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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/12696-0.txt b/12696-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b52741d --- /dev/null +++ b/12696-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3247 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12696 *** + +[Illustration: Eugene Field] + + + + +JOHN SMITH + +U.S.A. + + +BY + + +EUGENE FIELD + + +AUTHOR OF + +THE CLINK OF THE ICE + +IN WINK-A-WAY-LAND + +HOOSIER LYRICS, ETC. + + +1905. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, +genius--rare and quaint presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he +was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit. +He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, +Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their +happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in +any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which +his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the +child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older +children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into +his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can +while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the +poetry and prose here presented. + +Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing +largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond +of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure +trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, +engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and +Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not +surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off +that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the +bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book +becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate." + +Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems +that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome +this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor. + +CHARLES WALTER Brown. + +Chicago, January, 1905. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + John Smith + The Fisherman's Feast + To John J. Knickerbocker, Jr. + The Bottle and the Bird + The Man Who Worked with Dana on the "Sun" + A Democratic Hymn + The Blue and the Gray + It is the Printer's Fault + Summer Heat + Plaint of the Missouri 'Coon in the Berlin Zoological Gardens + The Bibliomaniac's Bride + Ezra J. M'Manus to a Soubrette + The Monstrous Pleasant Ballad of the Taylor Pup + Long Meter + To DeWitt Miller + Francois Villon + Lydia Dick + The Tin Bank + In New Orleans + The Peter-Bird + Dibdin's Ghost + An Autumn Treasure-Trove + When the Poet Came + The Perpetual Wooing + My Playmates + Mediaeval Eventide Song + Alaskan Balladry + Armenian Folk-Song--The Stork + The Vision of the Holy Grail + The Divine Lullaby + Mortality + A Fickle Woman + Egyptian Folk-Song + Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge + Alaskan Balladry, No. 1 + Old Dutch Love Song + An Eclogue from Virgil + Horace to Maecenas + Horace's "Sailor and Shade" + Uhland's "Chapel" + "The Happy Isles" of Horace + Horatian Lyrics + Hugo's "Pool in the Forest" + Horace I., 4 + Love Song--Heine + Horace II., 3 + The Two Coffins + Horace I., 31 + Horace to His Lute + Horace I., 22 + The "Ars Poetica" of Horace XXIII + Marthy's Younkit + Abu Midjan + The Dying Year + Dead Roses + + + + + JOHN SMITH. + + + To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be + With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; + There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed + And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. + This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by-- + Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I! + "Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face! + Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!" + And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will, + Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill + And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, + Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. + The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight + A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight-- + The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day-- + The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A." + + Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name-- + I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. + I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West-- + I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. + His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue, + And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; + Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette-- + Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet; + I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem + To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream, + Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme + Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime; + So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"--your pedigree confess + In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess"; + Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may + Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A." + + It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago + Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow; + Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills + And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills; + Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, + And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; + Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, + And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; + Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent + Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; + Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, + Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire: + Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, + And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak, + And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say! + And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A." + + Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know + In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow; + Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn + Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn; + You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott-- + Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; + And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true + As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue; + Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, + Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night; + Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride an' glory of the South-- + And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth! + Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees + And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, + Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay-- + Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."! + + Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West-- + That part of our republic I shall always love the best? + Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine + In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? + Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side + And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide; + Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, + Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, + And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago + (Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)! + Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high + again, + And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then; + The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, + And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; + And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, + Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. + + You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall, + And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! + For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done) + He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one-- + And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name--- + Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same; + All represent the spirit of the land across the sea, + All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free! + Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East-- + So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least; + Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine, + He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine! + Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known, + Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone! + And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day + Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U.S.A." + + + + + THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. + + + Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, + Is there another can safely surpass + This delicate, voluptuous thing-- + This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? + Upon a damask napkin laid, + What exhalations superfine + Our gustatory nerves pervade, + Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine. + + The ancients loved this noble fish, + And, coming from the kitchen fire + All piping hot upon a dish, + What raptures did he not inspire! + "Fish should swim twice," they used to say-- + Once in their native vapid brine, + And then a better way-- + You understand? Fetch on the wine! + + Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, + How often have I cast for you-- + How often sadly seen you scud + Where weeds and pussy willows grew! + How often have you filched my bait! + How often have you snapped my treacherous line!-- + Yet here I have you on this plate. + You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_! + + And, harkee, garcon! let the blood + Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him-- + Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood + This piscatorial pride should swim; + So, were he living, he should say + He gladly died for me and mine, + And, as it was his native spray, + He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine! + + I would it were ordained for me + To share your fate, oh finny friend! + I surely were not loath to be + Reserved for such a noble end; + For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, + At last reels in his ruthless line, + What were my ecstacy to swim + In wine, in wine, in glorious wine! + + Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! + And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, + Come hither every year and bring + The boons provocative of mirth; + And should your stock of bass run low, + However much I might repine, + I think I might survive the blow + If plied with wine, and still more wine! + + + + + TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR. + + + Whereas, good friend, it doth appear + You do possess the notion + To his awhile away from here + To lands across the ocean; + Now, by these presents we would show + That, wheresoever wend you, + And wheresoever gales may blow, + Our friendship shall attend you. + + What though on Scotia's banks and braes + You pluck the bonnie gowan, + Or chat of old Chicago days + O'er Berlin brew with Cowen; + What though you stroll some boulevard + In Paris (c'est la belle ville!), + Or make the round of Scotland Yard + With our lamented Melville? + + Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine + True heart from true hearts sever? + No--in this draught of honest wine + We pledge it, comrade--never! + Though mountain waves between us roll, + Come fortune or disaster-- + 'Twill knit us closer soul to soul + And bind our friendships faster. + + So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd + To loyalty's devotion, + And here's to fortune that shall waft + Your ship across the ocean, + And here's a smile for those who prate + Of Davy Jones's locker, + And here's a pray'r in every fate-- + God bless you, Knickerbocker! + + + + + THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD. + + + Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go + To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show, + And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights + We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights; + When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, + He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!" + + Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies + Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! + There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine-- + A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! + How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: + "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!" + + But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate-- + How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! + You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches + That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; + To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred + What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird. + + Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, + And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! + What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied + To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! + And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then + Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again! + + The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, + But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! + The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, + Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, + And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, + Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird. + + Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right + If ever it has been your wont to train around at night; + How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, + And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! + How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, + And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest! + + But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly + Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie-- + I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, + Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; + Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine-- + I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine! + + So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day-- + Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay; + We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine + Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine, + And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard + Of the large cold bottle, _not_ the small hot bird. + + + + + THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE "SUN". + + + Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring of '81 + A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + His name was Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he was a sight ter view + Ez he walked into the orfice 'nd inquired for work to do; + Thar warn't no places vacant then--fer, be it understood, + That was the time when talent flourished at that altitood; + But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest + Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best-- + 'Til finally he stated (quite by chance) that he had done + A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + + Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss + Who'd worked f'r Mr. Dana _must_ be good enough for _us_! + And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could, + For if _we didn't_ take him we knew John Arkins _would_-- + And Cooper, too, wuz mousin' round for enterprise 'nd brains, + Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains. + At any rate, we nailed him--which made ol' Cooper swear + And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair-- + But _we_ set back and cackled, 'nd had a power uv fun + With our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + + It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop + Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop; + It seems that Dana was the biggest man you ever saw-- + He lived on human bein's 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw! + If he had democratic drugs to take, before he took 'em, + As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em! + The man that could set down 'nd write like Dana never grew + And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew. + The consequence appeared to be that nearly everyone + Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun. + + This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in-- + He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin; + Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk-- + He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work! + If any other cuss had played the tricks he dare ter play, + The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day; + But, somehow, folks respected him and stood him to the last, + Considerin' his superior connections in the past; + So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun + On the man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + + Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83-- + A very different party from the man we thought ter see! + A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm-- + You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm! + A certain hearty manner 'nd a fullness uv the vest + Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best; + His face was so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind, + That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind, + And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair + In promise of the golden crown He meaneth him to wear; + So, uv us boys that met him out 'n Denver there wuz none + But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun. + + But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83 + His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared upon a spree; + The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so + (They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know) + That he borrowed all the stuff he could and started on a bat, + And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that. + So when ol' Dana hove in sight we couldn't understand + Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand; + No casual allusion--not a question, no, not one-- + For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"! + + We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised-- + Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised; + He said that Whoppers wuz a man he didn't never heerd about, + But he might have carried papers on a Jersey City route-- + And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laflin say + That he fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day, + Which, with more likker _underneath_ than money in his vest, + Had started on a freight train fur the great 'nd boundin' West-- + But further information or statistics he had none + Uv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun." + + We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss-- + When we get played fer suckers--why, that's a horse on us! + But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff + To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff + A man who's "worked with Dana"--'nd then we fellers wink + And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. + It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say + If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away; + And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun + The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"! + + But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years, + To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; + An' may I live a thousan', too--a thousan', less a day, + For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away. + And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff + Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; + But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know + The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe; + You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run + That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun." + + + + + A DEMOCRATIC HYMN. + + + Republicans of differing views + Are pro or con protection; + If that's the issue they would choose, + Why, we have no objection. + The issue we propose concerns + Our hearts and homes more nearly: + A wife to whom the nation turns + And venerates so dearly. + So, confident of what shall be, + Our gallant host advances, + Giving three cheers for Grover C. + And three times three for Frances! + + So gentle is that honored dame, + And fair beyond all telling, + The very mention of her name + Sets every breast to swelling. + She wears no mortal crown of gold-- + No courtiers fawn around her-- + But with their love young hearts and old + In loyalty have crowned her-- + And so with Grover and his bride + We're proud to take our chances, + And it's three times three for the twain give we-- + But particularly for Frances! + + + + + THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. + + + The Blue and the Gray collided one day + In the future great town of Missouri, + And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear + That they tackled each other with fury. + + While the weather waxed hot they hove and they sot, + Like the scow in the famous old story, + And what made the fight an enjoyable sight + Was the fact that they fought con amore. + + They as participants fought in such wise as was taught, + As beseemed the old days of the dragons, + When you led to the dance and defended with lance + The damsel you pledged in your flagons. + + In their dialect way the knights of the Gray + Gave a flout at the buckeye bandana, + And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful whack, + And that's what's the matter with Hannah. + + This resisted attack took the Grays all a-back, + And feeling less coltish and frisky, + They resolved to elate the cause of their state, + And also their persons, with whisky. + + Having made ample use of the treacherous juice, + Which some folks say stings like an adder, + They went back again at the handkerchief men, + Who slowly got madder and madder. + + You can bet it was h--l in the Southern Hotel + And elsewhere, too many to mention, + But the worst of it all was achieved in the hall + Where the President held his convention. + + They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating imbrued, + Volleyed and bellowed and thundered; + There was nothing to do until these yawpers got through, + So the rest of us waited and wondered. + + As the result of these frays it appears that the Grays, + Who once were as chipper as daisies, + Have changed their complexion to one of dejection, + And at present are bluer than blazes. + + + + + IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT. + + + In Mrs. Potter's latest play + The costuming is fine; + Her waist is made decollete-- + Her skirt is new design. + + + + + SUMMER HEAT. + + + Nay, why discuss this summer heat, + Of which vain people tell? + Oh, sinner, rather were it meet + To fix thy thoughts on hell! + + The punishment ordained for you + In that infernal spot + Is het by Satan's impish crew + And kept forever hot. + + Sumatra might be reckoned nice, + And Tophet passing cool, + And Sodom were a cake of ice + Beside that sulphur pool. + + An awful stench and dismal wail + Come from the broiling souls, + Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail + Stirs up the brimstone coals. + + Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet + That thou shouldst ponder well, + For what, oh, what, is worldly heat + Unto the heat of hell? + + + + + PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. + + + Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, + And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow; + I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate + Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state, + And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree, + Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. + Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near + While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear. + + My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin + To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within-- + Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare + With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear! + Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole, + All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole-- + We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings + As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things. + + And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh, + Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; + And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night + That nary 'coon could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight; + We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know + That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets half a show! + But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n + And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n! + + Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days-- + I cannot get acclimated or used to German ways; + The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine + For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine! + The 'coon that's been used to stanch democratic cheer + Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer! + No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, + But send _me_ back from whence I came and let me grub for worms! + + They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons + And wonder what I am--alas! there are no German 