William Waldorf Astor

How blest a thing it is to die

For Country's sake, as bards have sung!

How sweet “pro patria mori,”

( To quote the vulgar Latin tongue );

And yet to him the palm we give

Who for his fatherland can live.

Historians have explained to us,

In terms that never can grow cold,

How well the bold Horatius

Played bridge in the brave days of old;

And we can read of hosts of others,

From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.

But nowhere has the student got,

From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,

The picture of a patriot

So truly typical as Astor;

And none has ever shown a greater

Affection for his Alma Mater.

With loyalty to Fatherland

His heart inflexible as starch is,

Whene'er he hears upon a band

The too prolific Sousa's marches;

And from his eyes a tear he wipes,

Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.

Tho’ others roam across the foam

To European health resorts,

The fact that “there's no place like home”

Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;

And all in vain have people tried

To lure him from his “ain fireside.”

Let tourists travel near or far,

By wayward breezes widely blown,

He stops at the Astoria,

“A poor thing” ( Shakespeare ), “but his own;”

And nothing that his friends may do

Can drag him from Fifth Avenue.

The Western heiress is content

To scale, as a prospective bride,

The bare six-story tenement

Where foreign pauper peers reside;

But men like Astor all disparage

The so-called Morgan-attic marriage.

The rich Chicago millionaire

May buy a mansion in Belgravia,

Have footmen there with powdered hair

And frigidly correct behaviour;

But marble stairs and plate of gold

Leave Astor absolutely cold.

The lofty ducal residence,

That fronts some Surrey riverside,

Would wound his socialistic sense,

And pain his patriotic pride;

He would not change for Castles Highland

His cabbage-patch on Coney Island.

A statue in some Roman street,

A palace of Venetian gilding,

Appear to him not half so sweet

As any modern Vanderbuilding;

He views, without an envious throe,

The wolf that suckled Romeo!

Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,

Their mead of praise from some may win;

Our hero cannot do without

Peanuts and clams and terrapin;

Away from home, his soul would lack

The cocktail and the canvasback.

Not his to walk the crowded Strand;

‘ Mid busy London's jar and hum.

On quiet Broadway he would stand,

Saying “Americanus sum!”

His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,—

Small wonder that it stops the traffic!

Who would not be a man like he,

( This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)

So simply satisfied to be,

Contented with his lot to live,—

Whether or not it be, I wot,

A little lot,— or quite a lot?

Content with any kind of fare,

With any tiny piece of earth,

So long as he can find it there

Within the land that gave him birth;

Content with simple beans and pork,

If he may eat them in New York!

O persons who have made your pile,

And spend it far across the seas,

Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,

Denounced notorious absentees,

I pray you imitate the Master,

And stay at home like Mr. Astor!

But if you go abroad at all,

And leave your fatherland behind you,

Without an effort to recall

The sentimental ties that bind you,

I should be grateful if you could

Contrive to stay away for good!