My name is Col. Johncey New,
And by a hoosier's grace
I have congenial work to do
At 12 St. Helen's place.
I was as happy as a clam
A-floating with the tide,
Till one day came a cablegram
To me from t'other side.
It was a Macedonian cry
From Benjy o'er the sea;
"Come hither, Johncey, instantly,
And whoop things up for me!"
I could not turn a callous ear
Unto that piteous cry;
I packed my grip, and for the pier
Directly started I.
Alas! things are not half so fair
As four short years ago—
The clouds are gathering everywhere
And boisterous breezes blow;
My wilted whiskers indicate
The depth of my disgrace—
Would I were back, enthroned in state,
At 12 St. Helen's place!
The saddest words, as I'll allow,
That drop from tongue or pen,
Are these sad words I utter now:
"They can't, shan't, won't have Ben!"
So, with my whiskers in my hands,
My journey I'll retrace,
To wreak revenge on foreign lands
At 12 St. Helen's place.