Arthur Rodman’s “Jingles” Booklet-Pages 43-44

    AN APPRECIATION
(To H. W. Ulrich, Cashier, Home Savings
    and State Bank, Peoria, Il1.)

Henry Ulrich, bless your soul;
How I wish I had your roll–
No, not yours, but one as big,
Which to get would take some dig.

No more work this child would do
If I had as much as you;
Hunt and fish and motorbile-
Ah, how fine I’d always feel.

Why go on and work and slave,
Just a few more bucks to save?
But, fiddlesticks! Your work is play,
Just because you feel that way.

Always happy, never sad
But look out when he gets mad;
Always ready for his meals–
Like a young race horse he feels.

Does me good to see him eat,
But he rarely lets me treat;
Had him out to dine one night–
Gobbled everything in sight.

Couldn’t make that rascal worry,
Couldn’t even make him hurry;
Never drinks a drop of booze–
Full of pep from hat to shoes.

But he’s business, hard and cold,
When you come to get his gold;
Turn you down? Yes, quick enough,
If you haven’t gilt-edged stuff.

Couldn’t have a better friend,
Search the world from end to end.
Blessings on thee, Henry, boy;
Here’s long life and endless joy.

          HOPELESS

When the goat outgrows his horns,
And the rosebush drops its thorns,
Then a poet I may be,
But that’s a long way off, you see.

WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE

Come, Dot, get your fiddle out;
Rosin up the bow.
Give the keys a skillful twist,
Then just let ‘er go.

Auld Lang Syne, and Fisher Maid,
Tipperary, too;
Captain Jinks, Virginia Reel,
Traumerei will do.

Draw your bow clear up and down,
Make the old box hum;
That’s the–––snap! Another string
Gone to Kingdom Come.

Yankee Doodle next we’ll have,
Old Dan Tucker, play.
Wacht am Rhine, God Save the King,
Then the Marseilles.

Now those other good old tunes,
Suwannee River, say;
Home Sweet Home and Old Black Joe,
Also Nellie Gray.

Now then give us Humoresque,
Pretty hard to play;
Have to mind your P’s and Q’s,
Fingers mustn’t stray.

Many notes are faint and low,
Yet so sweet and clear;
Seems as tho they’d die away
Ere they reach the ear.

Now you press the horse hair down,
Make the fiddle go;
Listen to the music roll,
Three strings on your bow.

Well you play your fiddle, Dot;
How it pleases Dad,
Yet is wasn’t long ago
That it drove me mad.

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