Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc.
Written for the Wooping Cough Quartette.
Originally performed September 15 and 16, 1917, at the 49er Outing of the Uplifters.
Tune: “So Early in the Morning”
What are we goin’ to DO with ’em
Do with ’em—
Do with ’em?
What are we goin’ to DO with ’em
So early in the mornin’?
They won’t be tenderfeet no more;
They’ll take their picks an’ dig for ore
An’ mebbe we will shed their gore
So early in the mornin’!
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, July 22, 1917.
An Everyday Day in Supposyville
‘Twas six o’clock in the morning
On a lovely summer day,
When skipping o’er the meadows
The Supposies made their way;
Down lanes and roads and crooked streets,
Off toward the woodland shady;
Each lass and dame and little maid,
Each low and high born lady;
And from the bulky baskets and
The bags, I just surmise
A picnic must be brewing
Or some other fine surprise;
The band goes tooting on ahead
And all the birds are singing—
I wonder where the menfolks are
And why the bells are ringing?
Down on the grass beside a brook
They drop with merry chatter,
And all the little wood folks peep
To see what is the matter;
Out come the bags; my goodie, me!
They’re full of socks and mending,
And in a trice each lass and dame
Industriously is bending
Above her darning. How the needles
Twinkle in and out,
And how the band toots bravely with
Its cheeks blown up and out;
Then some one tells a story
And another sings a song,
And the little birds trill gayly
Just to help the work along;
And so they sew, and sew, and sew,
Till when the sun says “Noon”
Each tree and bush and brake with socks
And petticoats is strewn;
Then come the King and all the men,
And now the picnic starts;
And how they feast and dance and frolic—
Bless their merry hearts!
Then back to work the menfolks go,
And back to mending fly
The good Supposy ladies,
While the children play nearby;
Then later on the bugle blows;
The Queen jumps up to see
Who’s work is neatest, who’s is best
And who’s done most. Then she
Awards the prizes, and away
They hustle back to town,
Work turned to fun and neatly done
Before the sun goes down;
Yes, happiness and comradeship
Make tasks and labor light;
Even darning is a picnic
If you go about it right.
‘Twas six o’clock in the morning
On a lovely summer day,
When skipping o’er the meadows
The Supposies made their way;
Down lanes and roads and crooked streets,
Off toward the woodland shady;
Each lass and dame and little maid,
Each low and high born lady;
And from the bulky baskets and
The bags, I just surmise
A picnic must be brewing
Or some other fine surprise;
The band goes tooting on ahead
And all the birds are singing—
I wonder where the menfolks are
And why the bells are ringing?
Down on the grass beside a brook
They drop with merry chatter,
And all the little wood folks peep
To see what is the matter;
Out come the bags; my goodie, me!
They’re full of socks and mending,
And in a trice each lass and dame
Industriously is bending
Above her darning. How the needles
Twinkle in and out,
And how the band toots bravely with
Its cheeks blown up and out;
Then some one tells a story
And another sings a song,
And the little birds trill gayly
Just to help the work along;
And so they sew, and sew, and sew,
Till when the sun says “Noon”
Each tree and bush and brake with socks
And petticoats is strewn;
Then come the King and all the men,
And now the picnic starts;
And how they feast and dance and frolic—
Bless their merry hearts!
Then back to work the menfolks go,
And back to mending fly
The good Supposy ladies,
While the children play nearby;
Then later on the bugle blows;
The Queen jumps up to see
Who’s work is neatest, who’s is best
And who’s done most. Then she
Awards the prizes, and away
They hustle back to town,
Work turned to fun and neatly done
Before the sun goes down;
Yes, happiness and comradeship
Make tasks and labor light;
Even darning is a picnic
If you go about it right.
Copyright © 2020 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.