'coons! + For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree, + A symbol of democracy that's woolly, blythe and free. + And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, + For _I_ have tasted liberty--these others, _they_ have not! + So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels + Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels! + + Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill, + To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; + My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest, + Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest; + Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all + To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall; + And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here + By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer. + + + + + THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE. + + + The women folk are like to books-- + Most pleasing to the eye, + Whereon if anybody looks + He feels disposed to buy. + + I hear that many are for sale-- + Those that record no dates, + And such editions as regale + The view with colored plates. + + Of every quality and grade + And size they may be found-- + Quite often beautifully made, + As often poorly bound. + + Now, as for me, had I my choice, + I'd choose no folio tall, + But some octavo to rejoice + My sight and heart withal. + + As plump and pudgy as a snipe-- + Well worth her weight in gold, + Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, + And just the size to hold! + + With such a volume for my wife, + How should I keep and con? + How like a dream should speed my life + Unto its colophon! + + Her frontispiece should be more fair + Than any colored plate; + Blooming with health she would not care + To extra-illustrate. + + And in her pages there should be + A wealth of prose and verse, + With now and then a jeu d'esprit-- + But nothing ever worse! + + Prose for me when I wished for prose, + Verse, when to verse inclined-- + Forever bringing sweet repose + To body, heart, and mind. + + Oh, I should bind this priceless prize + In bindings full and fine, + And keep her where no human eyes + Should see her charms, but mine! + + With such a fair unique as this, + What happiness abounds! + Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, + My joy unknown to Lowndes! + + + + + EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE. + + + 'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met, + And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender + My thoughts go back in Time's dull track + To you, sweet pink of female gender! + I shall not say--though others may-- + That time all human joy enhances; + But the same old thrill comes to me still + With memories of your songs and dances. + + Soubrettish ways these latter days + Invite my praise, but never get it; + I still am true to yours and you-- + My record's made--I'll not upset it! + The pranks they play, the things they say-- + I'd blush to put the like on paper; + And I'll avow they don't know how + To dance, so awkwardly they caper! + + I used to sit down in the pit + And see you flit like elf or fairy + Across the stage, and I'll engage + No moonbeam sprite were half so airy. + Lo! everywhere about me there + Were rivals reeking with pomatum, + And if perchance they caught a glance + In song or dance, how did I hate 'em! + + At half-past ten came rapture--then + Of all those men was I most happy, + For wine and things and food for kings + And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis. + Did you forget, my fair soubrette, + Those suppers in the Cafe Rector-- + The cozy nook where we partook + Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar? + + Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways + Knew every phase of harmless folly! + Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights + Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! + Gone are they all beyond recall, + And I, a shade--a mere reflection-- + Am forced to feed my spirits' greed + Upon the husks of retrospection. + + And lo! to-night the phantom light + That as a sprite flits on the fender + Reveals a face whose girlish grace + Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; + And all the while the old time smile + Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled, + As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet + Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled. + + + + + THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP. + + + Now lithe and listen, gentles all, + Now lithe ye all and hark + Unto a ballad I shall sing + About Buena Park. + + Of all the wonders happening there + The strangest hap befell + Upon a famous April morn, + As you I now shall tell. + + It is about the Taylor pup + And of his mistress eke, + And of the pranking time they had + That I would fain to speak. + + + FITTE THE FIRST. + + The pup was of a noble mein + As e'er you gazed upon; + They called his mother Lady + And his father was a Don. + + And both his mother and his sire + Were of the race Bernard-- + The family famed in histories + And hymned of every bard. + + His form was of exuberant mold, + Long, slim and loose of joints; + There never was a pointer-dog + So full as he of points. + + His hair was like a yellow fleece, + His eyes were black and kind, + And like a nodding, gilded plume + His tail stuck up behind. + + His bark was very, very fierce + And fierce his appetite, + Yet was it only things to eat + That he was prone to bite. + + But in that one particular + He was so passing true + That never did he quit a meal + Until he had got through. + + Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, + Joint, chop, or chicken limb-- + So long as it was edible, + 'Twas all the same to him! + + And frequently when Hunger's pangs + Assailed that callow pup, + He masticated boots and gloves + Or chewed a door-mat up. + + So was he much beholden of + The folk that him did keep; + They loved him when he was awake + And better still asleep. + + + FITTE THE SECOND. + + Now once his master lingering o'er + His breakfast coffee-cup, + Observed unto his doting spouse: + "You ought to wash the pup!" + + "That shall I do this very day," + His doting spouse replied; + "You will not know the pretty thing + When he is washed and dried. + + "But tell me, dear, before you go + Unto your daily work, + Shall I use Ivory soap on him, + Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?" + + "Odzooks, it matters not a whit-- + They all are good to use! + Take Pearline, if it pleases you-- + Sapolio, if you choose! + + "Take any soap, but take the pup + And also water take, + And mix the three discreetly up + Till they a lather make. + + "Then mixing these constituent parts, + Let nature take her way," + With such advice that sapient sir + Had nothing more to say. + + Then fared he to his daily toil + All in the Board of Trade, + While Mistress Taylor for that bath + Due preparations made. + + + FITTE THE THIRD. + + She whistled gayly to the pup + And called him by his name, + And presently the guileless thing + All unsuspecting came. + + But when she shut the bath-room door + And caught him as catch-can, + And dove him in that odious tub, + His sorrows then began. + + How did that callow, yellow thing + Regret that April morn-- + Alas! how bitterly he rued + The day that he was born! + + Twice and again, but all in vain + He lifted up his wail; + His voice was all the pup could lift, + For thereby hangs this tale. + + 'Twas by that tail she held him down + And presently she spread + The creamery lather on his back, + His stomach and his head. + + His ears hung down in sorry wise, + His eyes were, oh! so sad-- + He looked as though he just had lost + The only friend he had. + + And higher yet the water rose, + The lather still increased, + And sadder still the countenance + Of that poor martyred beast! + + Yet all this time his mistress spoke + Such artful words of cheer + As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" + And "There's a patient dear!" + + At last the trial had an end, + At last the pup was free; + She threw awide the bath-room door-- + "Now get you gone!" quoth she. + + + FITTE THE FOURTH. + + Then from that tub and from that room + He gat with vast ado; + At every hop he gave a shake + And--how the water flew! + + He paddled down the winding stairs + And to the parlor hied, + Dispensing pools of foamy suds + And slop on every side. + + Upon the carpet then he rolled + And brushed against the wall, + And, horror! whisked his lathery sides + On overcoat and shawl. + + Attracted by the dreadful din, + His mistress came below-- + Who, who can speak her wonderment-- + Who, who can paint her woe! + + Great smears of soap were here and there-- + Her startled vision met + With blots of lather everywhere, + And everything was wet! + + Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek + Like one about to die; + "Get out--get out, and don't you dare + Come in till you are dry!" + + With that she opened wide the door + And waved the critter through; + Out in the circumambient air + With grateful yelp he flew. + + + FITTE THE FIFTH. + + He whisked into the dusty street + And to the Waller lot + Where bonny Annie Evans played + With charming Sissy Knott. + + And with these pretty little dears + He mixed himself all up-- + Oh, fie upon such boisterous play-- + Fie, fie, you naughty pup! + + Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, + And Sissy's blue percale! + One got the pup's belathered flanks, + And one his soapy tail! + + Forth to the rescue of those maids + Rushed gallant Willie Clow; + His panties they were white and clean-- + Where are those panties now? + + Where is the nicely laundered shirt + That Kendall Evans wore, + And Robbie James' tricot coat + All buttoned up before? + + The leaven, which, as we are told, + Leavens a monstrous lump, + Hath far less reaching qualities + Than a wet pup on the jump. + + This way and that he swung and swayed, + He gamboled far and near, + And everywhere he thrust himself + He left a soapy smear. + + + FITTE THE SIXTH. + + That noon a dozen little dears + Were spanked and put to bed + With naught to stay their appetites + But cheerless crusts of bread. + + That noon a dozen hired girls + Washed out each gown and shirt + Which that exuberant Taylor pup + Had frescoed o'er with dirt. + + That whole day long the April sun + Smiled sweetly from above + On clothes lines flaunting to the breeze + With emblems mothers love. + + That whole day long the Taylor pup + This way and that did hie + Upon his mad, erratic course + Intent on getting dry. + + That night when Mr. Taylor came + His vesper meal to eat, + He uttered things my pious pen + Would liefer not repeat. + + Yet still that noble Taylor pup + Survives to romp and bark + And stumble over folks and things + In fair Buena Park. + + Good sooth, I wot he should be called + Buena's favorite son + Who's sired of such a noble sire + And damned by every one. + + + + + LONG METER. + + + All human joys are swift of wing + For heaven doth so allot it + That when you get an easy thing + You find you haven't got it. + + Man never yet has loved a maid, + But they were sure to part, sir; + Nor never lacked a paltry spade + But that he drew a heart, sir! + + Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day + You much prefer a dinner + To walking straight in wisdom's way-- + Go to, thou babbling sinner. + + The froward part that you have played + To me this lesson teaches: + To trust no man whose stock in trade + Is after-dinner speeches. + + + + + TO DE WITT MILLER. + + + Dear Miller: You and I despise + The cad who gathers books to sell 'em, + Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth + Or stately folios garbed in vellum. + + But when one fellow has a prize + Another bibliophile is needing, + Why, then, a satisfactory trade + Is quite a laudable proceeding. + + There's precedent in Bristol's case + The great collector--preacher-farmer; + And in the case of that divine + Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour. + + When from their sapient, saintly lips + The words of wisdom are not dropping, + They turn to trade--that is to say, + When they're not preaching they are swapping! + + So to the flock it doth appear + That this a most conspicuous fact is: + That which these godly pastors do + Must surely be a proper practice. + + Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed, + On which De Vinne's art is lavished; + Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing + Is simply waiting to be ravished! + + And you have that for which I pine + As you should pine for this fair creature: + Come, now, suppose we make a trade-- + You take this gem, and send the Beecher! + + Surely, these graceful, tender songs + (In samite garb with lots of gilt on) + Are more to you than those dull tome? + Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton! + + + + + FRANCOIS VILLON. + + + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, + What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly? + _He_ would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away, + And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay! + But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, + And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, + What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I? + + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, + To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie; + "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel + The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!" + He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane-- + "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!" + And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I! + + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, + We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; + _He_ in his meager, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den-- + He with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men! + His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!-- + "Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!" + + * * * * * + + So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality-- + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I! + + + + + LYDIA DICK. + + + When I was a boy at college, + Filling up with classic knowledge, + Frequently I wondered why + Old Professor Demas Bently + Used to praise so eloquently + "Opera Horatii." + + Toiling on a season longer + Till my reasoning power got stronger, + As my observation grew, + I became convinced that mellow, + Massic-loving poet fellow + Horace knew a thing or two + + Yes, we sophomores figured duly + That, if we appraised him truly, + Horace must have been a brick; + And no wonder that with ranting + Rhymes he went a-gallivanting + Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! + + For that pink of female gender + Tall and shapely was, and slender, + Plump of neck and bust and arms; + While the raiment that invested + Her so jealously suggested + Certain more potential charms. + + Those dark eyes of her that fired him-- + Those sweet accents that inspired him, + And her crown of glorious hair-- + These things baffle my description; + I should have a fit conniption + If I tried--so I forbear! + + May be Lydia had her betters; + Anyway, this man of letters + Took that charmer as his pick; + Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! + I, a fin de siecle poet, + Sympathize with Lydia Dick! + + Often in my arbor shady + I fall thinking of that lady + And the pranks she used to play; + And I'm cheered--for all we sages + Joy when from those distant ages + Lydia dances down our way. + + Otherwise some folks might wonder + With good reason why in thunder + Learned professors, dry and prim, + Find such solace in the giddy + Pranks that Horace played with Liddy + Or that Liddy played on him. + + Still this world of ours rejoices + In those ancient singing voices, + And our hearts beat high and quick, + To the cadence of old Tiber + Murmuring praise of roistering Liber + And of charming Lydia Dick. + + Still, Digentia, downward flowing, + Prattleth to the roses blowing + By the dark, deserted grot; + Still, Soracte, looming lonely, + Watcheth for the coming only + Of a ghost that cometh not. + + + + + THE TIN BANK. + + + Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say + That a bank of tin is far the best, + And I know of one that has stood for years + In a pleasant home away out west. + It has stood for years on the mantelpiece + Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate-- + A wonderful bank, as you'll concede + When you've heard the things I'll now relate. + + This bank was made of McKinley tin, + Well soldered up at sides and back; + But it didn't resemble tin at all, + For they'd painted it over an iron black. + And that it really was a bank + 'Twas an easy thing to see and say, + For above the door in gorgeous red + Appeared the letters B-A-N-K! + + The bank had been so well devised + And wrought so cunningly that when + You put your money in at the hole + It couldn't get out of that hole again! + Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing + A secret spring was hid away, + But _where_ it was or _how it_ worked-- + Excuse me, please, but I will not say. + + Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow, + Came pretty children oftentimes, + And, standing up on stool or chair, + Put in their divers pence and dimes. + Once Uncle Hank came home from town + After a cycle of grand events, + And put in a round, blue, ivory thing, + He said was good for 50 cents! + + The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink, + And larger grew the precious sum + Which grandma said she hoped would prove + A gracious boon to heathendom! + But there were those--I call no names-- + Who did not fancy any plan + That did not in some wise involve + The candy and banana man. + + Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!" + And the raven croaked in the tangled tarn-- + When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew + Out of her lair in the haunted barn-- + There came three burglars down the road-- + Three burglars skilled in arts of sin, + And they cried: "What's this? Aha! Oho!" + And straightway tackled the bank of tin. + + They burgled from half-past ten p.m., + Till the village bell struck four o'clock; + They hunted and searched and guessed and tried-- + But the little tin bank would not unlock! + They couldn't discover the secret spring! + So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed, + They up with their tools and stole away + With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed! + + Next morning came a sweet-faced child + And reached her dimpled hand to take + A nickel to send to the heathen poor + And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake. + She pressed the hidden secret spring, + And lo! the bank flew open then + With a cheery creak that seemed to say: + "I'm glad to see you; come again!" + + If you were I, and if I were you, + What would we keep our money in? + In a downtown bank of British steel, + Or an at-home bank of McKinley tin? + Some want silver and some want gold, + But the little tin bank that wants the two + And is run on the double standard plan-- + Why, that is the bank for me and you! + + + + + IN NEW ORLEANS + + + 'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell + The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; + So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing + Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-- + No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem + Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o'clock a.m. + + Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, + But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; + And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, + Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, + The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin + That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in! + + In Royal Street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, + And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop: + To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost-- + That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost: + I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem-- + And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of 8 a.m.! + + Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, + Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; + A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, + With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; + Two dainty silver salters--oh, there was no resisting them.-- + And I'd blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m. + + With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, + Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; + Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, + A gown--the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps! + These and ten thousand other specters harrow and condemn + The man who's blowing in twenty by 9 o'clock a.m. + + Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) + In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?" + Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act, + Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-- + Before one's fallen victim to the Tempter's strategem + And blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.? + + Ah, me! now the deed is done, how penitent I am! + I was a roaring lion--behold a bleating lamb! + I've packed and shipped those precious things to that most precious wife + Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, + While he, who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth, + Is far away, and means to keep his distance--for his health! + + + + + THE PETER-BIRD. + + + Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, + From the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; + Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, + Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. + So let me tell you the tale, when, where and how it all happened, + And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson. + + Once on a time, long ago, lived in the state of Kentucky + One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; + Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-- + Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons and plantains! + Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-- + These were the guides of the witch through the dank deeps of the forest. + Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning + Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; + And, when the people awoke, seeing the hillside and valley + Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-- + "Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" + Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, + Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions. + + One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, + Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; + Fonder of books than of chores you can imagine that Peter + Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. + "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!" + "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" + So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- + Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter! + + Peter got hold of some books--how I'm unable to tell you; + Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions! + It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend. + Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; + What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, + Wrought with the brain, not a hoe--surely 'twas hostile to farming! + "Fudge on the readin'!" they quoth; "that's what's the ruin of Peter!" + + So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, + Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms. + Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ringdoves a-mating, + Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. + "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!" + "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" + "Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- + Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; + Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-- + Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter! + + Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming + Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; + For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-- + "See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! + See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on wood land and meadow! + Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! + She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, + Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish musical nostrums; + Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires and spiders, + Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders and toadstools; + Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, + Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!" + + Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, + Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-- + Thinking the reading of books must have unsettled his reason! + "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy! + I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!" + + Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, + Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, + Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. + Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; + Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, + Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had gone and done it! + Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-- + Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis, + And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition. + + Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter + And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; + Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, + Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, + Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. + Such are the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter + Decades and decades ago down in the state of Kentucky-- + Such are the voices that cry from the woodland and meadow, + "Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-- + Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! + These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse + When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, + Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, + Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil. + Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge! + + Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, + Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. + "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-- + Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, + Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smokehouse proceeded; + Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping, + Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-- + Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, + Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. + Joining the search came the rest, brothers, and sisters and cousins, + Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! + And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women. + Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter. + + Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, + Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets. + All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining. + Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. + The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the + Logans. + The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the + Morgans; + The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and + Hardins, + The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and + Slaughters-- + All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming. + Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the + truant. + To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter. + + Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and assigns of the people + Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-- + Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent) + That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, + That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. + Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; + That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, + She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit + (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a + chicken), + She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac + venom: + "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, + Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, + Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches. + Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!" + + This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend: + As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend, + That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning + Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; + Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, + Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-- + Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, + Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis. + Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden. + Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading, + Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, + Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage. + + This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky + When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, + Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; + When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, + When from the spring-house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, + When from the redbud and gum and from redolent lilac, + When from the dirt roads and pikes comes that calling for Peter; + Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration + Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! + This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty meter + Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming + (My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon,) + Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended. + + + + + DIBDIN'S GHOST. + + + Dear wife, last midnight while I read + The tomes you so despise, + A specter rose beside the bed + And spoke in this true wise; + "From Canaan's beatific coast + I've come to visit thee, + For I'm Frognall Dibdin's ghost!" + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + I bade him welcome and we twain + Discussed with buoyant hearts + The various things that appertain + To bibliomaniac arts. + "Since you are fresh from t'other side, + Pray tell me of that host + That treasured books before they died," + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "They've entered into perfect rest, + For in the life they've won + There are no auctions to molest, + No creditors to dun; + Their heavenly rapture has no bounds + Beside that jasper sea-- + It is a joy unknown to Lowndes!" + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + Much I rejoiced to hear him speak + Of biblio-bliss above, + For I am one of those who seek + What bibliomaniacs love; + "But tell me--for I long to hear + What doth concern me most-- + Are wives admitted to that sphere?" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "The women folk are few up there, + For 'twere not fair you know + That they our heavenly joy should share + Who vex us here below! + The few are those who have been kind + To husbands such as we-- + They knew our fads, and didn't mind," + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + "But what of those who scold at us + When we would read in bed? + Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss + If we buy books, instead? + And what of those who've dusted not + Our motley pride and boast? + Shall they profane that sacred spot?" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "Oh, no! they tread that other path + Which leads where torments roll, + And worms--yes bookworms--vent their wrath + Upon the guilty soul! + Untouched of bibliomaniac grace + That saveth such as we, + They wallow in that dreadful place!" + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + "To my dear wife will I recite + What things I've heard you say; + She'll let me read the books by night + She's let me buy by day; + For we, together, by and by, + Would join that heavenly host-- + She's earned a rest as well as I!" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + + + + AN AUTUMN TREASURE-TROVE. + + + 'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame + Hangs on the maple bough; + And June is the faded flower of a name; + The thin hedge hides not a singer now. + Yet rich am I; for my treasures be + The gold afloat in my willow-tree. + + Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew, + Girded with blue and pearl, + Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too; + As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl, + She sings while her soul brooding tearfully + Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree. + + All day pure white and saffron at eve, + Clouds awaiting the sun + Turn them at length to ghosts that leave + When the moon's white path is slowly run + Till the morning comes, and with joy for me + O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree. + + The lilacs that blew on the breast of May + Are an old and lost delight; + And the rose lies ruined in his careless way + As the wind turns the poplars underwhite, + Yet richer am I for the autumn; see + All my misty gold in the willow-tree. + + + + + WHEN THE POET CAME. + + + The ferny places gleam at morn, + The dew drips off the leaves of corn; + Along the brook a mist of white + Fades as a kiss on lips of light; + For, lo! the poet with his pipe + Finds all these melodies are ripe! + + Far up within the cadenced June + Floats, silver-winged, a living tune + That winds within the morning's chime + And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; + For, lo! the poet, absent long, + Breathes the first raptures of his song! + + Across the clover-blossoms, wet, + With dainty clumps of violet, + And wild red roses in her hair, + There comes a little maiden fair. + I cannot more of June rehearse-- + She is the ending of my verse. + + Ah, nay! For through perpetual days + Of summer gold and filmy haze, + When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, + I yet will see those dew-washed feet, + And o'er the tracts of Life and Time + They make the cadence for my rhyme. + + + + + THE PERPETUAL WOOING. + + + The dull world clamors at my feet + And asks my hand and helping sweet; + And wonders when the time shall be + I'll leave off dreaming dreams of thee. + It blames me coining soul and time + And sending minted bits of rhyme-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + Shall I make answer? This it is: + I camp beneath thy galaxies + Of starry thoughts and shining deeds; + And, seeing new ones, I must needs + Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear, + Though thou art nearer, I am near-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + I feel thy heart-beat next mine own; + Its music hath a richer tone. + I rediscover in thine eyes + A balmier, dewier paradise. + I'm sure thou art a rarer girl-- + And so I seek thee, finest pearl, + A-wooing of thee still. + + With blood of roses on thy lips-- + Canst doubt my trembling?--something slips + Between thy loveliness and me-- + So commonplace, so fond of thee. + Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where + That last one stopped thy lover's prayer-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + When new light falls upon thy face + My gladdened soul discerns some trace + Of God, or angel, never seen + In other days of shade and sheen. + Ne'er may such rapture die, or less + Than joy like this my heart confess-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + Go thou, O soul of beauty, go + Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow. + Mayhap, in following, thou shalt see + Me worthier of thy love and thee. + Thou wouldst not have me satisfied + Until thou lov'st me--none beside-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + This was a song of years ago-- + Of spring! Now drifting flowers of snow + Bloom on the window-sills as white + As gray-beard looking through love's light + And holding blue-veined hands the while. + He finds her last--the sweetest smile-- + A-wooing of her still. + + + + + MY PLAYMATES. + + + The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-- + Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; + It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, + And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; + So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know + Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checker-berries grow. + + What has become of Ezra Marsh who lived on Baker's hill? + And what's become of Noble Pratt whose father kept the mill? + And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, + And of Roxie Root who 'tended school in Boston for a spell? + They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play-- + They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they? + + What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe + Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago? + I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, + And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles who spelled the whole school down! + And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow and all + Who I'm sure would answer could they only hear my call! + + I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again + And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men! + And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face + And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place! + The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago + And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow. + + O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys + That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise? + O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know + Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? + You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; + I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are! + + + + + MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG. + + + Come hither, lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, + For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, + And yonder sings ye angell, as onely angells may, + And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. + + To them that have no lyttel chylde Godde sometimes sendeth down + A lyttel chylde that ben a lyttel lampkyn of His own, + And, if soe be they love that chylde, He willeth it to staye, + But, elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye. + + And, sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye chylde, + And sendeth angells singing whereby it ben beguiled-- + They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his playe + And bear him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye. + + I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me-- + If I colde sing that angell songe, hoy joysome I sholde bee! + For, with my arms about him my music in his eare, + What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare? + + Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, + For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt white, + And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, + And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. + + + + + ALASKAN BALLADRY. + + + Krinken was a little child-- + It was summer when he smiled; + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Stretched its white arms out to him, + Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, + Let me warm my heart with thee"-- + But the child heard not the sea + Calling, yearning evermore + For the summer on the shore. + + Krinken on the beach one day + Saw a maiden Nis at play-- + On the pebbly beach she played + In the summer Krinken made. + Fair and very fair was she-- + Just a little child was he. + "Krinken," said the maiden Nis + "Let me have a little kiss-- + Just a kiss and go with me + To the summer lands that be + Down within the silver sea!" + + Krinken was a little child-- + By the maiden Nis beguiled, + Hand in hand with her went he-- + And 'twas summer in the sea! + And the hoary sea and grim + To its bosom folded him-- + Clasped and kissed the little form, + And the ocean's heart was warm. + But upon the misty shore + Winter brooded evermore. + + With that winter in my heart, + Oft in dead of night I start-- + Start and lift me up and weep, + For those visions in my sleep + Mind me of the yonder deep! + 'Tis _his_ face lifts from the sea-- + 'Tis _his_ voice calls out to me-- + _Thus_ the winter bides with me. + + Krinken was the little child + By the maiden Nis beguiled; + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Reached its longing arms to him, + Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, + Let me warm my heart with thee!" + But the sea calls out no more + And 'tis winter on the shore-- + Summer in the silver sea + Where with maiden Nis went he-- + And the winter bides with me! + + + + + ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE STORK. + + + Welcome, O truant stork! + And where have you been so long? + And do you bring that grace of spring + That filleth my heart with song? + + Descend upon my roof-- + Bide on this ash content; + I would have you know what cruel woe + Befell me when you went. + + All up in the moody sky + (A shifting threat o'er head!) + They were breaking the snow and bidding it go + Cover the beautiful dead. + + Came snow on garden spot, + Came snow on mere and wold, + Came the withering breath of white robed death, + And the once warm earth was cold. + + Stork, the tender rose tree, + That bloometh when you are here, + Trembled and sighed like a waiting bride-- + Then drooped on a virgin bier. + + But the brook that hath seen you come + Leaps forth with a hearty shout, + And the crocus peeps from the bed where it sleeps + To know what the noise is about. + + Welcome, O honest friend! + And bide on my roof content; + For my heart would sing of the grace of spring, + When the winter of woe is spent. + + + + + THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL. + + + _Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth, + To fill our hearts with heedless mirth + This holy Christmasse time; + But give us of thy heavenly cheere + That we may hold thy love most deere + And know thy peace sublime._ + + * * * * * + + Full merry waxed King Pelles court + With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport, + And, when the board was spread, + Now wit ye well 'twas good to see + So fair and brave a companie + With Pelles at the head. + + "Come hence, Elaine," King Pelles cried, + "Come hence and sit ye by my side, + For never yet, I trow, + Have gentle virtues like to thine + Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine, + Nor shall be nevermo!" + + "Sweete sir, my father," quoth Elaine, + "Me it repents to give thee pain-- + Yet, tarry I may not; + For I shall soond and I shall die + If I behold this companie + And see not Launcelot! + + "My heart shall have no love but this-- + My lips shall know no other kiss, + Save only, father, thine; + So graunt me leave to seek my bower, + The lonely chamber in the toure, + Where sleeps his child and mine." + + Then frowned the King in sore despite; + "A murrain seize that traitrous knight, + For that he lies!" he cried-- + "A base, unchristian paynim he, + Else, by my beard, he would not be + A recreant to his bride! + + "Oh, I had liefer yield my life + Than see thee the deserted wife + Of dastard Launcelot! + Yet, an' thou hast no mind to stay, + Go with thy damosels away-- + Lo, I'll detain ye not." + + Her damosels in goodly train + Back to her chamber led Elaine, + And when her eyes were cast + Upon her babe, her tears did flow + And she did wail and weep as though + Her heart had like to brast. + + The while she grieved the Yuletide sport + Waxed lustier in King Pelles' court, + And louder, houre by houre, + The echoes of the rout were borne + To where the lady, all forlorn, + Made moning in the toure, + + "Swete Chryste," she cried, "ne let me hear + Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere + That mock at mine and me; + Graunt that my sore affliction cease + And give me of the heavenly peace + That comes with thoughts of thee!" + + Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light + Made all that lonely chamber bright, + And o'er the infant's bed + A spirit hand, as samite pail, + Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail + Above the infant's head. + + And from the sacred golden cup + A subtle incense floated up + And filled the conscious air, + Which, when she breather, the fair Elaine + Forgot her grief, forgot her pain. + Forgot her sore despair. + + And as the Grail's mysterious balm + Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm, + Great mervail 'twas to see + The sleeping child stretch one hand up + As if in dreams he held the cup + Which none mought win but he. + + Through all the night King Pelles' court + Made mighty cheer and goodly sport. + Nor never recked the joy + That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide + To Launcelot's deserted bride + And to her sleeping boy. + + _Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth + To fill our hearts with heedless mirth + This present Christmasse night; + But send among us to and fro + Thy Holy Grail, that men may know + The joy withe wisdom dight._ + + + + + THE DIVINE LULLABY. + + + I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, + I hear it by the stormy sea, + When winter nights are black and wild, + And when, affright, I call to Thee; + It calms my fears and whispers me, + "Sleep well, my child." + + I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, + In singing winds and falling snow, + The curfew chimes, the midnight bell, + "Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low; + "The guardian angels come and go-- + O child, sleep well!" + + I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, + Aye, though the singing winds be stilled, + Though hushed the tumult of the deep, + My fainting heart with anguish chilled + By Thy assuring tone is thrilled-- + "Fear not, and sleep!" + + Speak on--speak on, dear Lord! + And when the last dread night is near, + With doubts and fears and terrors wild, + Oh, let my soul expiring hear + Only these words of heavenly cheer, + "Sleep well, my child!" + + + + + MORTALITY. + + + O Nicias, not for us alone + Was laughing Eros born, + Nor shines alone for us the moon, + Nor burns the ruddy morn; + Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken + Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men! + + + + + A FICKLE WOMAN. + + + Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night + A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light; + The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails, + Forgetful of the fury of her gales; + To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars, + And o'er his hapless wreck the flood she pours! + + + + + EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG. + + + Grim is the face that looks into the night + Over the stretch of sands; + A sullen rock in the sea of white-- + A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, + Peering and moaning it stands. + "_Oh, is it the king that rides this way-- + Oh, is it the king that rides so free? + I have looked for the king this many a day, + But the years that mock me will not say + Why tarrieth he!_" + + 'Tis not your king that shall ride to-night, + But a child that is fast asleep; + And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-Horse + white-- + Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light + Where the ghostly shadows creep! + "_My eyes are dull and my face is sere, + Yet unto the word he gave I cling, + For he was a Pharoah that set me here-- + And lo! I have waited this many a year + For him--my king!_" + + Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride + Swift as the burning winds that bear + The sand clouds over the desert wide-- + Swift to the verdure and palms beside + The wells off there! + "_And is it the mighty king I shall see + Come riding into the night? + Oh, is it the king come back to me-- + Proudly and fiercely rideth he, + With centuries dight!_" + + I know no king but my dark-eyed dear + That shall ride the Dream-Horse white; + But see! he wakes at my bosom here, + While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near + To speed with my babe to-night! + _And out of the desert darkness peers + A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thing + Like a spirit come out of the moldering years, + And ever that waiting specter hears + The coming king!_ + + + + + ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE PARTRIDGE. + + + As beats the sun from mountain crest, + With "pretty, pretty", + Cometh the partridge from her nest; + The flowers threw kisses sweet to her + (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); + Yet hasteneth she to mine and me-- + Ah! pretty, pretty; + Ah! dear little partridge! + + And when I hear the partridge cry + So pretty, pretty, + Upon the house-top, breakfast I; + She comes a-chirping far and wide, + And swinging from the mountain side-- + I see and hear the dainty dear! + Ah! pretty, pretty; + Ah! dear little partridge! + + Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare. + And pretty, pretty + Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; + The place is full of balmy dew + (The tears of flowers in love with you!) + And one and all impassioned call; + "O pretty, pretty-- + O dear little partridge!" + + Thy feathers they are soft and sleek-- + So pretty, pretty! + Long is thy neck and small thy breast; + The color of thy plumage far + More bright than rainbow colors are! + Sweeter than dove is she I love-- + My pretty, pretty-- + My dear little partridge! + + When comes the partridge from the tree, + So pretty, pretty! + And sings her little hymn to me, + Why, all the world is cheered thereby-- + The heart leaps up into the eye, + And echo then gives back again + Our "Pretty, pretty," + Our "Dear little partridge!" + + Admitting the most blest of all + And pretty, pretty, + The birds come with thee at thy call; + In flocks they come and round they play, + And this is what they seem to say-- + They say and sing, each feathered thing; + "Ah! pretty, pretty; + Ah! dear little partridge!" + + + + + ALASKAN BALLADRY, NO. 1. + + + The Northland reared his hoary head + And spied the Southland leagues away-- + "Fairest of all fair brides," he said, + "Be thou my bride, I pray!" + + Whereat the Southland laughed and cried + "I'll bide beside my native sea, + And I shall never be thy bride + 'Til thou com'st wooing me!" + + The Northland's heart was a heart of ice, + A diamond glacier, mountain high-- + Oh, love is sweet at my price, + As well know you and I! + + So gayly the Northland took his heart; + And cast it in the wailing sea-- + "Go, thou, with all my cunning art + And woo my bride for me!" + + For many a night and for many a day, + And over the leagues that rolled between + The true heart messenger sped away + To woo the Southland queen. + + But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed long + While ever the Northland cried in glee: + "Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal song, + When comes my bride, O sea!" + + At the foot of the Southland's golden throne + The heart of the Northland ever throbs-- + For that true heart speaks in the waves that moan + The songs that it sings are sobs. + + Ever the Southland spurns the cries + Of the messenger pleading the Northland's + part-- + The summer shines in the Southland's eyes-- + The winter bides in her heart. + + And ever unto that far-off place + Which love doth render a hallow spot, + The Northland turneth his honest face + And wonders she cometh not. + + The sea wails loud, and the sea wails long, + As the ages of waiting drift slowly by, + But the sea shall sing no bridal song-- + As well know you and I! + + + + + OLD DUTCH LOVE SONG. + + + I am not rich, and yet my wealth + Surpasseth human measure; + My store untold + Is not of gold + Nor any sordid treasure. + Let this one hoard his earthly pelf, + Another court ambition-- + Not for a throne + Would I disown + My poor and proud condition! + + The worldly gain achieved to-day + To-morrow may be flying-- + The gifts of kings + Are fleeting things-- + The gifts of love undying! + In her I love is all my wealth-- + For her my sole endeavor; + No heart, I ween, + Hath fairer queen, + No liege such homage, ever! + + + + + AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL. + +(The exile Meliboeus finds Tityrus in possession of his own farm, +restored to him by the emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The +poem is in praise of Augustus, peace and pastoral life.) + + + _Meliboeus_-- + Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech tree reclining, + Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and slender; + Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless repining, + As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender. + + _Tityrus_-- + A god--yes, a god, I declare--vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions, + And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar, + He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions, + While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and halter. + + _Meliboeus_-- + I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded + To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle; + To exile and hardship devote and by merciless enemies hounded, + I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle. + Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me-- + But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who is this good deity, tell me! + + _Tityrus_ (reminiscently)-- + The city--the city called Rome, with, my head full of herding and + tillage, + I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now wander; + But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village + As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out + yonder. + + _Meliboeus_-- + Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city? + + _Tityrus_-- + Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion + My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress to pity, + That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible fashion. + Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me, + And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me! + + _Meliboeus_ (slyly, as if addressing the damsel)-- + So now, Amaryllis the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover! + You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobnobbing. + And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant + lover-- + The pine trees, the copse and the brook for Tityrus ever went sobbing. + + _Tityrus_-- + Meliboeus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity; + My toil was all in vain the year through, no matter how earnest or + clever, + Till, at last, came that god among men--that king from that wonderful + city, + And quoth: "Take your homesteads again--they are yours and your assigns + forever!" + + _Meliboeus_-- + Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what's better than money-- + Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening; + Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey. + Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are glistening-- + Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices-- + The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining, + The plash of the sacred cascade--ah, restful, indeed, are these voices, + Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree reclining! + + _Tityrus_-- + And he who insures this to me--oh, craven I were not to love him! + Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in, + The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him. + While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women! + + _Meliboeus_ (suddenly recalling his own misery)-- + But we who are exiled must go; and whither--ah, whither--God knoweth! + Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth only; + Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth. + And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely. + Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee? + Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the + alien be squandered? + Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess thee-- + Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've + wandered? + My flock! never more shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside + above me-- + Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to sorrow! + Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones that + love me-- + Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow! + + _Tityrus_-- + But rest you this night with me here; my bed--we will share it together, + As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and cheeses; + The evening a'ready is nigh--the shadows creep over the heather, + And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the + breezes. + + + + + HORACE TO MAECENAS. + + + How breaks my heart to hear you say + You feel the shadows fall about you! + The gods forefend + That fate, O friend! + I would not, I could not live without you! + You gone, what would become of me, + Your shadow, O beloved Maecenas? + We've shared the mirth-- + And sweets of earth-- + Let's share the pangs of death between us! + + I should not dread Chinaera's breath + Nor any threat of ghost infernal; + Nor fear nor pain + Should part us twain-- + For so have willed the powers eternal. + No false allegiance have I sworn, + And, whatsoever fate betide you, + Mine be the part + To cheer your heart-- + With loving song to fare beside you! + + Love snatched you from the claws of death + And gave you to the grateful city; + The falling tree + That threatened me + Did Fannus turn aside in pity; + With horoscopes so wondrous like, + Why question that we twain shall wander, + As in this land, + So, hand in hand, + Into the life that waiteth yonder? + + So to your shrine, O patron mine, + With precious wine and victims fare you; + Poor as I am, + A humble lamb + Must testify what love I bear you. + But to the skies shall sweetly rise + The sacrifice from shrine and heather, + And thither bear + The solemn prayer + That, when we go, we go together! + + + + + HORACE'S "SAILOR AND SHADE." + + + _Sailor._ + + You, who have compassed land and sea + Now all unburied lie; + All vain your store of human lore, + For you were doomed to die. + The sire of Pelops likewise fell, + Jove's honored mortal guest-- + So king and sage of every age + At last lie down to rest. + Plutonian shades enfold the ghost + Of that majestic one + Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, + Had once been Pentheus' son; + Believe who may, he's passed away + And what he did is done. + A last night comes alike to all-- + One path we all must tread, + Through sore disease or stormy seas + Or fields with corpses red-- + Whate'er our deeds that pathway leads + To regions of the dead. + + + _Shade_. + + The fickle twin Illyrian gales + O'erwhelmed me on the wave-- + But that you live, I pray you give + My bleaching bones a grave! + Oh, then when cruel tempests rage + You all unharmed shall be-- + Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land + And Neptune's on the sea. + Perchance you fear to do what shall + Bring evil to your race. + Or, rather fear that like me here + You'll lack a burial place. + So, though you be in proper haste, + Bide long enough I pray, + To give me, friend, what boon will send + My soul upon its way! + + + + + UHLAND'S "CHAPEL." + + + Yonder stands the hillside chapel, + 'Mid the evergreens and rocks, + All day long it hears the song + Of the shepherd to his flocks. + + Then the chapel bell goes tolling-- + Knolling for a soul that's sped; + Silent and sad the shepherd lad + Hears the requiem for the dead. + + Shepherd, singers of the valley, + Voiceless now, speed on before; + Soon shall knell that chapel bell + For the songs you'll sing no more. + + + + + "THE HAPPY ISLES" OF HORACE. + + + Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles + In the golden haze off yonder, + Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles + And the ocean loves to wander. + + Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, + Proudly the fig rejoices, + Merrily dance the virgin rills, + Blending their myriad voices. + + Our herds shall suffer no evil there, + But peacefully feed and rest them-- + Never thereto shall prowling bear + Or serpent come to molest them. + + Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, + Nor feverish drought distress us, + But he that compasseth heat and cold + Shall temper them both to bless us. + + There no vandal foot has trod, + And the pirate hordes that wander + Shall never profane the sacred sod + Of these beautiful isles out yonder. + + Never a spell shall blight our vines + Nor Sirius blaze above us. + But you and I shall drink our wines + And sing to the loved that love us. + + So come with me where fortune smiles + And the gods invite devotion-- + Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles + In the haze of that far-off ocean! + + + + + HORATIAN LYRICS. + + + I. + + Odes I, 11. + + + What end the gods may have ordained for me, + And what for thee, + Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know; + Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest-- + 'Tis for the best + To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe. + + If for more winters our poor lot is cast, + Or this the last, + Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas; + Strain clear the wine--this life is short, at best; + Take hope with zest, + And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease! + + + II. + + Odes I, 23. + + + Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, + That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, + Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn + And on the pathless mountain tops has stood? + + Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites-- + Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake; + Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, + Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake. + + I do not follow with a tigerish thought + Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest; + So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, + Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast. + + + + + HORACE II, 13. + + + O fountain of Blandusia, + Whence crystal waters flow, + With garlands gay and wine I'll pay + The sacrifice I owe; + A sportive kid with budding horns + I have, whose crimson blood + Anon shall die and sanctify + Thy cool and babbling flood. + + O fountain of Blandusia, + The dogstar's hateful spell + No evil brings unto the springs + That from thy bosom well; + Here oxen, wearied by the plow, + The roving cattle here, + Hasten in quest of certain rest + And quaff thy gracious cheer. + + O fountain of Blandusia, + Ennobled shalt thou be, + For I shall sing the joys that spring + Beneath your ilex tree; + Yes, fountain of Blandusia, + Posterity shall know + The cooling brooks that from thy nooks + Singing and dancing go! + + + + + HORACE IV, II. + + + Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine + That fairly reeks with precious juices. + And in your tresses you shall twine + The loveliest flowers this vale produces. + + My cottage wears a gracious smile-- + The altar decked in floral glory,-- + Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while + As though it pined for honors gory. + + Hither our neighbors nimbly fare-- + The boys agog, the maidens snickering, + And savory smells possess the air + As skyward kitchen flames are flickering. + + You ask what means this grand display, + This festive throng and goodly diet? + Well--since you're bound to have your way-- + I don't mind telling on the quiet. + + 'Tis April 13, as you know-- + A day and month devote to Venus, + Whereon was born some years ago, + My very worthy friend, Macenas. + + Nay, pay no heed to Telephus-- + Your friends agree he doesn't love you; + The way he flirts convinces us + He really is not worthy of you! + + Aurora's son, unhappy lad! + You know the fate that overtook him? + And Pegasus a rider had-- + I say he _had_ before he shook him! + + Haec docet (as you may agree): + 'Tis meet that Phyllis should discover + A wisdom in preferring me + And mittening every other lover. + + So come, O Phyllis, last and best + Of loves with which this heart's been smitten; + Come, sing my jealous fears to rest-- + And let your songs be those _I've_ written. + + + + + HUGO'S "POOL IN THE FOREST." + + + How calm, how beauteous, and how cool-- + How like a sister to the skies, + Appears the broad, transparent pool + That in this quiet forest lies. + The sunshine ripples on its face, + And from the world around, above, + It hath caught down the nameless grace + Of such reflections as we love. + + But deep below its surface crawl + The reptile horrors of the Night-- + The dragons, lizards, serpents--all + The hideous brood that hate the Light; + Through poison fern and slimy weed, + And under ragged, jagged stones + They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed, + They lap a dead man's bones. + + And as, O pool, thou dost cajole + With seemings that beguile us well, + So doeth many a human soul + That teemeth with the lusts of hell. + + + + + HORACE I, 4. + + + 'Tis spring! the boats bound to the sea; + The breezes, loitering kindly over + The fields, again bring herds and men + The grateful cheer of honeyed clover. + + Now Venus hither leads her train, + The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies, + The moon is bright and by her light + Old Vulcan kindles up his forges. + + Bind myrtle now about your brow, + And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses-- + Appease God Pan, who, kind to man, + Our fleeting life with affluence blesses. + + But let the changing seasons mind us + That Death's the certain doom of mortals-- + Grim Death who waits at humble gat + And likewise stalks through kingly portals. + + Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades + Enfold you with their hideous seemings-- + Then love and mirth and joys of earth + Shall fade away like fevered dreamings. + + + + + LOVE SONG--HEINE. + + + Many a beauteous flower doth spring + From the tears that flood my eyes, + And the nightingale doth sing + In the burthen of my sighs. + + If, O child, thou lovest me, + Take these flowerets, fair and frail, + And my soul shall waft to thee + Love songs of the nightingale. + + + + + HORACE II, 3. + + + Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; + For though you pine your life away + With dull complaining breath, + Or speed with song and wine each day-- + Still, still your doom is death. + + Where the white poplar and the pine + In glorious arching shade combine + And the brook singing goes, + Bid them bring store of nard and wine + And garlands of the rose. + + Let's live while chance and youth obtain-- + Soon shall you quit this fair domain + Kissed by the Tiber's gold, + And all your earthly pride and gain + Some heedless heir shall hold. + + One ghostly boat shall some time bear + From scenes of mirthfulness or care + Each fated human soul!-- + Shall waft and leave his burden where + The waves of Lethe roll. + + _So come, I pri' thee, Dellius, mine-- + Let's sing our songs and drink our wine + In that sequestered nook + Where the white poplar and the pine + Stand listening to the brook._ + + + + + THE TWO COFFINS. + + + In yonder old cathedral + Two lonely coffins lie; + In one the head of the state lies dead, + And a singer sleeps hard by. + + Once had that king great power, + And proudly he ruled the land-- + His crown e'en now is on his brow + And his sword is in his hand! + + How sweetly sleeps the singer + With calmly folded eyes, + And on the breast of the bard at rest + The harp that he sounded lies. + + The castle walls are falling + And war distracts the land, + But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot-- + There in that dead king's hand! + + But with every grace of nature + There seems to float along-- + To cheer the hearts of men-- + The singer's deathless song! + + + + + HORACE I, 31. + + + As forth he pours the new made wine, + What blessing asks the lyric poet-- + What boon implores in this fair shrine + Of one full likely to bestow it? + + Not for Sardinia's plenteous store, + Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth, + Nor yet for India's wealth galore, + Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth. + + Let honest riches celebrate + The harvest earned--I'd not deny it; + Yet am I pleased with my estate, + My humble home, my frugal diet. + + Child of Latonia, this I crave; + May peace of mind and health attend me, + And down into my very grave + May this dear lyre of mine befriend me! + + + + + HORACE TO HIS LUTE. + + + If ever in the sylvan shade + A song immortal we have made, + Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come-- + Inspire a song of Latium. + + A Lesbian first thy glories proved-- + In arms and in repose he loved + To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise + His voice in Love's and Liber's praise; + The Muses, too, and him who clings + To Mother Venus' apron-strings, + And Lycus beautiful, he sung + In those old days when you were young. + + O shell, that art the ornament + Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content + To Jove, and soothing troubles all-- + Come and requite me, when I call! + + + + + HORACE I, 22. + + + Fuscus, whoso to good inclines-- + And is a faultless liver-- + Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, + Nor poison-arrowed quiver. + + Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, + Or scales the rugged mountains, + Or rests beside the murmuring tide + Of weird Hydaspan fountains! + + Lo, on a time, I gayly paced + The Sabine confines shady, + And sung in glee of Lalage, + My own and dearest lady. + + And, as I sung, a monster wolf + Slunk through the thicket from me--- + But for that song, as I strolled along + He would have overcome me! + + Set me amid those poison mists + Which no fair gale dispelleth, + Or in the plains where silence reigns + And no thing human dwelleth; + + Still shall I love my Lalage-- + Still sing her tender graces; + And, while I sing my theme shall bring + Heaven to those desert places! + + + + + THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE + + XXIII. + + + I love the lyric muse! + For when mankind ran wild in groves, + Came holy Orpheus with his songs + And turned men's hearts from bestial loves, + From brutal force and savage wrongs; + Came Amphion, too, and on his lyre + Made such sweet music all the day + That rocks, instinct with warm desire, + Pursued him in his glorious way. + + I love the lyric muse! + Hers was the wisdom that of yore + Taught man the rights of fellow-man-- + Taught him to worship God the more + And to revere love's holy ban; + Hers was the hand that jotted down + The laws correcting divers wrongs-- + And so came honor and renown + To bards and to their noble songs. + + I love the lyric muse! + Old Homer sung unto the lyre, + Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient days-- + Still, warmed by their immortal fire, + How doth our patriot spirit blaze! + The oracle, when questioned, sings-- + So we our way in life are taught; + In verse we soothe the pride of kings, + In verse the drama has been wrought. + + I love the lyric muse! + Be not ashamed, O noble friend, + In honest gratitude to pay + Thy homage to the gods that send + This boon to charm all ill away. + With solemn tenderness revere + This voiceful glory as a shrine + Wherein the quickened heart may hear + The counsels of a voice divine! + + + + + MARTHY'S YOUNKIT. + + + The mountain brook sung lonesomelike + And loitered on its way + Ez if it waited for a child + To jine it in its play; + The wild flowers of the hillside + Bent down their heads to hear + The music of the little feet + That had, somehow, grown so dear; + The magpies, like winged shadders, + Wuz a-flutterin' to and fro + Among the rocks and holler stumps + In the ragged gulch below; + The pines 'nd hemlock tosst their boughs + (Like they wuz arms) 'nd made + Soft, sollum music on the slope + Where he had often played. + But for these lonesome, sollum voices + On the mountain side, + There wuz no sound the summer day + That Marthy's younkit died. + + We called him Marthy's younkit, + For Marthy wuz the name + Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife + Uv Sorry Tom--the same + Ez taught the school-house on the hill + Way back in sixty-nine + When she married Sorry Tom wich ownt + The Gosh-all-Hemlock mine; + And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, + Wich, bein' how it meant + The first on Red Hoss mountain, + Wuz trooly a event! + The miners sawed off short on work + Es soon ez they got word + That Dock Devine allowed to Casey + What had just occurred; + We loaded 'nd whooped around + Until we all wuz hoarse, + Salutin' the arrival, + Wich weighed ten pounds, uv course! + + Three years, and sech a pretty child! + His mother's counterpart-- + Three years, and sech a holt ez he + Had got on every heart! + A peert and likely little tyke + With hair ez red ez gold, + A laughin', toddlin' everywhere-- + And only three years old! + Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, + And sometimes down the hill + He kited (boys _is_ boys, you know-- + You couldn't keep him still!) + And there he'd play beside the brook + Where purpel wild flowers grew + And the mountain pines 'nd hemlocks + A kindly shadder threw + And sung soft, sollum toons to him, + While in the gulch below + The magpies, like strange sperrits, + Went flutterin' to and fro. + + Three years, and then the fever come; + It wuzn't right, you know, + With all us _old_ ones in the camp, + For that little child to go! + It's right the old should die, but that + A harmless little child + Should miss the joy uv life 'nd love-- + _That_ can't be reconciled! + That's what we thought that summer day, + And that is what we said + Ez we looked upon the piteous face + Uv Marthy's younkit dead; + But for his mother sobbin' + The house wuz very still, + And Sorry Tom wuz lookin' through + The winder down the hill + To the patch beneath the hemlocks + Where his darlin' used to play, + And the mountain brook sung lonesomelike + And loitered on its way. + + A preacher come from Roarin' Forks + To comfort 'em 'nd pray, + And all the camp wuz present + At the obsequies next day, + A female teacher staged it twenty miles + To sing a hymn, + And we jined her in the chorus-- + Big, husky men 'nd grim + Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," + And then the preacher prayed + And preacht a sermon on the death + Uv that fair blossom laid + Among them other flow'rs he loved-- + Which sermon set sech weight + On sinners bein' always heelt + Against the future state + That, though it had been fash'nable + To swear a perfect streak, + There warnt no swearin' in the camp + For pretty nigh a week! + + Last thing uv all, six strappin' men + Took up the little load + And bore it tenderly along + The windin' rocky road + To where the coroner had dug + A grave beside the brook-- + In sight uv Marthy's winder, where + The same could set and look + And wonder if his cradle in + That green patch long 'nd wide + Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that + Wuz empty at her side; + And wonder of the mournful songs + The pines wuz singin' then + Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies + She'd never sing again; + And if the bosom uv the earth + In which he lay at rest + Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm + Ez wuz his mother's breast. + + The camp is gone, but Red Hoss mountain + Rears its kindly head + And looks down sort uv tenderly, + Upon its cherished dead; + And I reckon that, through all the years + That little boy wich died + Sleeps sweetly 'nd contentedly + Upon the mountain-side; + That the wild flowers of the summer time + Bend down their heads to hear + The footfall uv a little friend they + Know not slumbers near; + That the magpies on the sollum rocks + Strange flutterin' shadders make. + And the pines 'nd hemlocks wonder that + The sleeper doesn't wake; + That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike + And loiters on its way + Ez if it waited f'r a child + To jine it in its play. + + + + + ABU MIDJAN. + + + "When Father Time swings round his scythe, + Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, + So that its juices, red and blithe, + May cheer these thirsty bones of mine. + + "Elsewise with tears and bated breath + Should I survey the life to be. + But oh! How should I hail the death + That brings that vinous grace to me!" + + So sung the dauntless Saracen, + Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains + That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, + The faithless one shall die in chains. + + But one vile Christian slave that lay + A prisoner near that prisoner saith; + "God willing, I will plant some day + A vine where thou liest in death." + + Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave + With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; + Where rots the martyred Christian slave + Allah, and only Allah, knows! + + + + + THE DYING YEAR. + + + The year has been a tedious one-- + A weary round of toil and sorrow, + And, since it now at last is gone, + We say farewell and hail the morrow. + + Yet o'er the wreck which time has wrought + A sweet, consoling ray is shimmered-- + The one but compensating thought + That literary life has glimmered. + + Struggling with hunger and with cold + The world contemptuously beheld 'er; + The little thing was one year old-- + But who'd have cared had she been elder? + + + + + DEAD ROSES. + + + He placed a rose in my nut-brown hair-- + A deep red rose with a fragrant heart + And said: "We'll set this day apart, + So sunny, so wondrous fair." + + His face was full of a happy light, + His voice was tender and low and sweet, + The daisies and the violets grew at our feet-- + Alas, for the coming of night! + + The rose is black and withered and dead! + 'Tis hid in a tiny box away; + The nut-brown hair is turning to gray, + And the light of the day is fled! + + The light of the beautiful day is fled, + Hush'd is the voice so sweet and low-- + And I--ah, me! I loved him so-- + And the daisies grow over his head! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of John Smith, U.S.A., by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12696 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c28dab6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #12696 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12696) diff --git a/old/12696.txt b/old/12696.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..00b33f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12696.