A few weeks ago my husband and I were in the San Francisco Public Library main branch doing the SFPursuit challenge (which is a whole story in itself). As we perused the shelves in the music section, a set of hardcover books caught my attention.
Intrigued (and distracted from my task!) I picked up volume 2, A San Francisco Songster and started browsing its pages.
With limited time, I quickly flipped through and snapped a few photos before putting the book back and getting back to business. But later on at home, I googled and located a PDF of the whole thing.
What I found when I read through it at home was a fascinating potpouri of doggerel, sentimental (if not always particularly good) poetry, some really blatantly racist stuff, and a few gems. I don’t want to share the racist stuff here, but you’ll know it when you see it. Let’s just say… blaming immigrants is not a new phenomenon. Nor is erasing the people who were here already.
However, I do want to share a few of the gems. Like this paean to Karl the Fog, long before he was given that name:
In a similarly affectionate vein is this tribute to Emperor Norton.
EMPEROR NORTON I. (1880)
Monarch by choice of the Golden West,
Usurper by right of his own behest,
What though his reign was a world-wide jest –
This wise old Emperor Norton. —
There never was Monarch so kindly as he,
So lordly in rags, democratic and free,
With never a battle on land or on sea,
Our good old Emperor Norton.His soldierly dress we can never forget,
With Its tarnished and old-fashioned epaulette,
A white plug hat with a side rosette,
One suit had Emperor Norton
With a monster cane as a regal mace,
Entwined with the serpent that tempted the race,
This monarch of mystery held his place,
Majestical Emperor Norton.Enacting no beauty but moderate need,
While the light of his life was excellent creed,
For he never had done an ignoble deed,
This ragged Emperor Norton.
There never was tribute more modestly laid
By bankers and merchants more willingly paid,
And never were titles more cheerfully made
Than those by Emperor Norton.All men are usurpers somewhat in their way,
But the high and the lowly acknowledged his sway,
And even the children would pause in their play
With greetings for Emperor Norton.
No king ever ruled better people I vow,
Those old san Franciscans were peers, anyhow –
For none but the regal would smilinglv bow
To a mock-regal Emperor Norton.
And then there is the one about abalone. More than one version, actually.
VERSES QUAINT AND QUIZZICAL
THE ABALONE SONG
By George Sterling
In Carmel Bay the people say,
We feed the Lazzaroni
in caramels, and cockle-shells
And hunks of abalone.O, some folks boast of quail on toast,
Because they think its toney;
But my tom-cat gets nice and fat
On hunks of abalone.He hides in caves, beneath the waves,
His ancient patrimony;
Race suicide will ne’er betide
The fertile abalone.I telegraph my better half
By Morse or by Marconi
But when in need of greater speed
I send an abalone.Some folks say that pain is real
And some say that it’s phoney;
But as for me, when I can’t agree
I eat an abalone.Our naval hero, best of all,
His name was Pauley Joney:
He sailed the seas as he darn pleased;
But he never ate abalone.
The more extensive version. What a collaboration!
ABaALONE SONG (version)
Verses by George Sterling, Jack London, Ambrose Bierce, and Gelett Burgess. Music adapted by Sterling Sherwin.
oh, some folks boast of quail on toast
because they think lt’s toney.
But l’m content to owe my rent
And live on abalone.
Oh! Mission Point’s a friendly joint,
There ev’ry crab’s a crony,
And true and kind you’ll ever find
The clinging abalone.He wanders free beside the sea,
Where’er the coast is stony;
He flaps his wings and madly sings–
The plaintive abalone.By Carmel Bay, the people say,
We feed the lazzaroni
On Boston beans and fresh sardines,
And toothesme abalone.Some live on hope, and some on dope
And some on alimony;
But my tom-cat, he lives on fat
And tender abalone.
Oh: some drink rain
and some champagne,
Or brandy by the pony;
But I will try a little rye
With a dash of abalone.On: some like jam,
and some like ham,
And some like macaroni;
But bring me in a pail of gin
And a tub of abalone.
He hides in caves beneath the waves, —
His ancient patrimony;
And so ’tis shown that faith alone
Reveals the abalone.The more we take the more they make
In deep-sea matrimony;
Race suicide cannot betide
The fertile abalone.
I telegraph my better half
By Morse or by Marconi:
But if the need arise for speed,
I send an abalone.
The phrase “race suicide” leaps out — what is this ugly obsession of white supremacists doing in this song about seafood? Apparently the term had been coined a few years earlier and was apparently in common parlance. Ew.
Let us clear the palate with this Walt Whitman parody, which had me absolutely howling.
EARLY WHITMAN PARODY
THE GRASS LEAF POET*I happify myself.
I am considerable of a man. I am some.
You also are some,
We are all considerable, all of some.
Put all of you and all of me together and agitate
our particles by rubbing us all up into eternal
smash, and we should still be some.
No more than some, but no less.
Particularly some, some particularly, some in gen-
eral, generally some, but always some without
mitigation.
Distinctly some.
Oh ensemble.’ quelque chose.!I luxuriate in Women.
They look at me, and my eyes start out of my head;
they speak to me, and I yell with delight; they
touch me, and the flesh crawls off my bones.
Women lay in wait for me, they do. Yes, sir.
They rush upon me, seven women laying hold of one
man; and the divine efflux that thrilled all
human beings before the mystials of saureans, over-
flows, surrounds, interpenetrates their souls, and
they say, ‘Walt, Why don’t you come and see us?
You know we’d be happy to have you.Once I knew a man.
Not that man.
But another man.
A man I once knew. He was great, was glorious,
nev’r washed his hair, N’r combed his face—
‘mean combed face n’r washed hair: had big han’s-
dlrty— and big feet— dirty— red’n freckled,
’cause didn’t wear hat, n’r coat, n’r shoes, but
went bare headed ‘n bare footed, ‘n shirts ‘n
pants like free ‘n in-in-inpent cit’n these ‘nited
States.By golly, there is nothing in this world so unutter-
able magnificent as the inexplicable comprehensibil-
ity of inexplicableness.
These things are not in Webster’s Dictionary Unabridged
Pictorial.
Nor yet in Worcester ‘s. Wait and get the best.
Neither in the New York Directory; for that is full of
blunders; I know it, although it has not yet been
printed.You also know it: for has not the same collector
vexed your wife’s soul, and your pale daughter’s?
and the plump-armed girl’s in the kitchen?
And what came of his vexing but spelling of your
name wrong, and putting you in East Thirteenth,
when you lived in West Thirty-first Street?
A note at the bottom of the page says:
Daily Alta California, March 23, 1861: -“in New York they have a fellow who calls himself ‘Walt Whitman,’ and claims to he a poet. His poetry so far as we have seen it, is non-descript stuff, that will not pay for reading, hut its publication has called out some parodies which imply some merit in the original. For instance, the New York Albion gives the following parody, of which the New Orleans Delta says, ‘its’ fault as a parody is that it fails by exaggeration to make his style more grotesque and funny than it really is.’ If the Delta is right, there must be more material to ex- cite mirth in ‘.Walt’ than we have succeeded in finding.
The San Francisco connection is tenuous here, but I guess people at the time found it as funny as I did in 2026!
You can browse and download the entire San Francisco Songster volume at the Internet Archive below.