If I Had A Million Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

Had I a million dollars, friend, I don't know what I'd do,
But now and then I think I'd roam and simply spend a few;
Again I think I'd steal away to rural quietude,
And spend the rest of life among the simple and the rude.


I hardly think with flippancies that I would be imbued,
The new club woman and her fad, I know I would elude;
Nor should my person be spruced up with dress immaculate;
A whole big million I don't think my old pate would inflate.


'Tis true, I'd like to slip a cog, and go it wild a bit,
My soul aglow with passion for my brother in the pit;
Ay! proud to be with commoners, I'd rusticate a-while,
Nor would I care a cursed thing about the latest style.


'Old brogan shoes and homespun socks?' the very things I need;
For too much dress and fashion, sir, would my lithe step impede;
An old cord 'gallus,' friend, would hold my breeches on to me,
And I'd not care a snap about their bagging at the knee.


The fine silk plug and Panama are hats I do not need;
I'd rather poise my head beneath the straw of Dixie's mead;
Indeed, my friend, I'd be content beneath a brimless cap,
To sport it with the urching all, a jolly, romping chap.


With them I'd like to take just now a little bit of ease,
A-lounging where I used to, sir, beneath the apple trees,
A-whittling and a-swapping jokes with Bill and Tom and Ned,
The while our fancies flit across the lore of trundle bed.


Yea, over and above it all, this is the simple truth,
Had I the coin, and could, I'd spend a million for my youth;
Then with my true love I would go a-sparking it again,
And look the love upon her grace my tongue could ne'er explain.


I'd lead her once again, my friend, through old Virginia reel,
Salute her there and balance all; again I'd fondly feel
The same old bliss so oft I've felt, while swinging corners all,
And stepping to the music of the jocund country ball.


These things were worth a million to a maimed old chap like me,
I'd give it if I could, sir, with a zest of childish glee.
Oh! if I could but put away my gout and rheumatiz,
And take an old-time outing from the pressure of my biz!


A bonny girl and youth I'd take to Cupid's mystic shrine,
That sylvan haunt of Dixie, where the jessamine doth twine;
Where lilies, fiant of sweetness, and where ever blows the thyme;
Where seasons all are summer and the climate is sublime.


The rose aflame of beauty, there drops petals on the sod,
To scarlet blush geraniums, and passion flowers nod
In breezy swells of zephyrs that strike up the mystic chime,
While carol winged minstrels in the glory of their prime.


If you could take the silver from this hoary pate of mine,
And make it so my bouyant youth could never more decline;
And bring me back my bonny girl that long-lost love again,
So vivified she might not feel another touch of pain;


The million dollars you might have, and millions o'er and o'er;
Again I'd take my youth and love, and ask for nothing more,
As long as we could stroll about the old, familiar ways,
And feel the bouyant, throbbing hearts of love and better days.