The Collected Poems of Freddy the Pig

by Walter R. Brooks

  On the open road, when the sun goes down,

  Your home is wherever you are.

  The sky is your roof and the earth is your bed

  And you hang your hat on a star.

  You wash your face in the clear, cold dew,

  And you say good-night to the moon,

  And the wind in the tree-tops sings you to sleep

  With a drowsy boughs-y tune.

  Then it’s hey! for the joy of a roving life,

  From Florida up to Nome,

  For since I’ve no home in any one spot,

  Wherever I am is home.

  Then it’s out of the gate and down the road

  Without stopping to say good-bye,

  For adventure waits over every hill,

  Where the road runs up to the sky.

  We’re off to play with the wind and the stars,

  And we sing as we march away:

  O, it’s all very well to love your work,

  But you’ve got to have some play.

  Chorus

  Oh, the winding road is long, is long,

  But never too long for me.

  And we’ll cheer each mile with a song, a song,

  A song as we ramble along, along,

  So fearless and gay and free.

  ON ROADS

  Oh, it’s over the hill and down the road

  And we’ll borrow the moon for a light,

  And wherever we go, one thing we know:

  The road will lead us right.

  If you start from home by any road,

  And follow each dip and bend,

  What fortune you find, whether cold or kind,

  You find home again at the end.

  Oh, the roads run east, and the roads run west,

  And it’s lots of fun to roam

  When you know that whichever road you take—

  That road will lead you home.

  THE HOMESICK PIG

  Oh, a life of adventure is gay and free,

  And danger has its charm;

  And no pig of spirit will bound his life

  By the fence on his master’s farm.

  Yet there’s no true pig but heaves a sigh

  At the pleasant thought of the old home sty.

  But one tires at last of wandering,

  And the road grows steep and long,

  A treadmill round, where no peace is found,

  If one follows it overlong.

  And however they wander, both pigs and men

  Are always glad to get home again.

  FLORIDA

  Oh, the winding road to Florida

  Is a dusty road, and long,

  But we animals gay have cheered the way

  With many a merry song.

  Our hearts were bold—but our homes were cold,

  And that is why we’ve come

  To Florida, to Florida,

  From our far-off northern home.

  In Florida, in Florida,

  Where the orange-blossom blows,

  Where the alligator sings so sweet,

  And the sweet-potato grows;

  Oh, that is the place where I would be,

  And that is where I am—

  In Florida, in Florida,

  As happy as a clam.

  THE OPEN ROAD AGAIN

  We’re out on the winding road again,

  The road where we belong;

  By hill and valley, by meadow and stream,

  On the road that’s never too long.

  Never too long is the winding road,

  Though it climbs the steepest hill,

  Though dark the night, and heavy the load,

  When the rain drives hard and chill.

  For the stormiest weather will always mend;

  There’s a top to the highest hill;

  But the winding road has never an end,

  Whether for good or ill.

  And we travel the road for the love of the road,

  For love of the open sky,

  For love of the smell of fields fresh mowed,

  As we go tramping by.

  For love of the little wandering breeze,

  And the thunder’s deep bass song,

  Which rattles the hills and shakes the trees

  Like the roar of a giant’s gong.

  For love of the sun, and love of the moon

  And love of the lonely stars;

  And the treetoads’ trill, and the blackbirds’ tune,

  And the smell of Bill Wonks’ cigars.

  And there, where the road curves out of sight,

  Or surely, beyond that hill,

  Adventure lies, and perhaps a fight,

  And perhaps a dragon to kill.

  Or perhaps it’s a brand new friend we’ll make,

  Or a haunted house to visit,

  Or a party with peach ice cream and cake,

  Or something else exquisite.

  So now for us all, for pigs and men,

  For lions and tigers and bears,

  The open road lies open again,

  And we toss aside our cares.

  And we sing and holler and shout Hurray!

  No matter what the weather

  For we’ll not be back for many a day

  While we’re out on the road together.

  CIRCUS MARCHING SONG

  Red and gold wagons are coming down the street

  With a Boomschmidt, Boomschmidt, boom, boom, boom;

  With a shouting and music and tramp of marching feet

  And a Boomschmidt, Boomschmidt, boom, boom, boom.

  Hear the squeal of the cornets, rattle of the snares;

  The fifes scream shrilly and the trombone blares,

  And here come the lions and the tigers and the bears,

  With a Boomschmidt, Boomschmidt, BOOM!

  Here come the caribou and kangaroos and camels,

  The koodoos, zebus, zebras, and yaks,

  The hippopotamuses and the rhinoceroses

  And the big gray elephants with houses on their backs.

