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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/31874-0.txt b/31874-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3aa6366 --- /dev/null +++ b/31874-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5209 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, 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: Second Book of Verse + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: April 3, 2010 [EBook #31874] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + + + + + + + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + + + + +BY EUGENE FIELD + + + Second Book of Tales. + Songs and Other Verse. + The Holy Cross and Other Tales. + The House. + The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. + A Little Book Of Profitable Tales. + A Little Book of Western Verse. + Second Book of Verse. + Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25 + A Little Book of Profitable Tales. + Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. + Echoes from the Sabine Farm. + 4to, $2.00 + With Trumpet and Drum. + 16mo, $1.00. + Love Songs of Childhood. + 16mo, $1.00. + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + +BY + +EUGENE FIELD + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + 1896 + + + + + _Copyright, 1892_, + + BY JULIA SUTHERLAND FIELD. + + + _A little bit of a woman came + Athwart my path one day; + So tiny was she that she seemed to be + A pixy strayed from the misty sea, + Or a wandering greenwood fay._ + + _"Oho, you little elf!" I cried, + "And what are you doing here? + So tiny as you will never do + For the brutal rush and hullaballoo + Of this practical world, I fear."_ + + _"Voice have I, good sir," said she.-- + "'Tis soft as an Angel's sigh, + But to fancy a word of yours were heard + In all the din of this world's absurd!" + Smiling, I made reply._ + + _"Hands have I, good sir" she quoth.-- + "Marry, and that have you! + But amid the strife and the tumult rife + In all the struggle and battle for life, + What can those wee hands do?"_ + + _"Eyes have I, good sir," she said.-- + "Sooth, you have," quoth I, + "And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow, + And they betimes shall dim with woe, + As the hard, hard years go by!"_ + + _That little bit of a woman cast + Her two eyes full on me, + And they smote me sore to my inmost core, + And they hold me slaved forevermore,-- + Yet would I not be free!_ + + _That little bit of a woman's hands + Reached up into my breast + And rent apart my scoffing heart,-- + And they buffet it still with such sweet art + As cannot be expressed._ + + _That little bit of a woman's voice + Hath grown most wondrous dear; + Above the blare of all elsewhere + (An inspiration that mocks at care) + It riseth full and clear._ + + _Dear one, I bless the subtle power + That makes me wholly thine; + And I'm proud to say that I bless the day + When a little woman wrought her way + Into this life of mine!_ + + + + +The Verse in this Second Book. + + + PAGE + + FATHER'S WAY 1 + + TO MY MOTHER 5 + + KÖRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER 7 + + GOSLING STEW 9 + + CATULLUS TO LESBIA 12 + + JOHN SMITH 13 + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE 22 + + THE SINGING IN GOD'S-ACRE 25 + + DEAR OLD LONDON 28 + + CORSICAN LULLABY (Folk-Song) 33 + + THE CLINK OF THE ICE 35 + + BELLS OF NOTRE DAME 39 + + LOVER'S LANE, ST. JO 41 + + CRUMPETS AND TEA 44 + + AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS 47 + + INTRY-MINTRY 48 + + MODJESKY AS CAMEEL 51 + + TELLING THE BEES 60 + + THE TEA-GOWN 62 + + DOCTORS 64 + + BARBARA 69 + + THE CAFÉ MOLINEAU 72 + + HOLLY AND IVY 75 + + THE BOLTONS, 22 77 + + DIBDIN'S GHOST 83 + + THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 87 + + THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD 91 + + AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 96 + + PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 103 + + ASHES ON THE SLIDE 106 + + THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS 110 + + CHRISTMAS EVE 113 + + CARLSBAD 115 + + THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 120 + + RED 122 + + JEWISH LULLABY 124 + + AT CHEYENNE 126 + + THE NAUGHTY DOLL 128 + + THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 131 + + TEENY-WEENY 134 + + TELKA 137 + + PLAINT OF A MISSOURI 'COON 146 + + ARMENIAN LULLABY 151 + + THE PARTRIDGE 153 + + CORINTHIAN HALL 156 + + THE RED, RED WEST 162 + + THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE 165 + + IPSWICH 167 + + BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS 170 + + FIDUCIT (from the German) 175 + + THE "ST. JO GAZETTE" 177 + + IN AMSTERDAM 183 + + TO THE PASSING SAINT 186 + + THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 188 + + NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT (Slumber Song) 191 + + THE ONION TART 193 + + GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE 197 + + RARE ROAST BEEF 203 + + GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT 208 + + OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE 211 + + OUR WHIPPINGS 213 + + BION'S SONG OF EROS 218 + + MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 220 + + POET AND KING 222 + + LYDIA DICK 225 + + LIZZIE 229 + + LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE 231 + + ALWAYS RIGHT 233 + + "TROT, MY GOOD STEED" (Volkslied) 235 + + PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG 237 + + GETTIN' ON 242 + + THE SCHNELLEST ZUG 245 + + BETHLEHEM-TOWN 250 + + THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 252 + + DOINGS OF DELSARTE 254 + + BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 259 + + + + +Second Book of Verse. + + + + +FATHER'S WAY. + + + MY father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,-- + Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. + He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,-- + I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; + But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue, + He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,-- + +[Illustration: Music] + + Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, + Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know; + He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way + But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay." + And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth + There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth. + + When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down + To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. + A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, + And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake! + But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, + Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low. + + And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West, + Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. + She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say + It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away; + But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, + Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers. + + When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, + He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; + And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so, + How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe! + You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,-- + He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it. + + I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,-- + To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men. + Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, + And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! + Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, + When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know! + + + + +TO MY MOTHER. + + + HOW fair you are, my mother! + Ah, though 't is many a year + Since you were here, + Still do I see your beauteous face, + And with the glow + Of your dark eyes cometh a grace + Of long ago. + So gentle, too, my mother! + Just as of old, upon my brow, + Like benedictions now, + Falleth your dear hand's touch; + And still, as then, + A voice that glads me over-much + Cometh again, + My fair and gentle mother! + + How you have loved me, mother, + I have not power to