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3631 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of John Smith, U.S.A., by Eugene Field + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: John Smith, U.S.A. + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: June 23, 2004 [EBook #12696] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN SMITH, U.S.A. *** + + + + +Produced by Kevin O'Hare and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +[Illustration: Eugene Field] + + + + +JOHN SMITH + +U.S.A. + + +BY + + +EUGENE FIELD + + +AUTHOR OF + +THE CLINK OF THE ICE + +IN WINK-A-WAY-LAND + +HOOSIER LYRICS, ETC. + + +1905. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, +genius--rare and quaint presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he +was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit. +He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, +Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their +happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in +any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which +his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the +child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older +children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into +his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can +while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the +poetry and prose here presented. + +Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing +largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond +of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure +trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, +engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and +Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not +surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off +that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the +bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book +becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate." + +Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems +that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome +this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor. + +CHARLES WALTER Brown. + +Chicago, January, 1905. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + John Smith + The Fisherman's Feast + To John J. Knickerbocker, Jr. + The Bottle and the Bird + The Man Who Worked with Dana on the "Sun" + A Democratic Hymn + The Blue and the Gray + It is the Printer's Fault + Summer Heat + Plaint of the Missouri 'Coon in the Berlin Zoological Gardens + The Bibliomaniac's Bride + Ezra J. M'Manus to a Soubrette + The Monstrous Pleasant Ballad of the Taylor Pup + Long Meter + To DeWitt Miller + Francois Villon + Lydia Dick + The Tin Bank + In New Orleans + The Peter-Bird + Dibdin's Ghost + An Autumn Treasure-Trove + When the Poet Came + The Perpetual Wooing + My Playmates + Mediaeval Eventide Song + Alaskan Balladry + Armenian Folk-Song--The Stork + The Vision of the Holy Grail + The Divine Lullaby + Mortality + A Fickle Woman + Egyptian Folk-Song + Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge + Alaskan Balladry, No. 1 + Old Dutch Love Song + An Eclogue from Virgil + Horace to Maecenas + Horace's "Sailor and Shade" + Uhland's "Chapel" + "The Happy Isles" of Horace + Horatian Lyrics + Hugo's "Pool in the Forest" + Horace I., 4 + Love Song--Heine + Horace II., 3 + The Two Coffins + Horace I., 31 + Horace to His Lute + Horace I., 22 + The "Ars Poetica" of Horace XXIII + Marthy's Younkit + Abu Midjan + The Dying Year + Dead Roses + + + + + JOHN SMITH. + + + To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be + With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; + There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed + And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. + This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by-- + Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I! + "Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face! + Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!" + And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will, + Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill + And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, + Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. + The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight + A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight-- + The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day-- + The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A." + + Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name-- + I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. + I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West-- + I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. + His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue, + And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; + Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette-- + Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet; + I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem + To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream, + Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme + Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime; + So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"--your pedigree confess + In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess"; + Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may + Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A." + + It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago + Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow; + Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills + And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills; + Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, + And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; + Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, + And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; + Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent + Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; + Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, + Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire: + Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, + And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak, + And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say! + And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A." + + Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know + In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow; + Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn + Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn; + You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott-- + Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; + And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true + As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue; + Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, + Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night; + Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride an' glory of the South-- + And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth! + Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees + And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, + Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay-- + Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."! + + Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West-- + That part of our republic I shall always love the best? + Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine + In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? + Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side + And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide; + Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, + Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, + And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago + (Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)! + Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high + again, + And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then; + The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, + And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; + And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, + Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. + + You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall, + And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! + For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done) + He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one-- + And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name--- + Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same; + All represent the spirit of the land across the sea, + All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free! + Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East-- + So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least; + Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine, + He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine! + Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known, + Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone! + And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day + Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U.S.A." + + + + + THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. + + + Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, + Is there another can safely surpass + This delicate, voluptuous thing-- + This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? + Upon a damask napkin laid, + What exhalations superfine + Our gustatory nerves pervade, + Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine. + + The ancients loved this noble fish, + And, coming from the kitchen fire + All piping hot upon a dish, + What raptures did he not inspire! + "Fish should swim twice," they used to say-- + Once in their native vapid brine, + And then a better way-- + You understand? Fetch on the wine! + + Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, + How often have I cast for you-- + How often sadly seen you scud + Where weeds and pussy willows grew! + How often have you filched my bait! + How often have you snapped my treacherous line!-- + Yet here I have you on this plate. + You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_! + + And, harkee, garcon! let the blood + Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him-- + Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood + This piscatorial pride should swim; + So, were he living, he should say + He gladly died for me and mine, + And, as it was his native spray, + He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine! + + I would it were ordained for me + To share your fate, oh finny friend! + I surely were not loath to be + Reserved for such a noble end; + For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, + At last reels in his ruthless line, + What were my ecstacy to swim + In wine, in wine, in glorious wine! + + Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! + And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, + Come hither every year and bring + The boons provocative of mirth; + And should your stock of bass run low, + However much I might repine, + I think I might survive the blow + If plied with wine, and still more wine! + + + + + TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR. + + + Whereas, good friend, it doth appear + You do possess the notion + To his awhile away from here + To lands across the ocean; + Now, by these presents we would show + That, wheresoever wend you, + And wheresoever gales may blow, + Our friendship shall attend you. + + What though on Scotia's banks and braes + You pluck the bonnie gowan, + Or chat of old Chicago days + O'er Berlin brew with Cowen; + What though you stroll some boulevard + In Paris (c'est la belle ville!), + Or make the round of Scotland Yard + With our lamented Melville? + + Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine + True heart from true hearts sever? + No--in this draught of honest wine + We pledge it, comrade--never! + Though mountain waves between us roll, + Come fortune or disaster-- + 'Twill knit us closer soul to soul + And bind our friendships faster. + + So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd + To loyalty's devotion, + And here's to fortune that shall waft + Your ship across the ocean, + And here's a smile for those who prate + Of Davy Jones's locker, + And here's a pray'r in every fate-- + God bless you, Knickerbocker! + + + + + THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD. + + + Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go + To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show, + And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights + We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights; + When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, + He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!" + + Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies + Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! + There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine-- + A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! + How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: + "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!" + + But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate-- + How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! + You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches + That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; + To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred + What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird. + + Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, + And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! + What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied + To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! + And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then + Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again! + + The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, + But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! + The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, + Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, + And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, + Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird. + + Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right + If ever it has been your wont to train around at night; + How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, + And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! + How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, + And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest! + + But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly + Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie-- + I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, + Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; + Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine-- + I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine! + + So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day-- + Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay; + We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine + Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine, + And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard + Of the large cold bottle, _not_ the small hot bird. + + + + + THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE "SUN". + + + Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring of '81 + A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + His name was Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he was a sight ter view + Ez he walked into the orfice 'nd inquired for work to do; + Thar warn't no places vacant then--fer, be it understood, + That was the time when talent flourished at that altitood; + But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest + Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best-- + 'Til finally he stated (quite by chance) that he had done + A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + + Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss + Who'd worked f'r Mr. Dana _must_ be good enough for _us_! + And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could, + For if _we didn't_ take him we knew John Arkins _would_-- + And Cooper, too, wuz mousin' round for enterprise 'nd brains, + Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains. + At any rate, we nailed him--which made ol' Cooper swear + And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair-- + But _we_ set back and cackled, 'nd had a power uv fun + With our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + + It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop + Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop; + It seems that Dana was the biggest man you ever saw-- + He lived on human bein's 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw! + If he had democratic drugs to take, before he took 'em, + As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em! + The man that could set down 'nd write like Dana never grew + And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew. + The consequence appeared to be that nearly everyone + Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun. + + This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in-- + He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin; + Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk-- + He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work! + If any other cuss had played the tricks he dare ter play, + The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day; + But, somehow, folks respected him and stood him to the last, + Considerin' his superior connections in the past; + So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun + On the man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. + + Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83-- + A very different party from the man we thought ter see! + A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm-- + You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm! + A certain hearty manner 'nd a fullness uv the vest + Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best; + His face was so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind, + That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind, + And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair + In promise of the golden crown He meaneth him to wear; + So, uv us boys that met him out 'n Denver there wuz none + But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun. + + But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83 + His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared upon a spree; + The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so + (They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know) + That he borrowed all the stuff he could and started on a bat, + And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that. + So when ol' Dana hove in sight we couldn't understand + Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand; + No casual allusion--not a question, no, not one-- + For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"! + + We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised-- + Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised; + He said that Whoppers wuz a man he didn't never heerd about, + But he might have carried papers on a Jersey City route-- + And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laflin say + That he fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day, + Which, with more likker _underneath_ than money in his vest, + Had started on a freight train fur the great 'nd boundin' West-- + But further information or statistics he had none + Uv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun." + + We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss-- + When we get played fer suckers--why, that's a horse on us! + But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff + To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff + A man who's "worked with Dana"--'nd then we fellers wink + And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. + It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say + If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away; + And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun + The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"! + + But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years, + To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; + An' may I live a thousan', too--a thousan', less a day, + For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away. + And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff + Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; + But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know + The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe; + You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run + That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun." + + + + + A DEMOCRATIC HYMN. + + + Republicans of differing views + Are pro or con protection; + If that's the issue they would choose, + Why, we have no objection. + The issue we propose concerns + Our hearts and homes more nearly: + A wife to whom the nation turns + And venerates so dearly. + So, confident of what shall be, + Our gallant host advances, + Giving three cheers for Grover C. + And three times three for Frances! + + So gentle is that honored dame, + And fair beyond all telling, + The very mention of her name + Sets every breast to swelling. + She wears no mortal crown of gold-- + No courtiers fawn around her-- + But with their love young hearts and old + In loyalty have crowned her-- + And so with Grover and his bride + We're proud to take our chances, + And it's three times three for the twain give we-- + But particularly for Frances! + + + + + THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. + + + The Blue and the Gray collided one day + In the future great town of Missouri, + And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear + That they tackled each other with fury. + + While the weather waxed hot they hove and they sot, + Like the scow in the famous old story, + And what made the fight an enjoyable sight + Was the fact that they fought con amore. + + They as participants fought in such wise as was taught, + As beseemed the old days of the dragons, + When you led to the dance and defended with lance + The damsel you pledged in your flagons. + + In their dialect way the knights of the Gray + Gave a flout at the buckeye bandana, + And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful whack, + And that's what's the matter with Hannah. + + This resisted attack took the Grays all a-back, + And feeling less coltish and frisky, + They resolved to elate the cause of their state, + And also their persons, with whisky. + + Having made ample use of the treacherous juice, + Which some folks say stings like an adder, + They went back again at the handkerchief men, + Who slowly got madder and madder. + + You can bet it was h--l in the Southern Hotel + And elsewhere, too many to mention, + But the worst of it all was achieved in the hall + Where the President held his convention. + + They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating imbrued, + Volleyed and bellowed and thundered; + There was nothing to do until these yawpers got through, + So the rest of us waited and wondered. + + As the result of these frays it appears that the Grays, + Who once were as chipper as daisies, + Have changed their complexion to one of dejection, + And at present are bluer than blazes. + + + + + IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT. + + + In Mrs. Potter's latest play + The costuming is fine; + Her waist is made decollete-- + Her skirt is new design. + + + + + SUMMER HEAT. + + + Nay, why discuss this summer heat, + Of which vain people tell? + Oh, sinner, rather were it meet + To fix thy thoughts on hell! + + The punishment ordained for you + In that infernal spot + Is het by Satan's impish crew + And kept forever hot. + + Sumatra might be reckoned nice, + And Tophet passing cool, + And Sodom were a cake of ice + Beside that sulphur pool. + + An awful stench and dismal wail + Come from the broiling souls, + Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail + Stirs up the brimstone coals. + + Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet + That thou shouldst ponder well, + For what, oh, what, is worldly heat + Unto the heat of hell? + + + + + PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. + + + Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, + And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow; + I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate + Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state, + And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree, + Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. + Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near + While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear. + + My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin + To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within-- + Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare + With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear! + Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole, + All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole-- + We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings + As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things. + + And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh, + Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; + And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night + That nary 'coon could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight; + We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know + That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets half a show! + But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n + And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n! + + Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days-- + I cannot get acclimated or used to German ways; + The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine + For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine! + The 'coon that's been used to stanch democratic cheer + Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer! + No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, + But send _me_ back from whence I came and let me grub for