The Next Morning.

What a difference in the morning
    When you try to raise your head;
When your eyelids seem so heavy
    You could swear they were of lead;
When your tongue is thickly coated
    And you have an awful thirst;
When you drink so much cold water
    That you feel about to burst;
When you lift your hand towards heaven
    And solemnly do say:
"I'm going to 'cut out' drinking
    And I'll swear off right to-day."

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

The Epic Of The Hog.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

If I Were City Editor.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

The War Of The Rats And Mice.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

Oh Scissors!

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

English

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Life.

The list is long, the stories read the same;
    Strong mortal man is but a flesh-hued toy;
Some have their ending in a life of shame;
    Others drink deeply from the glass of joy;
Some see the cup dashed dripping from their lip
    Or drinking, find the wine has turned to gall,
While others taste the sweets they fain would sip
    And then Death comes--the sequel to it all.

Edwin C. Ranck

When The Lid Was On.

They were seated there in silence
    Each one busy with a frown,
It was midnight in the city,
    And the lid was on the town.
They had all been playing poker
    'Mid the rattle of the chink,
When a gloom fell o'er the party,
    For they couldn't buy a drink,
But a little fellow whispered
    As he held a poker hand,
"Can't we get as drunk on water
    As we can upon the land?"
Then we kicked the little rascal,
    And we spoke without a frown,
And we anchored safe in harbor
    When the lid was on the town.

Edwin C. Ranck

The Alarm Clock.

With a clatter and a jangle,
    And a wrangle and a screech,
How the old alarm clock wheezes
    As it sneezes out of reach!
How you groan and yawn and stretch
    In the chilly morning air,
As you pull the blankets tight,
    With your head clear out of sight--
How you swear!

Edwin C. Ranck

Yonder see the morning blink:

Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.

Oh often have I washed and dressed
And whats to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times Ive done my best
And alls to do again.

Alfred Edward Housman

Saturday On The Farm.

'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright
    By nature's own endowing;
The sun is fiercely giving light,
    And only me--
        Plowing.

Across the river I hear the sound
    Of a boatman slowly rowing;
I have no time to fool around,
    Especially when I'm--
        Hoeing.

And when the dinner hour has come,
    And thoughts of work are fleeting,
I only hear the insects hum,
    Because I'm busy--
        Eating.

At night when all things are at rest,
    Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping,
No troubles do my mind infest,
    For I am soundly--
        Sleeping.

Edwin C. Ranck

Th' Next Mornin'.

Aw'll nivver get druffen noa mooar,
    It's th' last time is this, an that's trew,--
For mi booans is all shakkin an sooar,
    Throo th' craan o' mi hat, to mi shoe.

An mi skin, it's all cover'd wi' marks,
    Some's blue, an some's black, an some's red;
Yo connot think ha mi heead warks,
    An it feels just as heavy as lead.

Aw connot tell ha' aw gate fresh,
    For aw didn't sup ovver mich drink,--
It's mi stummack 'at's weakly, aw guess,
    It couldn't be nowt else aw' think,
For aw'd nobbut a gallon o' beer,
    A couple o' whiskeys,--a rum,--
Happen two--for awm net varry clear
    Hah monny--aw knaw aw hed some.

That's all, tho' aw'd happen a drop
    Lat on, 'at aw knaw nowt abaat;
For th' lanlord he tell'd mi to stop,

John Hartley