Bill Baveler kept the Brown Stone Inn
To serve the township and the traveller;
And many a time I would drop in,
When noons were hot, to “see” Bill Baveler.

Somewhat below the middle size,
Though he was short, he was not bossy;
He had large, candid, dark blue eyes
Like his linoleum, clean and glossy.

He was too old to go to war,
His heart was bad, he could not march hard,
He hoped he was not “steering for”—
He'd look churchwards—“the marble orchard.”

His rustic mind would entertain
His simple guests whose minds were simple.
It took no zephyr from the brain
To make their round cheeks “cream and dimple.”

“What are those great big things with guns
That on the enemy like hell come,
Like great big trucks, big iron ones?”
If you said “Tanks,” he'd say “You're welcome!”

His soul was sound and free from harm:
A gentleman whose ways were gentle.
He'd take me gently by the arm
At dawn when I was growing mental;

And guide me down the village street,
(Because the moon was full of malice,
And each house looked the same in it)
And say, “There is your fairy palace.”

Ah, Death, you always take the best
And Time alone makes you the leveller.
You might have taken any guest—
You might have spared the good Bill Baveler.

When next you raid that little town
Your victory can be but cheaper,
There's no one better left to down
Than was The Brown Stone Tavern keeper.