worms! + + They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons + And wonder what I am--alas! there are no German 'coons! + For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree, + A symbol of democracy that's woolly, blythe and free. + And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, + For _I_ have tasted liberty--these others, _they_ have not! + So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels + Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels! + + Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill, + To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; + My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest, + Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest; + Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all + To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall; + And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here + By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer. + + + + + THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE. + + + The women folk are like to books-- + Most pleasing to the eye, + Whereon if anybody looks + He feels disposed to buy. + + I hear that many are for sale-- + Those that record no dates, + And such editions as regale + The view with colored plates. + + Of every quality and grade + And size they may be found-- + Quite often beautifully made, + As often poorly bound. + + Now, as for me, had I my choice, + I'd choose no folio tall, + But some octavo to rejoice + My sight and heart withal. + + As plump and pudgy as a snipe-- + Well worth her weight in gold, + Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, + And just the size to hold! + + With such a volume for my wife, + How should I keep and con? + How like a dream should speed my life + Unto its colophon! + + Her frontispiece should be more fair + Than any colored plate; + Blooming with health she would not care + To extra-illustrate. + + And in her pages there should be + A wealth of prose and verse, + With now and then a jeu d'esprit-- + But nothing ever worse! + + Prose for me when I wished for prose, + Verse, when to verse inclined-- + Forever bringing sweet repose + To body, heart, and mind. + + Oh, I should bind this priceless prize + In bindings full and fine, + And keep her where no human eyes + Should see her charms, but mine! + + With such a fair unique as this, + What happiness abounds! + Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, + My joy unknown to Lowndes! + + + + + EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE. + + + 'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met, + And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender + My thoughts go back in Time's dull track + To you, sweet pink of female gender! + I shall not say--though others may-- + That time all human joy enhances; + But the same old thrill comes to me still + With memories of your songs and dances. + + Soubrettish ways these latter days + Invite my praise, but never get it; + I still am true to yours and you-- + My record's made--I'll not upset it! + The pranks they play, the things they say-- + I'd blush to put the like on paper; + And I'll avow they don't know how + To dance, so awkwardly they caper! + + I used to sit down in the pit + And see you flit like elf or fairy + Across the stage, and I'll engage + No moonbeam sprite were half so airy. + Lo! everywhere about me there + Were rivals reeking with pomatum, + And if perchance they caught a glance + In song or dance, how did I hate 'em! + + At half-past ten came rapture--then + Of all those men was I most happy, + For wine and things and food for kings + And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis. + Did you forget, my fair soubrette, + Those suppers in the Cafe Rector-- + The cozy nook where we partook + Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar? + + Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways + Knew every phase of harmless folly! + Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights + Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! + Gone are they all beyond recall, + And I, a shade--a mere reflection-- + Am forced to feed my spirits' greed + Upon the husks of retrospection. + + And lo! to-night the phantom light + That as a sprite flits on the fender + Reveals a face whose girlish grace + Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; + And all the while the old time smile + Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled, + As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet + Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled. + + + + + THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP. + + + Now lithe and listen, gentles all, + Now lithe ye all and hark + Unto a ballad I shall sing + About Buena Park. + + Of all the wonders happening there + The strangest hap befell + Upon a famous April morn, + As you I now shall tell. + + It is about the Taylor pup + And of his mistress eke, + And of the pranking time they had + That I would fain to speak. + + + FITTE THE FIRST. + + The pup was of a noble mein + As e'er you gazed upon; + They called his mother Lady + And his father was a Don. + + And both his mother and his sire + Were of the race Bernard-- + The family famed in histories + And hymned of every bard. + + His form was of exuberant mold, + Long, slim and loose of joints; + There never was a pointer-dog + So full as he of points. + + His hair was like a yellow fleece, + His eyes were black and kind, + And like a nodding, gilded plume + His tail stuck up behind. + + His bark was very, very fierce + And fierce his appetite, + Yet was it only things to eat + That he was prone to bite. + + But in that one particular + He was so passing true + That never did he quit a meal + Until he had got through. + + Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, + Joint, chop, or chicken limb-- + So long as it was edible, + 'Twas all the same to him! + + And frequently when Hunger's pangs + Assailed that callow pup, + He masticated boots and gloves + Or chewed a door-mat up. + + So was he much beholden of + The folk that him did keep; + They loved him when he was awake + And better still asleep. + + + FITTE THE SECOND. + + Now once his master lingering o'er + His breakfast coffee-cup, + Observed unto his doting spouse: + "You ought to wash the pup!" + + "That shall I do this very day," + His doting spouse replied; + "You will not know the pretty thing + When he is washed and dried. + + "But tell me, dear, before you go + Unto your daily work, + Shall I use Ivory soap on him, + Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?" + + "Odzooks, it matters not a whit-- + They all are good to use! + Take Pearline, if it pleases you-- + Sapolio, if you choose! + + "Take any soap, but take the pup + And also water take, + And mix the three discreetly up + Till they a lather make. + + "Then mixing these constituent parts, + Let nature take her way," + With such advice that sapient sir + Had nothing more to say. + + Then fared he to his daily toil + All in the Board of Trade, + While Mistress Taylor for that bath + Due preparations made. + + + FITTE THE THIRD. + + She whistled gayly to the pup + And called him by his name, + And presently the guileless thing + All unsuspecting came. + + But when she shut the bath-room door + And caught him as catch-can, + And dove him in that odious tub, + His sorrows then began. + + How did that callow, yellow thing + Regret that April morn-- + Alas! how bitterly he rued + The day that he was born! + + Twice and again, but all in vain + He lifted up his wail; + His voice was all the pup could lift, + For thereby hangs this tale. + + 'Twas by that tail she held him down + And presently she spread + The creamery lather on his back, + His stomach and his head. + + His ears hung down in sorry wise, + His eyes were, oh! so sad-- + He looked as though he just had lost + The only friend he had. + + And higher yet the water rose, + The lather still increased, + And sadder still the countenance + Of that poor martyred beast! + + Yet all this time his mistress spoke + Such artful words of cheer + As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" + And "There's a patient dear!" + + At last the trial had an end, + At last the pup was free; + She threw awide the bath-room door-- + "Now get you gone!" quoth she. + + + FITTE THE FOURTH. + + Then from that tub and from that room + He gat with vast ado; + At every hop he gave a shake + And--how the water flew! + + He paddled down the winding stairs + And to the parlor hied, + Dispensing pools of foamy suds + And slop on every side. + + Upon the carpet then he rolled + And brushed against the wall, + And, horror! whisked his lathery sides + On overcoat and shawl. + + Attracted by the dreadful din, + His mistress came below-- + Who, who can speak her wonderment-- + Who, who can paint her woe! + + Great smears of soap were here and there-- + Her startled vision met + With blots of lather everywhere, + And everything was wet! + + Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek + Like one about to die; + "Get out--get out, and don't you dare + Come in till you are dry!" + + With that she opened wide the door + And waved the critter through; + Out in the circumambient air + With grateful yelp he flew. + + + FITTE THE FIFTH. + + He whisked into the dusty street + And to the Waller lot + Where bonny Annie Evans played + With charming Sissy Knott. + + And with these pretty little dears + He mixed himself all up-- + Oh, fie upon such boisterous play-- + Fie, fie, you naughty pup! + + Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, + And Sissy's blue percale! + One got the pup's belathered flanks, + And one his soapy tail! + + Forth to the rescue of those maids + Rushed gallant Willie Clow; + His panties they were white and clean-- + Where are those panties now? + + Where is the nicely laundered shirt + That Kendall Evans wore, + And Robbie James' tricot coat + All buttoned up before? + + The leaven, which, as we are told, + Leavens a monstrous lump, + Hath far less reaching qualities + Than a wet pup on the jump. + + This way and that he swung and swayed, + He gamboled far and near, + And everywhere he thrust himself + He left a soapy smear. + + + FITTE THE SIXTH. + + That noon a dozen little dears + Were spanked and put to bed + With naught to stay their appetites + But cheerless crusts of bread. + + That noon a dozen hired girls + Washed out each gown and shirt + Which that exuberant Taylor pup + Had frescoed o'er with dirt. + + That whole day long the April sun + Smiled sweetly from above + On clothes lines flaunting to the breeze + With emblems mothers love. + + That whole day long the Taylor pup + This way and that did hie + Upon his mad, erratic course + Intent on getting dry. + + That night when Mr. Taylor came + His vesper meal to eat, + He uttered things my pious pen + Would liefer not repeat. + + Yet still that noble Taylor pup + Survives to romp and bark + And stumble over folks and things + In fair Buena Park. + + Good sooth, I wot he should be called + Buena's favorite son + Who's sired of such a noble sire + And damned by every one. + + + + + LONG METER. + + + All human joys are swift of wing + For heaven doth so allot it + That when you get an easy thing + You find you haven't got it. + + Man never yet has loved a maid, + But they were sure to part, sir; + Nor never lacked a paltry spade + But that he drew a heart, sir! + + Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day + You much prefer a dinner + To walking straight in wisdom's way-- + Go to, thou babbling sinner. + + The froward part that you have played + To me this lesson teaches: + To trust no man whose stock in trade + Is after-dinner speeches. + + + + + TO DE WITT MILLER. + + + Dear Miller: You and I despise + The cad who gathers books to sell 'em, + Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth + Or stately folios garbed in vellum. + + But when one fellow has a prize + Another bibliophile is needing, + Why, then, a satisfactory trade + Is quite a laudable proceeding. + + There's precedent in Bristol's case + The great collector--preacher-farmer; + And in the case of that divine + Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour. + + When from their sapient, saintly lips + The words of wisdom are not dropping, + They turn to trade--that is to say, + When they're not preaching they are swapping! + + So to the flock it doth appear + That this a most conspicuous fact is: + That which these godly pastors do + Must surely be a proper practice. + + Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed, + On which De Vinne's art is lavished; + Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing + Is simply waiting to be ravished! + + And you have that for which I pine + As you should pine for this fair creature: + Come, now, suppose we make a trade-- + You take this gem, and send the Beecher! + + Surely, these graceful, tender songs + (In samite garb with lots of gilt on) + Are more to you than those dull tome? + Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton! + + + + + FRANCOIS VILLON. + + + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, + What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly? + _He_ would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away, + And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay! + But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, + And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, + What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I? + + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, + To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie; + "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel + The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!" + He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane-- + "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!" + And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I! + + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, + We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; + _He_ in his meager, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den-- + He with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men! + His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!-- + "Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!" + + * * * * * + + So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality-- + If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I! + + + + + LYDIA DICK. + + + When I was a boy at college, + Filling up with classic knowledge, + Frequently I wondered why + Old Professor Demas Bently + Used to praise so eloquently + "Opera Horatii." + + Toiling on a season longer + Till my reasoning power got stronger, + As my observation grew, + I became convinced that mellow, + Massic-loving poet fellow + Horace knew a thing or two + + Yes, we sophomores figured duly + That, if we appraised him truly, + Horace must have been a brick; + And no wonder that with ranting + Rhymes he went a-gallivanting + Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! + + For that pink of female gender + Tall and shapely was, and slender, + Plump of neck and bust and arms; + While the raiment that invested + Her so jealously suggested + Certain more potential charms. + + Those dark eyes of her that fired him-- + Those sweet accents that inspired him, + And her crown of glorious hair-- + These things baffle my description; + I should have a fit conniption + If I tried--so I forbear! + + May be Lydia had her betters; + Anyway, this man of letters + Took that charmer as his pick; + Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! + I, a fin de siecle poet, + Sympathize with Lydia Dick! + + Often in my arbor shady + I fall thinking of that lady + And the pranks she used to play; + And I'm cheered--for all we sages + Joy when from those distant ages + Lydia dances down our way. + + Otherwise some folks might wonder + With good reason why in thunder + Learned professors, dry and prim, + Find such solace in the giddy + Pranks that Horace played with Liddy + Or that Liddy played on him. + + Still this world of ours rejoices + In those ancient singing voices, + And our hearts beat high and quick, + To the cadence of old Tiber + Murmuring praise of roistering Liber + And of charming Lydia Dick. + + Still, Digentia, downward flowing, + Prattleth to the roses blowing + By the dark, deserted grot; + Still, Soracte, looming lonely, + Watcheth for the coming only + Of a ghost that cometh not. + + + + + THE TIN BANK. + + + Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say + That a bank of tin is far the best, + And I know of one that has stood for years + In a pleasant home away out west. + It has stood for years on the mantelpiece + Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate-- + A wonderful bank, as you'll concede + When you've heard the things I'll now relate. + + This bank was made of McKinley tin, + Well soldered up at sides and back; + But it didn't resemble tin at all, + For they'd painted it over an iron black. + And that it really was a bank + 'Twas an easy thing to see and say, + For above the door in gorgeous red + Appeared the letters B-A-N-K! + + The bank had been so well devised + And wrought so cunningly that when + You put your money in at the hole + It couldn't get out of that hole again! + Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing + A secret spring was hid away, + But _where_ it was or _how it_ worked-- + Excuse me, please, but I will not say. + + Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow, + Came pretty children oftentimes, + And, standing up on stool or chair, + Put in their divers pence and dimes. + Once Uncle Hank came home from town + After a cycle of grand events, + And put in a round, blue, ivory thing, + He said was good for 50 cents! + + The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink, + And larger grew the precious sum + Which grandma said she hoped would prove + A gracious boon to heathendom! + But there were those--I call no names-- + Who did not fancy any plan + That did not in some wise involve + The candy and banana man. + + Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!" + And the raven croaked in the tangled tarn-- + When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew + Out of her lair in the haunted barn-- + There came three burglars down the road-- + Three burglars skilled in arts of sin, + And they cried: "What's this? Aha! Oho!" + And straightway tackled the bank of tin. + + They burgled from half-past ten p.m., + Till the village bell struck four o'clock; + They hunted and searched and guessed and tried-- + But the little tin bank would not unlock! + They couldn't discover the secret spring! + So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed, + They up with their tools and stole away + With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed! + + Next morning came a sweet-faced child + And reached her dimpled hand to take + A nickel to send to the heathen poor + And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake. + She pressed the hidden secret spring, + And lo! the bank flew open then + With a cheery creak that seemed to say: + "I'm glad to see you; come again!" + + If you were I, and if I were you, + What would we keep our money in? + In a downtown bank of British steel, + Or an at-home bank of McKinley tin? + Some want silver and some want gold, + But the little tin bank that wants the two + And is run on the double standard plan-- + Why, that is the bank for me and you! + + + + + IN NEW ORLEANS + + + 'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell + The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; + So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing + Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-- + No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem + Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o'clock a.m. + + Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, + But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; + And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, + Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, + The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin + That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in! + + In Royal Street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, + And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop: + To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost-- + That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost: + I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem-- + And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of 8 a.m.! + + Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, + Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; + A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, + With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; + Two dainty silver salters--oh, there was no resisting them.-- + And I'd blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m. + + With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, + Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; + Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, + A gown--the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps! + These and ten thousand other specters harrow and condemn + The man who's blowing in twenty by 9 o'clock a.m. + + Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) + In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?" + Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act, + Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-- + Before one's fallen victim to the Tempter's strategem + And blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.? + + Ah, me! now the deed is done, how penitent I am! + I was a roaring lion--behold a bleating lamb! + I've packed and shipped those precious things to that most precious wife + Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, + While he, who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth, + Is far away, and means to keep his distance--for his health! + + + + + THE PETER-BIRD. + + + Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, + From the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; + Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, + Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. + So let me tell you the tale, when, where and how it all happened, + And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson. + + Once on a time, long ago, lived in the state of Kentucky + One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; + Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-- + Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons and plantains! + Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-- + These were the guides of the witch through the dank deeps of the forest. + Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning + Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; + And, when the people awoke, seeing the hillside and valley + Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-- + "Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" + Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, + Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions. + + One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, + Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; + Fonder of books than of chores you can imagine that Peter + Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. + "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!" + "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" + So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- + Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter! + + Peter got hold of some books--how I'm unable to tell you; + Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions! + It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend. + Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; + What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, + Wrought with the brain, not a hoe--surely 'twas hostile to farming! + "Fudge on the readin'!" they quoth; "that's what's the ruin of Peter!" + + So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, + Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms. + Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ringdoves a-mating, + Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. + "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!" + "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" + "Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- + Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; + Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-- + Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter! + + Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming + Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; + For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-- + "See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! + See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on wood land and meadow! + Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! + She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, + Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish musical nostrums; + Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires and spiders, + Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders and toadstools; + Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, + Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!" + + Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, + Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-- + Thinking the reading of books must have unsettled his reason! + "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy! + I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!" + + Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, + Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, + Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. + Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; + Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, + Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had gone and done it! + Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-- + Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis, + And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition. + + Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter + And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; + Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, + Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, + Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. + Such are the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter + Decades and decades ago down in the state of Kentucky-- + Such are the voices that cry from the