tell, + Knowing full well + That even in the rest above + It is your will + To watch and guard me with your love, + Loving me still. + And, as of old, my mother, + I am content to be a child, + By mother's love beguiled + From all these other charms; + So to the last + Within thy dear, protecting arms + Hold thou me fast, + My guardian angel, mother! + + + + +KÖRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER. + + + FATHER, I cry to Thee! + Round me the billows of battle are pouring, + Round me the thunders of battle are roaring; + Father on high, hear Thou my cry,-- + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious,-- + See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious; + Point Thou the way, lead where it may,-- + God, I acknowledge Thee! + + God, I acknowledge Thee! + As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me, + So, when the horrors of war would confound me, + Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near,-- + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + Living or dying, waking or sleeping, + Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping: + Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me! + Father, I worship Thee! + + Father, I worship Thee! + Not for the love of the riches that perish, + But for the freedom and justice we cherish, + Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all-- + God, I submit to Thee! + + God, I submit to Thee! + Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me, + Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me, + Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee,-- + Father, I cry to Thee! + + + + +GOSLING STEW. + + + IN Oberhausen, on a time, + I fared as might a king; + And now I feel the muse sublime + Inspire me to embalm in rhyme + That succulent and sapid thing + Behight of gentile and of Jew + A gosling stew! + + The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best,-- + Soup, cutlet, salad, roast,-- + And I partook with hearty zest, + And fervently anon I blessed + That generous and benignant host, + When suddenly dawned on my view + A gosling stew! + + I sniffed it coming on apace, + And as its odors filled + The curious little dining-place, + I felt a glow suffuse my face, + I felt my very marrow thrilled + With rapture altogether new,-- + 'Twas gosling stew! + + These callow birds had never played + In yonder village pond; + Had never through the gateway strayed, + And plaintive spissant music made + Upon the grassy green beyond: + Cooped up, they simply ate and grew + For gosling stew! + + My doctor said I mustn't eat + High food and seasoned game; + But surely gosling is a meat + With tender nourishment replete. + Leastwise I gayly ate this same; + I braved dyspepsy--wouldn't you + For gosling stew? + + I've feasted where the possums grow, + Roast turkey have I tried, + The joys of canvasbacks I know, + And frequently I've eaten crow + In bleak and chill Novembertide; + I'd barter all that native crew + For gosling stew! + + And when from Rhineland I adjourn + To seek my Yankee shore, + Back shall my memory often turn, + And fiercely shall my palate burn + For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more,-- + Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew + A gosling stew! + + Vain are these keen regrets of mine, + And vain the song I sing; + Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine + To Oberhausen auf der Rhine, + Where fared I like a very king: + And here's a last and fond adieu + To gosling stew! + + + + +CATULLUS TO LESBIA. + + + COME, my Lesbia, no repining; + Let us love while yet we may! + Suns go on forever shining; + But when we have had our day, + Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us, + And no morrow's dawn awake us. + + Come, in yonder nook reclining, + Where the honeysuckle climbs, + Let us mock at Fate's designing, + Let us kiss a thousand times! + And if they shall prove too few, dear, + When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear! + + And should any chance to see us, + Goodness! how they'll agonize! + How they'll wish that they could be us, + Kissing in such liberal wise! + Never mind their envious whining; + Come, my Lesbia, no repining! + + + + +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 hand-clasp 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 telltale dialect, that instantly I may + Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A." + + It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell ago + Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd _bona-fide_ schoolma'ams grow; + Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills, + And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd 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, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know + In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow; + Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn + Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters 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 the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night, + Whar blooms the furtive possum,--pride an' glory of the South! + And anty 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,-- + H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "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 '69 + In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine? + Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side, + And talked 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 mountains 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-singin' 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, + His 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." + + + + +ST. MARTIN'S LANE. + + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill, + And trends a devious way; + I walk therein amid the din + Of busy London day: + I walk where wealth and squalor meet, + And think upon a time + When others trod this saintly sod, + And heard St. Martin's chime. + + But when those solemn bells invoke + The midnight's slumbrous grace, + The ghosts of men come back again + To haunt that curious place: + The ghosts of sages, poets, wits, + Come back in goodly train; + And all night long, with mirth and song, + They walk St. Martin's Lane. + + There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray, + Maginn and Thomas Moore, + And here and there and everywhere + Fraserians by the score; + And one wee ghost that climbs the hill + Is welcomed with a shout,-- + No king could be revered as he,-- + The _padre_, Father Prout! + + They banter up and down the street, + And clamor at the door + Of yonder inn, which once has been + The scene of mirth galore: + 'Tis now a lonely, musty shell, + Deserted, like to fall; + And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks, + And iterates their call. + + Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host, + From Pluto's misty shore; + Renew to-night the keen delight + Of by-gone years once more; + Brew for this merry, motley horde, + And serve the steaming cheer; + And grant that I may lurk hard by, + To see the mirth, and hear. + + Ah, me! I dream what things may seem + To others childish vain, + And yet at night 'tis my delight + To walk St. Martin's Lane; + For, in the light of other days, + I walk with those I love, + And all the time St. Martin's chime + Makes piteous moan above. + + + + +THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE. + + + OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, + Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. + Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low, + As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd guardeth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight, + And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; + And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong + The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + He that guardeth His flock the best + Hath folded them to His loving breast; + So sleep ye now, and take your rest,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song, + And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along; + So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify, + God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + + + +DEAR OLD LONDON. + + + WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89, + I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,-- + "A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to