'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax.
And prove the pore man pays 'em all and them's about the fac's!
Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball
Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.

* * * * *

W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun,
Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!
Don't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you,
They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two:
You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense
In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.--
The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does.
And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!

On the drive back to the little Station, you were
the Man, the Poet, but not the Mystic!
You delighted the Wizard with your genial
flow of Verse, of Story.
When the watchful Wizard, smuggled you aboard
your train--with privacy unbroken you, like
King Saul, returned to your People, refreshed in body,
restored in mind; for had not the Wizard done for you,
as David did for Saul, for had not he brought Peace
to your no longer Troubled Soul?
Did he not say to you, in parting, "All Is Well With You?"

O! James Whitcomb Riley!
It is late in the Afternoon, of a Perfect Summer Day.
This Man From Down On The Farm,
is standing on the Banks Of Wolf Run.
He is thinking of You!
Joyfully, not Regretfully!
A Pastoral Scene stretches before him--
a Scene of much Beauty!
The Cattle stand, not "knee-deep in June"
but well into the pure rippling Waters of an August
Wolf Run, under the dense shade overhead, where
arching branches inter-lock, casting a net-work
of shifting Shadows on the bosom of the Peaceful
Waters, which seem to murmer, as they
flow, your Name--Joyfully, not Mournfully!

James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!

Smiling, undulating, across the Creek,
a Blue Grass Meadow gently rolls away,
toward the White, the Winding Pike:
Each blade of Blue Grass--Joyfully,
not Tearfully--seems to whisper your Name:

James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!

But Hark! The belated Song of a Mocking Bird--
its Vesper Song--to its enraptured Mate!
This, the