  Boom—be quick! Buy a ticket at the wicket.

  Boom—get your pink lemonade. Get your gum.

  Boom—get your peanuts, popcorn, lollipops,

  Boom—Mr. Boom—Mr. Boomschmidt’s come!

  THE ANIMALS’ MARCHING SONG

  There’s a muttering of marching feet upon the windless air;

  Far across the peaceful hills of Bean the distant torches flare;

  For the animals are coming, you can hear the trumpets blare

  And the drums beat victory.

  Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins;

  Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins;

  Hip, hurray for Mrs. Wiggins,

  For our next Pres-i-dent!

  In our hundreds and our thousands we are marching through the night.

  Underneath the tossing banners, in the torches’ smoky light,

  We sing our song of triumph, and we shout with all our might

  For Wiggins—and victory!

  When the Farmers’ Party marches let all other parties cower;

  We will shatter and defeat them with our overwhelming power;

  We will scatter them like chickens in a sudden thunder shower

  As we march to victory!

  Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins!

  Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins!

  Hip, hurray for Mrs. Wiggins

  For our next Pres-i-dent!

  CAMPING SONG

  By the old hotel at Lakeside, looking southward ’cross the sea,

  There’s a bright campfire a’burning, and I know it burns for me.

  For the wind is in the pine trees, and the murmuring needles say:

  Come you back, you pig detective—come you back to Jones’s Bay;

  Come you baaaack to Jones’s Ba-a-a-ay!

  Oh, the road to Jones’s Bay! Where the flying flapjacks play!

  You can hear the bacon sizzling from your bed at break of day.

  On the roa
d to Jones’s Ba-hay, we will sing and shout hooray;

  A-and when your breakfast’s ready, they will bring it o-on a tray!

  FLORIDA WEATHER NOTE

  The weather grew torrider and torrider,

  And the orange-blossoms smelt horrider and horrider

  As we marched down into Florida.

  Self-Praise

  ADMIRE THE PIG

  O the swallows fly about the sky,

  And they swoop among the trees,

  And they catch small bugs in their little mugs

  And swallow them down with ease.

  It’s fun, no doubt, to whirl about

  In a swift and airy jig;

  But as for me, I’d much rather be

  A pig.

  The rabbit, at night, when the moon is bright,

  Waits till it’s nearly dawn;

  Then out he hops, with his friends plays cops

  And robbers upon the lawn.

  It’s fun, I suppose, to wriggle your nose

  And live on a lettuce diet;

  But it’s not my dish, and I wouldn’t wish

  To try it.

  O cats are slim and full of vim

  And they stay out late at night;

  They’re merry blades, who sing serenades

  On the fence, by the moon’s pale light.

  It may be fun to wash with your tongue

  And sing like the late Caruso,

  But I’ll tell you square, I wouldn’t care

  To do so.

  Now take the pig. His brains aren’t much bigger than cats’ or swallows’ or rabbits’,

  But in debate his words carry weight,

  And he’s formed very regular habits.

  Pigs know all the answers; they’re conceded as dancers,

  To be light as a bird on a twig.

  So it mustn’t gall you if people call you

  A pig.

  P, AS IN PIG

  This is the song of Frederick,

  Patriot, poet, and pig;

  In pedigree, princely, patrician;

  In appearance, both pleasing and plig.*

  Precise he may be, and peculiar,

  Preferring potatoes to pie

  Yet his perfect uprightness and polished politeness

  No person can ever deny.

  In the pen where he pens all his poems

  He will often sit pensive for hours,

  Yet a panther in battle they’ve proved him,

  This pig of great personal powers.

  Of all pigs he’s the pink of perfection

  Of all pigs he’s the pearl beyond price

  Though by no means the biggest,

  Of all the pigs he’s the piggest,

  And that will go everywhere twice.

  *“Excuse me,” said Freginald, “but what does ‘plig’ mean?”

  “I made it up,” said Freddy. “It just came to me. Sounds well, don’t you think?”

  THE HAPPINESS OF PIGS

  Some people think pigs should feel pain

  Because they’re so awfully plain,

  But they don’t, and the reason

  Is easy to seize on:

  Being handsome’s a terrible strain.

  If you’re handsome, you’re always obsessed

  With a doubt you’re not looking your best,

  And then you get worried

  And hurried and flurried

  And spill things all over your vest.

  Whereas, if you’re homely as sin,

  You just have to bear it and grin,

  For no perseverance

  Will improve your appearance;

  You’re beaten before you begin.