look + Upon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book! + A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,-- + The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be; + And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89! + + Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day, + A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,-- + A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago, + Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know). + A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,-- + That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob; + But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore, + And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store. + Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command, + But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand. + Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,-- + It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot; + Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline? + For I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap + That Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap; + And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass, + And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass! + And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates, + The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates! + Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,-- + The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the + eye,-- + The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime, + The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time, + The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play, + And other costly relics of malodorous decay,-- + Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward, + Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record; + Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue, + Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung; + But in plain Anglo-Saxon--that he may know who seeks + What agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks-- + Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line: + "Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89." + + + + +CORSICAN LULLABY. + + + BAMBINO in his cradle slept; + And by his side his grandam grim + Bent down and smiled upon the child, + And sung this lullaby to him,-- + This "ninna and anninia": + + "When thou art older, thou shalt mind + To traverse countries far and wide, + And thou shalt go where roses blow + And balmy waters singing glide-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, + A famous jacket edged in red, + And, more than that, a peaked hat, + All decked in gold, upon thy head-- + Ah! ninna and anninia! + + "Then shalt thou carry gun and knife. + Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; + Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, + A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "No woman yet of our proud race + Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; + The brazen churl that eyed a girl + Bought her the ring or paid his head-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "But once came spies (I know the thieves!) + And brought disaster to our race; + God heard us when our fifteen men + Were hanged within the market-place-- + But ninna and anninia! + + "Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- + Right worthy fellows all, and strong; + Live thou and be for them and me + Avenger of that deadly wrong-- + So ninna and anninia!" + + + + +THE CLINK OF THE ICE. + + + NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone + Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known. + When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head + Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; + When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, + And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a + buffalo hide,-- + How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall + At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall! + + Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name, + That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame? + Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire, + That presently by combustion setteth us all afire? + Or is it the cheery magnum?--nay, I'll not chide the cup + That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up: + Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,-- + Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for + all. + + I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame, + And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same; + And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire + To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire; + I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and + screamed,-- + In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human + dreamed: + But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink + When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink. + + Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup? + Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up! + See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove + To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen + stove! + The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and + through: + An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.! + And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret + That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat. + + May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drink + That happens along at five A. M. with its rapturous clinkety-clink! + I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat + But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote; + So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem + For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five A. M., + But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall + Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall. + + + + +THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME. + + + WHAT though the radiant thoroughfare + Teems with a noisy throng? + What though men bandy everywhere + The ribald jest and song? + Over the din of oaths and cries + Broodeth a wondrous calm, + And mid that solemn stillness rise + The bells of Notre Dame. + + "Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, + "Thy weak and erring child; + And thou, O gentle Mother, pray + That God be reconciled; + And on mankind, O Christ, our King, + Pour out Thy gracious balm,"-- + 'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing, + Those bells of Notre Dame. + + And so, methinks, God, bending down + To ken the things of earth, + Heeds not the mockery of the town + Or cries of ribald mirth; + For ever soundeth in His ears + A penitential psalm,-- + 'T is thy angelic voice He hears, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice + May still forever be + An intercession to rejoice + Benign divinity; + And that thy tuneful grace may fall + Like dew, a quickening balm, + Upon the arid hearts of all, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + + + +LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO. + + + SAINT JO, Buchanan County, + Is leagues and leagues away; + And I sit in the gloom of this rented room, + And pine to be there to-day. + Yes, with London fog around me + And the bustling to and fro, + I am fretting to be across the sea + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + I would have a brown-eyed maiden + Go driving once again; + And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along, + That I sung to that maiden then: + I purposely say, "as we _snailed_ along," + For a proper horse goes slow + In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles, + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + From her boudoir in the alders + Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush, + And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way, + To the noisy cricket, "Hush!" + To think that the curious creature + Should crane her neck to know + The various things one says and sings + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + But the maples they should shield us + From the gossips of the place; + Nor should the sun, except by pun, + Profane the maiden's face; + And the girl should do the driving, + For a fellow can't, you know, + Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectful + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Ah! sweet the hours of springtime, + When the heart inclines to woo, + And it's deemed all right for the callow wight + To do what he wants to do; + But cruel the age of winter, + When the way of the world says no + To the hoary men who would woo again + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + In the Union Bank of London + Are forty pounds or more, + Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end, + In an antiquarian store; + But I'd give it all, and gladly, + If for an hour or so + I could feel the grace of a distant place,-- + Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Let us sit awhile, beloved, + And dream of the good old days,-- + Of the kindly shade which the maples made + Round the stanch but squeaky chaise; + With your head upon my shoulder, + And my arm about you so, + Though exiles, we shall seem to be + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + + + +CRUMPETS AND TEA. + + + THERE are happenings in life that are destined to rise + Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes; + And the passage of years shall not dim in the least + The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,-- + The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,-- + My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, + And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. + + There are cynics who say with invidious zest + That a crumpet's a thing that will never digest; + But I happen to _know_ that a crumpet is prime + For digestion, if only you give it its time. + Or if, by a chance, it should _not_ quite agree, + Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee + For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea? + + To toast crumpets quite _à la mode_, I require + A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; + And when they are browned, without further ado, + I put on the butter, that soaks through and through. + And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, + Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three; + And so we sit down to our crumpets--and tea. + + A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,-- + Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit + Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, + Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. + (It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, + That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we + Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) + + The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak + Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; + Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell + Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell; + Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, + And purchase for sixpence enough for us three, + Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. + + But soon--ah! too soon--I must bid a farewell + To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, + Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore + That's filled me with colic and--yearnings for more! + Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea + Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh + And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea. + + Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes + That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise. + My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change, + Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range; + But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be + In London again with Teresa and Leigh, + Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea! + + + + +AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS. + + + THROUGH all my life the poor shall find + In me a constant friend; + And on the meek of every kind + My mercy shall attend. + + The dumb shall never call on me + In vain for kindly aid; + And in my hands the blind shall see + A bounteous alms displayed. + + In all their walks the lame shall know + And feel my goodness near; + And on the deaf will I bestow + My gentlest words of cheer. + + 'Tis by such pious works as these, + Which I delight to do, + That men their fellow-creatures please, + And please their Maker too. + + + + +INTRY-MINTRY. + + + WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Once as these children were hard at play, + An old man, hoary and tottering, came + And watched them playing their pretty game. + He seemed to wonder, while standing there, + What the meaning thereof could be. + Aha, but the old man yearned to share + Of the little children's innocent glee, + As they circled around with laugh and shout, + And told this rhyme at counting out: + "Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest." + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Ah, the mirth of that summer day! + 'Twas Father Time who had come to share + The innocent joy of those children there. + He learned betimes the game they played, + And into their sport with them went he,-- + How _could_ the children have been afraid, + Since little they recked who he might be? + They laughed to hear old Father Time + Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme + Of intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest. + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, + And joy of summer,--where are they? + The grim old man still standeth near, + Crooning the song of a far-off year; + And into the winter I come alone, + Cheered by that mournful requiem, + Soothed by the dolorous monotone + That shall count me off as it counted them,-- + The solemn voice of old Father Time, + Chanting the homely nursery rhyme + He learned of the children a summer morn, + When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn," + Life was full of the dulcet cheer + That bringeth the grace of heaven anear: + The sound of the little ones hard at play,-- + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. + + + + +MODJESKY AS CAMEEL. + + + AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand, + Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land; + And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81, + Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun, + We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth, + And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health. + You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago; + (An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!) + Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal + Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel. + + Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go + To call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show. + "The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen, + And I reckon there is more for _me_ in some other kind uv queen." + "Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find + A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind? + You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more, + An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score, + Only to come down here among us _tong_ an' say you feel + You'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!" + + But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play, + With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both de_kolly_tay. + A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' + wealthy,-- + She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy. + She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind, + And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind + Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break, + And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake. + "Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor, + And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more. + + At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game, + And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same. + I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,-- + Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!" + He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen, + And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men; + Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer, + An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear; + And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel, + An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel. + + A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three, + And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see. + He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lick + Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick + To clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said. + He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red, + But good to helpless folks and weak,--a brave and manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + "Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow, + But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow; + So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,-- + Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,-- + I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night + To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white, + Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true, + Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you, + Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts, + Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no _onter acts_." + + I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout + That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect, + Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,-- + A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I come + Out West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum), + Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to sway + The popular opinion in a most persuasive way. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more, + Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door. + + First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to go + And see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low; + An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock, + An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block; + John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write, + And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight; + Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too; + And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do. + Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then; + Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again. + + I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in, + A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!" + I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,-- + They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break! + An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base, + I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face. + I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong + In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long. + I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,-- + And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day! + + I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again. + She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then. + An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill be + About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,-- + A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel; + He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal; + Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + + + +TELLING THE BEES. + + + OUT of the house where the slumberer lay + Grandfather came one summer day, + And under the pleasant orchard trees + He spake this wise to the murmuring bees: + "The clover-bloom that kissed her feet + And the posie-bed where she used to play + Have honey store, but none so sweet + As ere our little one went away. + O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low; + For she is gone who loved you so." + + A wonder fell on the listening bees + Under those pleasant orchard trees, + And in their toil that summer day + Ever their murmuring seemed to say: + "Child, O child, the grass is cool, + And the posies are waking to hear the song + Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, + Waiting for one that tarrieth long." + 'Twas so they called to the little one then, + As if to call her back again. + + O gentle bees, I have come to say + That grandfather fell asleep to-day, + And we know by the smile on grandfather's face + He has found his dear one's biding-place. + So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low, + As over the honey-fields you sweep,-- + To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow + Sing of grandfather fast asleep; + And ever beneath these orchard trees + Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees. + + + + +THE TEA-GOWN. + + + MY lady has a tea-gown + That is wondrous fair to see,-- + It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, + As a tea-gown ought to be; + And I thought she must be jesting + Last night at supper when + She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, + And had cost but two pounds ten. + + Had she told me fifty shillings, + I might (and wouldn't you?) + Have referred to that dress in a way folks express + By an eloquent dash or two; + But the guileful little creature + Knew well her tactics when + She casually said that that dream in red + Had cost but two pounds ten. + + Yet our home is all the brighter + For that dainty, sensient thing, + That floats away where it properly may, + And clings where it ought to cling; + And I count myself the luckiest + Of all us married men + That I have a wife whose joy in life + Is a gown at two pounds ten. + + It isn't the gown compels me + Condone this venial sin; + It's the pretty face above the lace, + And the gentle heart within. + And with her arms about me + I say, and say again, + "'Twas wondrous cheap,"--and I think a heap + Of that gown at two pounds ten! + + + + +DOCTORS. + + + 'Tis quite the thing to say and sing + Gross libels on the doctor,-- + To picture him an ogre grim + Or humbug-pill concocter; + Yet it's in quite another light + My friendly pen would show him, + Glad that it may with verse repay + Some part of what I owe him. + + When one's all right, he's prone to spite + The doctor's peaceful mission; + But when he's sick, it's loud and quick + He bawls for a physician. + With other things, the doctor brings + Sweet babes, our hearts to soften: + Though I have four, I pine for more,-- + Good doctor, pray come often! + + What though he sees death and disease + Run riot all around him? + Patient and true, and valorous too, + Such have I always found him. + Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes; + And when skill's unavailing, + And death is near, his words of cheer + Support our courage failing. + + In ancient days they used to praise + The godlike art of healing,-- + An art that then engaged all men + Possessed of sense and feeling. + Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be + Famed for a quack elixir; + And Digby sold, as we are told, + A charm for folk lovesick, sir. + + Napoleon knew a thing or two, + And clearly _he_ was partial + To doctors, for in time of war + He chose one for a marshal. + In our great cause a doctor was + The first to pass death's portal, + And Warren's name at once became + A beacon and immortal. + + A heap, indeed, of what we read + By doctors is provided; + For to those groves Apollo loves + Their leaning is decided. + Deny who may that Rabelais + Is first in wit and learning, + And yet all smile and marvel while + His brilliant leaves they're turning. + + How Lever's pen has charmed all men! + How touching Rab's short story! + And I will stake my all that Drake + Is still the schoolboy's glory. + A doctor-man it was began + Great Britain's great museum,-- + The treasures there are all so rare + It drives me wild to see 'em! + + There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are + Big monuments to learning. + To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) + We all are fondly turning. + Tomes might be writ of that keen wit + Which Abernethy's famed for; + With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills + Most doctors now get blamed for. + + In modern times the noble rhymes + Of