only a Boche

We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie;
For what's the use of risking one's skin for a TYKE that's going to die?
What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,
When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire?

However, I say, we brought him in. DIABLE! The mud was bad;
The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had!
And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan;
And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! but we carried him in like our own.

Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance,
And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, and remarks, "He hasn't a chance."
And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge on the glistening,...

Robert William Service