  It is no use to sit down and squall

  If you can’t be the belle of the ball;

  If you’re cross-eyed and fat

  You just say: “That’s that!”

  And you don’t have to worry at all.

  Now the pig, as I previously said,

  About looks never worries his head.

  The pig has no passion

  For being in fashion

  And painting his fingernails red.

  And that is why pigs are so gay,

  Always laughing and shouting Hooray!

  Their looks they ignore;

  They don’t care any more;

  And they sing and rejoice all the day.

  VACATION SONG

  Freddy sings:

  O, I am the King of Detectives,

  And when I am out on the trail

  All the animal criminals tremble,

  And the criminal animals quail,

  For they know that I’ll trace ’em and chase ’em and place ’em

  Behind the strong bars of the jail.

  Jinx sings:

  O, I am the terror of rodents.

  I can lick a whole army of rats

  Like that thieving, deceiving old Simon

  And his sly sneaking, high squeaking brats.

  For I, when I meet ’em, defeat ’em and eat ’em—

  I’m the boldest and bravest of cats.

  Both sing:

  In our chosen careers we’ll admit that

  We haven’t much farther to climb,

  But we’re weary of trailing and jailing,

  Of juries, disguises and crime.

  We want a vacation from sin and sensation—

  We don’t want to work all the time.

  Then it’s out of the gate and down the road

  Without stopping to say good-bye,

  For adventure waits over every hill,

  Where the road runs up to the sky.

  We’re off to play with the wind and the stars,

  And we sing as we march away:

  O, it’s all very well to love your work,

  But you’ve got to have some play.

  SELF-PORTRAIT

  No better detective than Freddy

  Can be found in the State of New York;

  Always calm, always cool, always ready,

  Though a pig, he’s by no means just pork.

  Of animals he is the smartest,

  Of pigs he’s the brightest by far;

  At following clues he’s an artist,

  At tracking down crime he’s a star.

  THE COURAGEOUS PIG

  It was dark in the woods,

  It was very, very scary,

  But the pig trudged along,

  Always watchful and wary.

  The pig trudged along,

  And he made a little song

  (He was rather literary).

  It was quite extraordinary

  How he sang his little song

  In a voice clear and strong.

  Though it’s rather customary

  For a pig, when something’s wrong

  In a forest dark and scary,

  Dim and dark and solitary.

  To sneak quietly along

  Not to be so very, very

  Brave and bold and military.

  But this pig, he was bold,

  He was brave as a lion,

  And he walked through the woods

  Without yellin’ or cryin’—*

  * At this point something startled the singer and he stopped singing.

  ADVANTAGES OF BEING A PIG

  Little sparrow, wren or crow,

  Little singing vireo,

  Little robin on a twig,

  Don’t you wish you were a pig?

  You can fly among the trees,

  Chase the buzzing bumblebees;

  You can swoop about the sky,

  Very low or very high.

  Such a life is very fine,

  But it’s not as nice as mine.

  Don’t you sometimes wish that you

  Had four legs instead of two?

  You have bugs and things to eat;

  I am fed on proper meat.

  You must live up in the sky;

  I’ve a comfortable sty.

  Honest, don’t you think you’d ber />
  Better off down here like me?

  ODE TO THE PIG: HIS TAIL

  My tail is not impressive

  But it’s elegant and neat.

  In length it’s not excessive—

  I can’t curl it round my feet—

  But it’s awfully expressive,

  And its weight is not excessive,

  And I don’t think it’s conceit,

  Or foolishly possessive

  If I state with some aggressiveness that it’s the final master touch

  That makes a pig complete.

  ODE TO THE PIG: HIS LEGS

  The pig has two legs at each end,

  Yet he also has two on each side;

  And consider him closely, my friend,

  He’s with one at each corner supplied.

  That makes twelve if my count is correct,

  Yet my count’s unaccountably wrong,

  For you see only four,

  There aren’t any more,

  And that is the end of my song.

  FLYING PIGS

  Oh, the young pigs fly

  About the sky

  And they zoom and dive and roll;

  They yell and whoop

  As they spin and loop

  Under the sky’s blue bowl.

  They sing and shout

  As they whiz about,

  For there’s elbow room in the sky;

  And it’s lots more fun

  Up there in the sun

  Than down in their stuffy sty.

  Oh, the pig is bold

  And when he’s told

  That a hurricane’s on the way,

  Does he turn and run?

  He does like fun!

  He hollers and shouts Hurray!

  Oh, not a fig

  Cares the fearless pig

  When the thunder bangs and crashes;

  Right into the heart

  Of the storm he darts,

  And plays tag with the lightning flashes.