woodland and meadow, + "Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-- + Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! + These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse + When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, + Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, + Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil. + Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge! + + Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, + Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. + "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-- + Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, + Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smokehouse proceeded; + Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping, + Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-- + Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, + Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. + Joining the search came the rest, brothers, and sisters and cousins, + Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! + And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women. + Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter. + + Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, + Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets. + All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining. + Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. + The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the + Logans. + The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the + Morgans; + The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and + Hardins, + The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and + Slaughters-- + All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming. + Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the + truant. + To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter. + + Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and assigns of the people + Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-- + Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent) + That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, + That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. + Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; + That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, + She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit + (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a + chicken), + She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac + venom: + "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, + Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, + Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches. + Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!" + + This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend: + As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend, + That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning + Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; + Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, + Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-- + Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, + Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis. + Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden. + Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading, + Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, + Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage. + + This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky + When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, + Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; + When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, + When from the spring-house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, + When from the redbud and gum and from redolent lilac, + When from the dirt roads and pikes comes that calling for Peter; + Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration + Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! + This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty meter + Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming + (My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon,) + Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended. + + + + + DIBDIN'S GHOST. + + + Dear wife, last midnight while I read + The tomes you so despise, + A specter rose beside the bed + And spoke in this true wise; + "From Canaan's beatific coast + I've come to visit thee, + For I'm Frognall Dibdin's ghost!" + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + I bade him welcome and we twain + Discussed with buoyant hearts + The various things that appertain + To bibliomaniac arts. + "Since you are fresh from t'other side, + Pray tell me of that host + That treasured books before they died," + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "They've entered into perfect rest, + For in the life they've won + There are no auctions to molest, + No creditors to dun; + Their heavenly rapture has no bounds + Beside that jasper sea-- + It is a joy unknown to Lowndes!" + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + Much I rejoiced to hear him speak + Of biblio-bliss above, + For I am one of those who seek + What bibliomaniacs love; + "But tell me--for I long to hear + What doth concern me most-- + Are wives admitted to that sphere?" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "The women folk are few up there, + For 'twere not fair you know + That they our heavenly joy should share + Who vex us here below! + The few are those who have been kind + To husbands such as we-- + They knew our fads, and didn't mind," + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + "But what of those who scold at us + When we would read in bed? + Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss + If we buy books, instead? + And what of those who've dusted not + Our motley pride and boast? + Shall they profane that sacred spot?" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + "Oh, no! they tread that other path + Which leads where torments roll, + And worms--yes bookworms--vent their wrath + Upon the guilty soul! + Untouched of bibliomaniac grace + That saveth such as we, + They wallow in that dreadful place!" + Says Dibdin's ghost to me. + + "To my dear wife will I recite + What things I've heard you say; + She'll let me read the books by night + She's let me buy by day; + For we, together, by and by, + Would join that heavenly host-- + She's earned a rest as well as I!" + Says I to Dibdin's ghost. + + + + + AN AUTUMN TREASURE-TROVE. + + + 'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame + Hangs on the maple bough; + And June is the faded flower of a name; + The thin hedge hides not a singer now. + Yet rich am I; for my treasures be + The gold afloat in my willow-tree. + + Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew, + Girded with blue and pearl, + Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too; + As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl, + She sings while her soul brooding tearfully + Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree. + + All day pure white and saffron at eve, + Clouds awaiting the sun + Turn them at length to ghosts that leave + When the moon's white path is slowly run + Till the morning comes, and with joy for me + O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree. + + The lilacs that blew on the breast of May + Are an old and lost delight; + And the rose lies ruined in his careless way + As the wind turns the poplars underwhite, + Yet richer am I for the autumn; see + All my misty gold in the willow-tree. + + + + + WHEN THE POET CAME. + + + The ferny places gleam at morn, + The dew drips off the leaves of corn; + Along the brook a mist of white + Fades as a kiss on lips of light; + For, lo! the poet with his pipe + Finds all these melodies are ripe! + + Far up within the cadenced June + Floats, silver-winged, a living tune + That winds within the morning's chime + And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; + For, lo! the poet, absent long, + Breathes the first raptures of his song! + + Across the clover-blossoms, wet, + With dainty clumps of violet, + And wild red roses in her hair, + There comes a little maiden fair. + I cannot more of June rehearse-- + She is the ending of my verse. + + Ah, nay! For through perpetual days + Of summer gold and filmy haze, + When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, + I yet will see those dew-washed feet, + And o'er the tracts of Life and Time + They make the cadence for my rhyme. + + + + + THE PERPETUAL WOOING. + + + The dull world clamors at my feet + And asks my hand and helping sweet; + And wonders when the time shall be + I'll leave off dreaming dreams of thee. + It blames me coining soul and time + And sending minted bits of rhyme-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + Shall I make answer? This it is: + I camp beneath thy galaxies + Of starry thoughts and shining deeds; + And, seeing new ones, I must needs + Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear, + Though thou art nearer, I am near-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + I feel thy heart-beat next mine own; + Its music hath a richer tone. + I rediscover in thine eyes + A balmier, dewier paradise. + I'm sure thou art a rarer girl-- + And so I seek thee, finest pearl, + A-wooing of thee still. + + With blood of roses on thy lips-- + Canst doubt my trembling?--something slips + Between thy loveliness and me-- + So commonplace, so fond of thee. + Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where + That last one stopped thy lover's prayer-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + When new light falls upon thy face + My gladdened soul discerns some trace + Of God, or angel, never seen + In other days of shade and sheen. + Ne'er may such rapture die, or less + Than joy like this my heart confess-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + Go thou, O soul of beauty, go + Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow. + Mayhap, in following, thou shalt see + Me worthier of thy love and thee. + Thou wouldst not have me satisfied + Until thou lov'st me--none beside-- + A-wooing of thee still. + + This was a song of years ago-- + Of spring! Now drifting flowers of snow + Bloom on the window-sills as white + As gray-beard looking through love's light + And holding blue-veined hands the while. + He finds her last--the sweetest smile-- + A-wooing of her still. + + + + + MY PLAYMATES. + + + The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool-- + Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; + It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, + And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; + So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know + Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checker-berries grow. + + What has become of Ezra Marsh who lived on Baker's hill? + And what's become of Noble Pratt whose father kept the mill? + And what's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, + And of Roxie Root who 'tended school in Boston for a spell? + They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful play-- + They do not answer to my call! My playmates--where are they? + + What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe + Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago? + I'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, + And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles who spelled the whole school down! + And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow and all + Who I'm sure would answer could they only hear my call! + + I'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again + And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men! + And one--I shall not name her--could I see her gentle face + And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place! + The flowers and hopes of springtime--they perished long ago + And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow. + + O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys + That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise? + O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know + Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? + You see I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far; + I am looking for my playmates--I wonder where they are! + + + + + MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG. + + + Come hither, lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, + For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, + And yonder sings ye angell, as onely angells may, + And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. + + To them that have no lyttel chylde Godde sometimes sendeth down + A lyttel chylde that ben a lyttel lampkyn of His own, + And, if soe be they love that chylde, He willeth it to staye, + But, elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye. + + And, sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye chylde, + And sendeth angells singing whereby it ben beguiled-- + They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his playe + And bear him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye. + + I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me-- + If I colde sing that angell songe, hoy joysome I sholde bee! + For, with my arms about him my music in his eare, + What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare? + + Soe come, my lyttel chylde, and lie upon my breast to-night, + For yonder fares an angell, yclad in raimaunt white, + And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, + And hys songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. + + + + + ALASKAN BALLADRY. + + + Krinken was a little child-- + It was summer when he smiled; + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Stretched its white arms out to him, + Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, + Let me warm my heart with thee"-- + But the child heard not the sea + Calling, yearning evermore + For the summer on the shore. + + Krinken on the beach one day + Saw a maiden Nis at play-- + On the pebbly beach she played + In the summer Krinken made. + Fair and very fair was she-- + Just a little child was he. + "Krinken," said the maiden Nis + "Let me have a little kiss-- + Just a kiss and go with me + To the summer lands that be + Down within the silver sea!" + + Krinken was a little child-- + By the maiden Nis beguiled, + Hand in hand with her went he-- + And 'twas summer in the sea! + And the hoary sea and grim + To its bosom folded him-- + Clasped and kissed the little form, + And the ocean's heart was warm. + But upon the misty shore + Winter brooded evermore. + + With that winter in my heart, + Oft in dead of night I start-- + Start and lift me up and weep, + For those visions in my sleep + Mind me of the yonder deep! + 'Tis _his_ face lifts from the sea-- + 'Tis _his_ voice calls out to me-- + _Thus_ the winter bides with me. + + Krinken was the little child + By the maiden Nis beguiled; + Oft the hoary sea and grim + Reached its longing arms to him, + Calling: "Sun-Child, come to me, + Let me warm my heart with thee!" + But the sea calls out no more + And 'tis winter on the shore-- + Summer in the silver sea + Where with maiden Nis went he-- + And the winter bides with me! + + + + + ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE STORK. + + + Welcome, O truant stork! + And where have you been so long? + And do you bring that grace of spring + That filleth my heart with song? + + Descend upon my roof-- + Bide on this ash content; + I would have you know what cruel woe + Befell me when you went. + + All up in the moody sky + (A shifting threat o'er head!) + They were breaking the snow and bidding it go + Cover the beautiful dead. + + Came snow on garden spot, + Came snow on mere and wold, + Came the withering breath of white robed death, + And the once warm earth was cold. + + Stork, the tender rose tree, + That bloometh when you are here, + Trembled and sighed like a waiting bride-- + Then drooped on a virgin bier. + + But the brook that hath seen you come + Leaps forth with a hearty shout, + And the crocus peeps from the bed where it sleeps + To know what the noise is about. + + Welcome, O honest friend! + And bide on my roof content; + For my heart would sing of the grace of spring, + When the winter of woe is spent. + + + + + THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL. + + + _Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth, + To fill our hearts with heedless mirth + This holy Christmasse time; + But give us of thy heavenly cheere + That we may hold thy love most deere + And know thy peace sublime._ + + * * * * * + + Full merry waxed King Pelles court + With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport, + And, when the board was spread, + Now wit ye well 'twas good to see + So fair and brave a companie + With Pelles at the head. + + "Come hence, Elaine," King Pelles cried, + "Come hence and sit ye by my side, + For never yet, I trow, + Have gentle virtues like to thine + Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine, + Nor shall be nevermo!" + + "Sweete sir, my father," quoth Elaine, + "Me it repents to give thee pain-- + Yet, tarry I may not; + For I shall soond and I shall die + If I behold this companie + And see not Launcelot! + + "My heart shall have no love but this-- + My lips shall know no other kiss, + Save only, father, thine; + So graunt me leave to seek my bower, + The lonely chamber in the toure, + Where sleeps his child and mine." + + Then frowned the King in sore despite; + "A murrain seize that traitrous knight, + For that he lies!" he cried-- + "A base, unchristian paynim he, + Else, by my beard, he would not be + A recreant to his bride! + + "Oh, I had liefer yield my life + Than see thee the deserted wife + Of dastard Launcelot! + Yet, an' thou hast no mind to stay, + Go with thy damosels away-- + Lo, I'll detain ye not." + + Her damosels in goodly train + Back to her chamber led Elaine, + And when her eyes were cast + Upon her babe, her tears did flow + And she did wail and weep as though + Her heart had like to brast. + + The while she grieved the Yuletide sport + Waxed lustier in King Pelles' court, + And louder, houre by houre, + The echoes of the rout were borne + To where the lady, all forlorn, + Made moning in the toure, + + "Swete Chryste," she cried, "ne let me hear + Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere + That mock at mine and me; + Graunt that my sore affliction cease + And give me of the heavenly peace + That comes with thoughts of thee!" + + Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light + Made all that lonely chamber bright, + And o'er the infant's bed + A spirit hand, as samite pail, + Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail + Above the infant's head. + + And from the sacred golden cup + A subtle incense floated up + And filled the conscious air, + Which, when she breather, the fair Elaine + Forgot her grief, forgot her pain. + Forgot her sore despair. + + And as the Grail's mysterious balm + Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm, + Great mervail 'twas to see + The sleeping child stretch one hand up + As if in dreams he held the cup + Which none mought win but he. + + Through all the night King Pelles' court + Made mighty cheer and goodly sport. + Nor never recked the joy + That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide + To Launcelot's deserted bride + And to her sleeping boy. + + _Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth + To fill our hearts with heedless mirth + This present Christmasse night; + But send among us to and fro + Thy Holy Grail, that men may know + The joy withe wisdom dight._ + + + + + THE DIVINE LULLABY. + + + I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, + I hear it by the stormy sea, + When winter nights are black and wild, + And when, affright, I call to Thee; + It calms my fears and whispers me, + "Sleep well, my child." + + I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, + In singing winds and falling snow, + The curfew chimes, the midnight bell, + "Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low; + "The guardian angels come and go-- + O child, sleep well!" + + I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, + Aye, though the singing winds be stilled, + Though hushed the tumult of the deep, + My fainting heart with anguish chilled + By Thy assuring tone is thrilled-- + "Fear not, and sleep!" + + Speak on--speak on, dear Lord! + And when the last dread night is near, + With doubts and fears and terrors wild, + Oh, let my soul expiring hear + Only these words of heavenly cheer, + "Sleep well, my child!" + + + + + MORTALITY. + + + O Nicias, not for us alone + Was laughing Eros born, + Nor shines alone for us the moon, + Nor burns the ruddy morn; + Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken + Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men! + + + + + A FICKLE WOMAN. + + + Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night + A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light; + The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails, + Forgetful of the fury of her gales; + To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars, + And o'er his hapless wreck the flood she pours! + + + + + EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG. + + + Grim is the face that looks into the night + Over the stretch of sands; + A sullen rock in the sea of white-- + A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, + Peering and moaning it stands. + "_Oh, is it the king that rides this way-- + Oh, is it the king that rides so free? + I have looked for the king this many a day, + But the years that mock me will not say + Why tarrieth he!_" + + 'Tis not your king that shall ride to-night, + But a child that is fast asleep; + And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-Horse + white-- + Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light + Where the ghostly shadows creep! + "_My eyes are dull and my face is sere, + Yet unto the word he gave I cling, + For he was a Pharoah that set me here-- + And lo! I have waited this many a year + For him--my king!_" + + Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride + Swift as the burning winds that bear + The sand clouds over the desert wide-- + Swift to the verdure and palms beside + The wells off there! + "_And is it the mighty king I shall see + Come riding into the night? + Oh, is it the king come back to me-- + Proudly and fiercely rideth he, + With centuries dight!_" + + I know no king but my dark-eyed dear + That shall ride the Dream-Horse white; + But see! he wakes at my bosom here, + While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near + To speed with my babe to-night! + _And out of the desert darkness peers + A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thing + Like a spirit come out of the moldering years, + And ever that waiting specter hears + The coming king!_ + + + + + ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG--THE PARTRIDGE. + + + As beats the sun from mountain crest, + With "pretty, pretty", + Cometh the partridge from her nest; + The flowers threw kisses sweet to her + (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); + Yet hasteneth she to mine and me-- + Ah! pretty, pretty; + Ah! dear little partridge! + + And when I hear the partridge cry + So pretty, pretty, + Upon the house-top, breakfast I; + She comes a-chirping far and wide, + And swinging from the mountain side-- + I see and hear the dainty dear! + Ah! pretty, pretty; + Ah! dear little partridge! + + Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare. + And pretty, pretty + Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; + The place is full of balmy dew + (The tears of flowers in love with you!) + And one and all impassioned call; + "O pretty, pretty-- + O dear little partridge!" + + Thy feathers they are soft and sleek-- + So pretty, pretty! + Long is thy neck and small thy breast; + The color of thy plumage far + More bright than rainbow colors are! + Sweeter than dove is she I love-- + My pretty, pretty-- + My dear little partridge! + + When comes the partridge from the tree, + So pretty, pretty! + And sings her little hymn to me, + Why, all the world is cheered thereby-- + The heart leaps up into the eye, + And echo then gives back again + Our "Pretty, pretty," + Our "Dear little partridge!" + + Admitting the most blest of all + And pretty, pretty, + The birds come with thee at thy call; + In flocks they come and round they play, + And this is what they seem to say-- + They say and sing, each feathered thing; + "Ah! pretty, pretty; + Ah! dear little partridge!" + + + + + ALASKAN BALLADRY, NO. 1. + + + The Northland reared his hoary head + And spied the Southland leagues away-- + "Fairest of all fair brides," he said, + "Be thou my bride, I pray!" + + Whereat the Southland laughed and cried + "I'll bide beside my native sea, + And I shall never be thy bride + 'Til thou com'st wooing me!" + + The Northland's heart was a heart of ice, + A diamond glacier, mountain high-- + Oh, love is sweet at my price, + As well know you and I! + + So gayly the Northland took his heart; + And cast it in the wailing sea-- + "Go, thou, with all my cunning art + And woo my bride for me!" + + For many a night and for many a day, + And over the leagues that rolled between + The true heart messenger sped away + To woo the Southland queen. + + But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed long + While ever the Northland cried in glee: + "Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal song, + When comes my bride, O sea!" + + At the foot of the Southland's golden throne + The heart of the Northland ever throbs-- + For that true heart speaks in the waves that moan + The songs that it sings are sobs. + + Ever the Southland spurns the cries + Of the messenger pleading the Northland's + part-- + The summer shines in the Southland's eyes-- + The winter bides in her heart. + + And ever unto that far-off place + Which love doth render a hallow spot, + The Northland turneth his honest face + And wonders she cometh not. + + The sea wails loud, and the sea wails long, + As the ages of waiting drift slowly by, + But the sea shall sing no bridal song-- + As well know you and I! + + + + + OLD DUTCH LOVE SONG. + + + I am not rich, and yet my wealth + Surpasseth human measure; + My store untold + Is not of gold + Nor any sordid treasure. + Let this one hoard his earthly pelf, + Another court ambition-- + Not for a throne + Would I disown + My poor and proud condition! + + The worldly gain achieved to-day + To-morrow may be flying-- + The gifts of kings + Are fleeting things-- + The gifts of love undying! + In her I love is all my wealth-- + For her my sole endeavor; + No heart, I ween, + Hath fairer queen, + No liege such homage, ever! + + + + + AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL. + +(The exile Meliboeus finds Tityrus in possession of his own farm, +restored to him by the emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The +poem is in praise of Augustus, peace and pastoral life.) + + + _Meliboeus_-- + Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech tree reclining, + Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and slender; + Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless repining, + As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender. + + _Tityrus_-- + A god--yes, a god, I declare--vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions, + And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar, + He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions, + While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and halter. + + _Meliboeus_-- + I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded + To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle; + To exile and hardship devote and by merciless enemies hounded, + I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle. + Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me-- + But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who is this good deity, tell me! + + _Tityrus_ (reminiscently)-- + The city--the city called Rome, with, my head full of herding and + tillage, + I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now wander; + But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village + As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out + yonder. + + _Meliboeus_-- + Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city? + + _Tityrus_-- + Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion + My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress to pity, + That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible fashion. + Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me, + And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me! + + _Meliboeus_ (slyly, as if addressing the damsel)-- + So now, Amaryllis the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover! + You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobnobbing. + And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant + lover-- + The pine trees, the copse and the brook for Tityrus ever went sobbing. + + _Tityrus_-- + Meliboeus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity; + My toil was all in vain the year through, no matter how earnest or + clever, + Till, at last, came that god among men--that king from that wonderful + city, + And quoth: "Take your homesteads again--they are yours and your assigns + forever!" + + _Meliboeus_-- + Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what's better than money-- + Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening; + Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey. + Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are glistening-- + Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices-- + The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining, + The plash of the sacred cascade--ah, restful, indeed, are these voices, + Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree reclining! + + _Tityrus_-- + And he who insures this to me--oh, craven I were not to love him! + Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in, + The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him. + While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women! + + _Meliboeus_ (suddenly recalling his own misery)-- + But we who are exiled must go; and whither--ah, whither--God knoweth! + Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth only; + Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth. + And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely. + Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee? + Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the + alien be squandered? + Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess thee-- + Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've + wandered? + My flock! never more shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside + above me-- + Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to sorrow! + Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones that + love me-- + Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow! + + _Tityrus_-- + But rest you this night with me here; my bed--we will share it together, + As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and cheeses; + The evening a'ready is nigh--the shadows creep over the heather, + And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the + breezes. + + + + + HORACE TO MAECENAS. + + + How breaks my heart to hear you say + You feel the shadows fall about you! + The gods forefend + That fate, O friend! + I would not, I could not live without you! + You gone, what would become of me, + Your shadow, O beloved Maecenas? + We've shared the mirth-- + And sweets of earth-- + Let's share the pangs of death between us! + + I should not dread Chinaera's breath + Nor any threat of ghost infernal; + Nor fear nor pain + Should part us twain-- + For so have willed the powers eternal. + No false allegiance have I sworn, + And, whatsoever fate betide you, + Mine be the part + To cheer your heart-- + With loving song to fare beside you! + + Love snatched you from the claws of death + And gave you to the grateful city; + The falling tree + That threatened me + Did Fannus turn aside in pity; + With horoscopes so wondrous like, + Why question that we twain shall wander, + As in this land, + So, hand in hand, + Into the life that waiteth yonder? + + So to your shrine, O patron mine, + With precious wine and victims fare you; + Poor as I am, + A humble lamb + Must testify what love I bear you. + But to the skies shall sweetly rise + The sacrifice from shrine and heather, + And thither bear + The solemn prayer + That, when we go, we go together! + + + + + HORACE'S "SAILOR AND SHADE." + + + _Sailor._ + + You, who have compassed land and sea + Now all unburied lie; + All vain your store of human lore, + For you were doomed to die. + The sire of Pelops likewise fell, + Jove's honored mortal guest-- + So king and sage of every age + At last lie down to rest. + Plutonian shades enfold the ghost + Of that majestic one + Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, + Had once been Pentheus' son; + Believe who may, he's passed away + And what he did is done. + A last night comes alike to all-- + One path we all must tread, + Through sore disease or stormy seas + Or fields with corpses red-- + Whate'er our deeds that pathway leads + To regions of the dead. + + + _Shade_. + + The fickle twin Illyrian gales + O'erwhelmed me on the wave-- + But that you live, I pray you give + My bleaching bones a grave! + Oh, then when cruel tempests rage + You all unharmed shall be-- + Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land + And Neptune's on the sea. + Perchance you fear to do what shall + Bring evil to your race. + Or, rather fear that like me here + You'll lack a burial place. + So, though you be in proper haste, + Bide long enough I pray, + To give me, friend, what boon will send + My soul upon its way! + + + + + UHLAND'S "CHAPEL." + + + Yonder stands the hillside chapel, + 'Mid the evergreens and rocks, + All day long it hears the song + Of the shepherd to his flocks. + + Then the chapel bell goes tolling-- + Knolling for a soul that's sped; + Silent and sad the shepherd lad + Hears the requiem for the dead. + + Shepherd, singers of the valley, + Voiceless now, speed on before; + Soon shall knell that chapel bell + For the songs you'll sing no more. + + + + + "THE HAPPY ISLES" OF HORACE. + + + Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles + In the golden haze off yonder, + Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles + And the ocean loves to wander. + + Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, + Proudly the fig rejoices, + Merrily dance the virgin rills, + Blending their myriad voices. + + Our herds shall suffer no evil there, + But peacefully feed and rest them-- + Never thereto shall prowling bear + Or serpent come to molest them. + + Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, + Nor feverish drought distress us, + But he that compasseth heat and cold + Shall temper them both to bless us. + + There no vandal foot has trod, + And the pirate hordes that wander + Shall never profane the sacred sod + Of these beautiful isles out yonder. + + Never a spell shall blight our vines + Nor Sirius blaze above us. + But you and I shall drink our wines + And sing to the loved that love us. + + So come with me where fortune smiles + And the gods invite devotion-- + Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles + In the haze of that far-off ocean! + + + + + HORATIAN LYRICS. + + + I. + + Odes I, 11. + + + What end the gods may have ordained for me, + And what for thee, + Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know; + Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest-- + 'Tis for the best + To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe. + + If for more winters our poor lot is cast, + Or this the last, + Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas; + Strain clear the wine--this life is short, at best; + Take hope with zest, + And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease! + + + II. + + Odes I, 23. + + + Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, + That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, + Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn + And on the pathless mountain tops has stood? + + Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites-- + Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake; + Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, + Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake. + + I do not follow with a tigerish thought + Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest; + So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, + Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast. + + + + + HORACE II, 13. + + + O fountain of Blandusia, + Whence crystal waters flow, + With garlands gay and wine I'll pay + The sacrifice I owe; + A sportive kid with budding horns + I have, whose crimson blood + Anon shall die and sanctify + Thy cool and babbling flood. + + O fountain of Blandusia, + The dogstar's hateful spell + No evil brings unto the springs + That from thy bosom well; + Here oxen, wearied by the plow, + The roving cattle here, + Hasten in quest of certain rest + And quaff thy gracious cheer. + + O fountain of Blandusia, + Ennobled shalt thou be, + For I shall sing the joys that spring + Beneath your ilex tree; + Yes, fountain of Blandusia, + Posterity shall know + The cooling brooks that from thy nooks + Singing and dancing go! + + + + + HORACE IV, II. + + + Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine + That fairly reeks with precious juices. + And in your tresses you shall twine + The loveliest flowers this vale produces. + + My cottage wears a gracious smile-- + The altar decked in floral glory,-- + Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while + As though it pined for honors gory. + + Hither our neighbors nimbly fare-- + The boys agog, the maidens snickering, + And savory smells possess the air + As skyward kitchen flames are flickering. + + You ask what means this grand display, + This festive throng and goodly diet? + Well--since you're bound to have your way-- + I don't mind telling on the quiet. + + 'Tis April 13, as you know-- + A day and month devote to Venus, + Whereon was born some years ago, + My very worthy friend, Macenas. + + Nay, pay no heed to Telephus-- + Your friends agree he doesn't love you; + The way he flirts convinces us + He really is not worthy of you! + + Aurora's son, unhappy lad! + You know the fate that overtook him? + And Pegasus a rider had-- + I say he _had_ before he shook him! + + Haec docet (as you may agree): + 'Tis meet that Phyllis should discover + A wisdom in preferring me + And mittening every other lover. + + So come, O Phyllis, last and best + Of loves with which this heart's been smitten; + Come, sing my jealous fears to rest-- + And let your songs be those _I've_ written. + + + + + HUGO'S "POOL IN THE FOREST." + + + How calm, how beauteous, and how cool-- + How like a sister to the skies, + Appears the broad, transparent pool + That in this quiet forest lies. + The sunshine ripples on its face, + And from the world around, above, + It hath caught down the nameless grace + Of such reflections as we love. + + But deep below its surface crawl + The reptile horrors of the Night-- + The dragons, lizards, serpents--all + The hideous brood that hate the Light; + Through poison fern and slimy weed, + And under ragged, jagged stones + They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed, + They lap a dead man's bones. + + And as, O pool, thou dost cajole + With seemings that beguile us well, + So doeth many a human soul + That teemeth with the lusts of hell. + + + + + HORACE I, 4. + + + 'Tis spring! the boats bound to the sea; + The breezes, loitering kindly over + The fields, again bring herds and men + The grateful cheer of honeyed clover. + + Now Venus hither leads her train, + The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies, + The moon is bright and by her light + Old Vulcan kindles up his forges. + + Bind myrtle now about your brow, + And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses-- + Appease God Pan, who, kind to man, + Our fleeting life with affluence blesses. + + But let the changing seasons mind us + That Death's the certain doom of mortals-- + Grim Death who waits at humble gat + And likewise stalks through kingly portals. + + Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades + Enfold you with their hideous seemings-- + Then love and mirth and joys of earth + Shall fade away like fevered dreamings. + + + + + LOVE SONG--HEINE. + + + Many a beauteous flower doth spring + From the tears that flood my eyes, + And the nightingale doth sing + In the burthen of my sighs. + + If, O child, thou lovest me, + Take these flowerets, fair and frail, + And my soul shall waft to thee + Love songs of the nightingale. + + + + + HORACE II, 3. + + + Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; + For though you pine your life away + With dull complaining breath, + Or speed with song and wine each day-- + Still, still your doom is death. + + Where the white poplar and the pine + In glorious arching shade combine + And the brook singing goes, + Bid them bring store of nard and wine + And garlands of the rose. + + Let's live while chance and youth obtain-- + Soon shall you quit this fair domain + Kissed by the Tiber's gold, + And all your earthly pride and gain + Some heedless heir shall hold. + + One ghostly boat shall some time bear + From scenes of mirthfulness or care + Each fated human soul!-- + Shall waft and leave his burden where + The waves of Lethe roll. + + _So come, I pri' thee, Dellius, mine-- + Let's sing our songs and drink our wine + In that sequestered nook + Where the white poplar and the pine + Stand listening to the brook._ + + + + + THE TWO COFFINS. + + + In yonder old cathedral + Two lonely coffins lie; + In one the head of the state lies dead, + And a singer sleeps hard by. + + Once had that king great power, + And proudly he ruled the land-- + His crown e'en now is on his brow + And his sword is in his hand! + + How sweetly sleeps the singer + With calmly folded eyes, + And on the breast of the bard at rest + The harp that he sounded lies. + + The castle walls are falling + And war distracts the land, + But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot-- + There in that dead king's hand! + + But with every grace of nature + There seems to float along-- + To cheer the hearts of men-- + The singer's deathless song! + + + + + HORACE I, 31. + + + As forth he pours the new made wine, + What blessing asks the lyric poet-- + What boon implores in this fair shrine + Of one full likely to bestow it? + + Not for Sardinia's plenteous store, + Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth, + Nor yet for India's wealth galore, + Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth. + + Let honest riches celebrate + The harvest earned--I'd not deny it; + Yet am I pleased with my estate, + My humble home, my frugal diet. + + Child of Latonia, this I crave; + May peace of mind and health attend me, + And down into my very grave + May this dear lyre of mine befriend me! + + + + + HORACE TO HIS LUTE. + + + If ever in the sylvan shade + A song immortal we have made, + Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come-- + Inspire a song of Latium. + + A Lesbian first thy glories proved-- + In arms and in repose he loved + To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise + His voice in Love's and Liber's praise; + The Muses, too, and him who clings + To Mother Venus' apron-strings, + And Lycus beautiful, he sung + In those old days when you were young. + + O shell, that art the ornament + Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content + To Jove, and soothing troubles all-- + Come and requite me, when I call! + + + + + HORACE I, 22. + + + Fuscus, whoso to good inclines-- + And is a faultless liver-- + Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, + Nor poison-arrowed quiver. + + Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, + Or scales the rugged mountains, + Or rests beside the murmuring tide + Of weird Hydaspan fountains! + + Lo, on a time, I gayly paced + The Sabine confines shady, + And sung in glee of Lalage, + My own and dearest lady. + + And, as I sung, a monster wolf + Slunk through the thicket from me--- + But for that song, as I strolled along + He would have overcome me! + + Set me amid those poison mists + Which no fair gale dispelleth, + Or in the plains where silence reigns + And no thing human dwelleth; + + Still shall I love my Lalage-- + Still sing her tender graces; + And, while I sing my theme shall bring + Heaven to those desert places! + + + + + THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE + + XXIII. + + + I love the lyric muse! + For when mankind ran wild in groves, + Came holy Orpheus with his songs + And turned men's hearts from bestial loves, + From brutal force and savage wrongs; + Came Amphion, too, and on his lyre + Made such sweet music all the day + That rocks, instinct with warm desire, + Pursued him in his glorious way. + + I love the lyric muse! + Hers was the wisdom that of yore + Taught man the rights of fellow-man-- + Taught him to worship God the more + And to revere love's holy ban; + Hers was the hand that jotted down + The laws correcting divers wrongs-- + And so came honor and renown + To bards and to their noble songs. + + I love the lyric muse! + Old Homer sung unto the lyre, + Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient days-- + Still, warmed by their immortal fire, + How doth our patriot spirit blaze! + The oracle, when questioned, sings-- + So we our way in life are taught; + In verse we soothe the pride of kings, + In verse the drama has been wrought. + + I love the lyric muse! + Be not ashamed, O noble friend, + In honest gratitude to pay + Thy homage to the gods that send + This boon to charm all ill away. + With solemn tenderness revere + This voiceful glory as a shrine + Wherein the quickened heart may hear + The counsels of a voice divine! + + + + + MARTHY'S YOUNKIT. + + + The mountain brook sung lonesomelike + And loitered on its way + Ez if it waited for a child + To jine it in its play; + The wild flowers of the hillside + Bent down their heads to hear + The music of the little feet + That had, somehow, grown so dear; + The magpies, like winged shadders, + Wuz a-flutterin' to and fro + Among the rocks and holler stumps + In the ragged gulch below; + The pines 'nd hemlock tosst their boughs + (Like they wuz arms) 'nd made + Soft, sollum music on the slope + Where he had often played. + But for these lonesome, sollum voices + On the mountain side, + There wuz no sound the summer day + That Marthy's younkit died. + + We called him Marthy's younkit, + For Marthy wuz the name + Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife + Uv Sorry Tom--the same + Ez taught the school-house on the hill + Way back in sixty-nine + When she married Sorry Tom wich ownt + The Gosh-all-Hemlock mine; + And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, + Wich, bein' how it meant + The first on Red Hoss mountain, + Wuz trooly a event! + The miners sawed off short on work + Es soon ez they got word + That Dock Devine allowed to Casey + What had just occurred; + We loaded 'nd whooped around + Until we all wuz hoarse, + Salutin' the arrival, + Wich weighed ten pounds, uv course! + + Three years, and sech a pretty child! + His mother's counterpart-- + Three years, and sech a holt ez he + Had got on every heart! + A peert and likely little tyke + With hair ez red ez gold, + A laughin', toddlin' everywhere-- + And only three years old! + Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, + And sometimes down the hill + He kited (boys _is_ boys, you know-- + You couldn't keep him still!) + And there he'd play beside the brook + Where purpel wild flowers grew + And the mountain pines 'nd hemlocks + A kindly shadder threw + And sung soft, sollum toons to him, + While in the gulch below + The magpies, like strange sperrits, + Went flutterin' to and fro. + + Three years, and then the fever come; + It wuzn't right, you know, + With all us _old_ ones in the camp, + For that little child to go! + It's right the old should die, but that + A harmless little child + Should miss the joy uv life 'nd love-- + _That_ can't be reconciled! + That's what we thought that summer day, + And that is what we said + Ez we looked upon the piteous face + Uv Marthy's younkit dead; + But for his mother sobbin' + The house wuz very still, + And Sorry Tom wuz lookin' through + The winder down the hill + To the patch beneath the hemlocks + Where his darlin' used to play, + And the mountain brook sung lonesomelike + And loitered on its way. + + A preacher come from Roarin' Forks + To comfort 'em 'nd pray, + And all the camp wuz present + At the obsequies next day, + A female teacher staged it twenty miles + To sing a hymn, + And we jined her in the chorus-- + Big, husky men 'nd grim + Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," + And then the preacher prayed + And preacht a sermon on the death + Uv that fair blossom laid + Among them other flow'rs he loved-- + Which sermon set sech weight + On sinners bein' always heelt + Against the future state + That, though it had been fash'nable + To swear a perfect streak, + There warnt no swearin' in the camp + For pretty nigh a week! + + Last thing uv all, six strappin' men + Took up the little load + And bore it tenderly along + The windin' rocky road + To where the coroner had dug + A grave beside the brook-- + In sight uv Marthy's winder, where + The same could set and look + And wonder if his cradle in + That green patch long 'nd wide + Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that + Wuz empty at her side; + And wonder of the mournful songs + The pines wuz singin' then + Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies + She'd never sing again; + And if the bosom uv the earth + In which he lay at rest + Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm + Ez wuz his mother's breast. + + The camp is gone, but Red Hoss mountain + Rears its kindly head + And looks down sort uv tenderly, + Upon its cherished dead; + And I reckon that, through all the years + That little boy wich died + Sleeps sweetly 'nd contentedly + Upon the mountain-side; + That the wild flowers of the summer time + Bend down their heads to hear + The footfall uv a little friend they + Know not slumbers near; + That the magpies on the sollum rocks + Strange flutterin' shadders make. + And the pines 'nd hemlocks wonder that + The sleeper doesn't wake; + That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike + And loiters on its way + Ez if it waited f'r a child + To jine it in its play. + + + + + ABU MIDJAN. + + + "When Father Time swings round his scythe, + Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, + So that its juices, red and blithe, + May cheer these thirsty bones of mine. + + "Elsewise with tears and bated breath + Should I survey the life to be. + But oh! How should I hail the death + That brings that vinous grace to me!" + + So sung the dauntless Saracen, + Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains + That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, + The faithless one shall die in chains. + + But one vile Christian slave that lay + A prisoner near that prisoner saith; + "God willing, I will plant some day + A vine where thou liest in death." + + Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave + With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; + Where rots the martyred Christian slave + Allah, and only Allah, knows! + + + + + THE DYING YEAR. + + + The year has been a tedious one-- + A weary round of toil and sorrow, + And, since it now at last is gone, + We say farewell and hail the morrow. + + Yet o'er the wreck which time has wrought + A sweet, consoling ray is shimmered-- + The one but compensating thought + That literary life has glimmered. + + Struggling with hunger and with cold + The world contemptuously beheld 'er; + The little thing was one year old-- + But who'd have cared had she been elder? + + + + + DEAD ROSES. + + + He placed a rose in my nut-brown hair-- + A deep red rose with a fragrant heart + And said: "We'll set this day apart, + So sunny, so wondrous fair." + + His face was full of a happy light, + His voice was tender and low and sweet, + The daisies and the violets grew at our feet-- + Alas, for the coming of night! + + The rose is black and withered and dead! + 'Tis hid in a tiny box away; + The nut-brown hair is turning to gray, + And the light of the day is fled! + + The light of the beautiful day is fled, + Hush'd is the voice so sweet and low-- + And I--ah, me! I loved him so-- + And the daisies grow over his head! + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of John Smith, U.S.A., by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN SMITH, U.S.A. *** + +***** This file should be named 12696.txt or 12696.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/9/12696/ + +Produced by Kevin O'Hare and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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