Holmes, a great physician, + Have solace brought and wisdom taught + To hearts of all condition. + The sailor, bound for Puget Sound, + Finds pleasure still unfailing, + If he but troll the barcarole + Old Osborne wrote on Whaling. + + If there were need, I could proceed + _Ad naus._ with this prescription, + But, _inter nos_, a larger dose + Might give you fits conniption; + Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend + I'd hold before these others, + For he and I in years gone by + Have chummed around like brothers. + + Together we have sung in glee + The songs old Horace made for + Our genial craft, together quaffed + What bowls that doctor paid for! + I love the rest, but love him best; + And, were not times so pressing, + I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend? + Well, then, here goes my blessing. + + + + +BARBARA. + + + BLITHE was the youth that summer day, + As he smote at the ribs of earth, + And he plied his pick with a merry click, + And he whistled anon in mirth; + And the constant thought of his dear one's face + Seemed to illumine that ghostly place. + + The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy, + And she moved, and closed on his head: + With no one nigh and with never a cry + The beautiful boy lay dead; + And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair + Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair. + + Fifty years is a mighty space + In the human toil for bread; + But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath, + A dream that is quickly sped,-- + Fifty years, and the fair lad lay + Just as he fell that summer day. + + At last came others in quest of gold, + And hewed in that mountain place; + And deep in the ground one time they found + The boy with the smiling face: + All uncorrupt by the pitiless air, + He lay, with his crown of golden hair. + + They bore him up to the sun again, + And laid him beside the brook, + And the folk came down from the busy town + To wonder and prate and look; + And so, to a world that knew him not, + The boy came back to the old-time spot. + + Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,-- + Wrinkled and bowed was she,-- + And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh, + "At last he is come to me!" + And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, + And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair. + + "Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one! + And better it is 'tis so, + Else thou mightst see how harsh with me + Dealt Life thou couldst not know: + Kindlier Death has kept _thee_ fair; + The sorrow of Life hath been _my_ share." + + Barbara bowed her aged face, + And fell on the breast of her dead; + And the golden hair of her dear one there + Caressed her snow-white head. + Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain; + But sweeter the Death that joined those twain. + + + + +THE CAFÉ MOLINEAU. + + + THE Café Molineau is where + A dainty little minx + Serves God and man as best she can + By serving meats and drinks. + Oh, such an air the creature has, + And such a pretty face! + I took delight that autumn night + In hanging round the place. + + I know but very little French + (I have not long been here); + But when she spoke, her meaning broke + Full sweetly on my ear. + Then, too, she seemed to understand + Whatever I'd to say, + Though most I knew was "oony poo," + "Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." + + The female wit is always quick, + And of all womankind + 'Tis here in France that you, perchance, + The keenest wits shall find; + And here you'll find that subtle gift, + That rare, distinctive touch, + Combined with grace of form and face, + That glads men overmuch. + + "Our girls at home," I mused aloud, + "Lack either that or this; + They don't combine the arts divine + As does the Gallic miss. + Far be it from me to malign + Our belles across the sea, + And yet I'll swear none can compare + With this ideal She." + + And then I praised her dainty foot + In very awful French, + And parleyvood in guileful mood + Until the saucy wench + Tossed back her haughty auburn head, + And froze me with disdain: + "There are on me no flies," said she, + "For I come from Bangor, Maine!" + + + + +HOLLY AND IVY. + + + HOLLY standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Evermore at ye door + Standeth Ivy, shivering sore + In ye night wind bleak and drear; + And, as weary hours go by, + Doth ye one to other cry. + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "What is that within you see? + To and fro doth ye glow + Of ye yule-log flickering go; + Would its warmth did cherish me! + Where thou bidest is it warm; + I am shaken of ye storm." + + "Sister Ivy," Holly quoth, + "Brightly burns the yule-log here, + And love brings beauteous things, + While a guardian angel sings + To the babes that slumber near; + But, O Ivy! tell me now, + What without there seest thou?" + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "With fair music comes ye Morn, + And afar burns ye Star + Where ye wondering shepherds are, + And the Shepherd King is born: + 'Peace on earth, good-will to men,' + Angels cry, and cry again." + + Holly standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Clambering o'er yonder door, + Ivy standeth evermore; + And to them that rightly hear + Each one speaketh of ye love + That outpoureth from Above. + + + + +THE BOLTONS, 22. + + + WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog + Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; + When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, + Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; + When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, + Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,-- + When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, + and more, + To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore, + There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do: + Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22. + + The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend + My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend. + One sees _chefs d'Å“uvre_ of masters in profusion on the walls, + And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls; + There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please, + And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease: + But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,-- + The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace; + Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through, + It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22. + + My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor; + And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore. + The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare + On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,-- + A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device + To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice, + A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite + Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light; + But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do + For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22. + + Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit, + And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit; + And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse) + Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse. + And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars, + He smokes his modest pipe, and I--I smoke his choice cigars! + For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,-- + The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size; + And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,--and so will you, + If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22. + + But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived: + 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived. + A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then + A cordial invitation to us both to come again. + So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog, + On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,-- + The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace, + Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place; + And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew + In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22. + + God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife; + May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life; + And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within, + Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been. + So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup; + Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up, + That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine, + Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine: + "May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew + Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!" + + + + +DIBDIN'S GHOST. + + + DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read + The tomes you so despise, + A spectre rose beside the bed, + And spake in this true wise: + "From Canaan's beatific coast + I've come to visit thee, + For I am 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. + + + + +THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN. + + + THE Hawthorne children, seven in all, + Are famous friends of mine; + And with what pleasure I recall + How, years ago, one gloomy fall + I took a tedious railway line, + And journeyed by slow stages down + Unto that soporiferous town + (Albeit one worth seeing) + Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, + And Beatrix and Gwendolen, + And she that was the baby then,-- + These famous seven, as aforesaid, + Lived, moved, and had their being. + + The Hawthorne children gave me such + A welcome by the sea + That the eight of us were soon in touch, + And, though their mother marvelled much, + Happy as larks were we. + Egad, I was a boy again + With Henry, John, and Gwendolen; + And oh the funny capers + I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! + And oh the pranks we children played; + And oh the deafening noise we made-- + 'Twould shock my family if they read + About it in the papers! + + The Hawthorne children all were smart: + The girls, as I recall, + Had comprehended every art + Appealing to the head and heart; + The boys were gifted, all. + 'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how + To hitch a horse and milk a cow + And cook the best of suppers; + With Beatrix upon the sands + I sprinted daily, and was beat; + 'Twas Henry trained me to the feat + Of walking round upon my hands + Instead of on my uppers. + + The Hawthorne children liked me best + Of evenings, after tea, + For then, by general request, + I spun them yarns about the West,-- + Yarns all involving Me! + I represented how I'd slain + The bison on his native plain; + And divers tales of wonder + I told of how I'd fought and bled + In Indian scrimmages galore, + Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more," + And packed her darlings off to bed, + To dream of blood and thunder. + + They must have changed a deal since then; + The misses, tall and fair, + And those three handsome, lusty men,-- + Would they be girls and boys again, + Were I to happen there, + Down in that spot beside the sea + Where we made such tumultuous glee + That dull autumnal weather? + Ah, me! the years go swiftly by; + And yet how fondly I recall + The week when we were children all, + Dear Hawthorne children, you and I, + Just eight of us together! + + + + +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 revelled in the saltatory sights, + We sought a neighboring _café_ 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 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, pygmy 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 never more 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 telltale day,-- + Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths 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! + + + + +AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL. + + [The exile MelibÅ“us 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.] + + +MELIBÅ’US. + + 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 of + halter. + + +MELIBÅ’US. + + 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. + + +MELIBÅ’US. + + 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! + + +MELIBÅ’US (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. + + MelibÅ“us, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity; + My toil was all 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!" + + +MELIBÅ’US. + + 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! + + +MELIBÅ’US (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! nevermore 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 already is nigh,--the shadows creep over the heather, + And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the + breezes. + + + + +PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE. + + + ALL day long they come and go,-- + Pittypat and Tippytoe; + Footprints up and down the hall, + Playthings scattered on the floor, + Finger-marks along the wall, + Tell-tale streaks upon the door,-- + By these presents you shall know + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + How they riot at their play! + And, a dozen times a day, + In they troop, demanding bread,-- + Only buttered bread will do, + And that butter must be spread + Inches thick with sugar too! + Never yet have I said, "No, + Pittypat and Tippytoe!" + + Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, + Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; + For--I much regret to say-- + Tippytoe and Pittypat + Sometimes interrupt their play + With an internecine spat; + Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + Oh, the thousand worrying things + Every day recurrent brings! + Hands to scrub and hair to brush, + Search for playthings gone amiss, + Many a murmuring to hush, + Many a little bump to kiss; + Life's indeed a fleeting show, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + And when day is at an end, + There are little duds to mend; + Little frocks are strangely torn, + Little shoes great holes reveal, + Little hose, but one day worn, + Rudely yawn at toe or heel! + Who but you could work such woe, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + But when comes this thought to me, + "Some there are that childless be," + Stealing to their little beds, + With a love I cannot speak, + Tenderly I stroke their heads, + Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. + God help those who do not know + A Pittypat or Tippytoe! + + On the floor, along the hall, + Rudely traced upon the wall, + There are proofs in every kind + Of the havoc they have wrought; + And upon my heart you'd find + Just such trademarks, if you sought. + Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + + + +ASHES ON THE SLIDE. + + + WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago. + How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow! + Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright, + Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight + As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill + Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still. + + Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed! + Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed! + And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then + We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again; + But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside + When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide! + + The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums, + And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs, + And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew + The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue! + The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide; + And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!" + + Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy + Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ + To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite + In interfering with the play wherein we found delight; + And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride: + "Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!" + + But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest, + His money well invested in farm mortgages out West; + Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife + That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life; + That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide + Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide! + + And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now. + Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou! + Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; + The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; + And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, + He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide! + + + + +THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS. + + + "CUPID!" Venus went a-crying; + "Cupid, whither dost thou stray? + Tell me, people, hither hieing, + Have you seen my runaway? + Speak,--my kiss shall be your pay! + Yes, and sweets more gratifying, + If you bring him back to-day. + + "Cupid," Venus went a-calling, + "Is a rosy little youth, + But his beauty is inthralling. + He will speak you fair, in sooth, + Wheedle you with glib untruth,-- + Honey-like his words; but galling + Are his deeds, and full of ruth! + + "Cupid's hair is curling yellow, + And he hath a saucy face; + With his chubby hands the fellow + Shooteth into farthest space, + Heedless of all time and place; + King and squire and punchinello + He delighteth to abase! + + "Nude and winged the prankish blade is, + And he speedeth everywhere, + Vexing gentlemen and ladies, + Callow youths and damsels fair + Whom he catcheth unaware,-- + Venturing even into Hades, + He hath sown his torments there! + + "For that bow, that bow and quiver,-- + Oh, they are a cruel twain! + Thinking of them makes me shiver. + Oft, with all his might and main, + Cupid sends those darts profane + Whizzing through my heart and liver, + Setting fire to every vein! + + "And the torch he carries blazing,-- + Truly 'tis a tiny one; + Yet, that tiny torch upraising, + Cupid scarifies the sun! + Ah, good people, there is none + Knows what mischief most amazing + Cupid's evil torch hath done! + + "Show no mercy when you find him! + Spite of every specious plea + And of all his whimpering, bind him! + Full of flatteries is he; + Armed with treachery, _cap-a-pie_, + He'll play 'possum; never mind him,-- + March him straightway back to me! + + "Bow and arrows and sweet kisses + He will offer you, no doubt; + But beware those proffered blisses,-- + They are venomous throughout! + Seize and bind him fast about; + Mind you,--most important this is: + Bind him, bring him, but--watch out!" + + + + +CHRISTMAS EVE. + + + OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + The evening shades are falling,-- + Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear + The voice of the Master calling? + + Deep lies the snow upon the earth, + But all the sky is ringing + With joyous song, and all night long + The stars shall dance, with singing. + + Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + And close thine eyes in dreaming, + And angels fair shall lead thee where + The singing stars are beaming. + + A shepherd calls his little lambs, + And he longeth to caress them; + He bids them rest upon his breast, + That his tender love may bless them. + + So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + Whilst evening shades are falling, + And above the song of the heavenly throng + Thou shalt hear the Master calling. + + + + +CARLSBAD. + + + DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, + Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; + To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,-- + You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! + The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; + The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; + And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,-- + All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know. + + The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,--that's what the guide-books say; + We did not think so at that time, nor think _I_ so to-day! + The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views, + But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues. + With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen, + We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between; + And constantly we made our moan,--ah, none so drear as we, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane, + And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain; + And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force, + Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse. + Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink, + Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink; + Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie, + But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry; + Then, too, that water twice a day,--one swallow was enough + To take one's appetite away,--the tepid, awful stuff! + Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I'd little else to do + Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you. + The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date! + When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate. + The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away, + And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,-- + To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale, + To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale! + And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then, + With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again! + + And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes, + I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies; + I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar,-- + To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more; + And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours, + For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures! + So I am happy to have known that time across the sea + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + + + +THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE. + + + HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? + 'Tis a marvel of great renown! + It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; + The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet + (As those who have tasted it say) + That good little children have only to eat + Of that fruit to be happy next day. + + When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time + To capture the fruit which I sing; + The tree is so tall that no person could climb + To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! + But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, + And a gingerbread dog prowls below; + And this is the way you contrive to get at + Those sugar-plums tempting you so: + + You say but the word to that gingerbread dog, + And he barks with such terrible zest + That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, + As her swelling proportions attest. + And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around + From _this_ leafy limb unto _that_, + And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground,-- + Hurrah for that chocolate cat! + + There are marshmallows, gum-drops, and peppermint canes, + With stripings of scarlet or gold, + And you carry away of the treasure that rains + As much as your apron can hold! + So come, little child, cuddle closer to me + In your dainty white nightcap and gown, + And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. + + + + +RED. + + + ANY color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best, + Though I will allow there is much to be said + For yellow and green and the rest; + But the feeble tints which some affect + In the things they make or buy + Have never--I say it with all respect-- + Appealed to my critical eye. + + There's that in red that warmeth the blood, + And quickeneth a man within, + And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud + The germs of original sin; + So, though I'm properly born and bred, + I'll own, with a certain zest, + That any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best. + + For where is a color that can compare + With the blush of a buxom lass; + Or where such warmth as of the hair + Of the genuine white horse class? + And, lo! reflected within this cup + Of cheery Bordeaux I see + What inspiration girdeth me up,-- + Yes, red is the color for me! + + Through acres and acres of art I've strayed + In Italy, Germany, France; + On many a picture a master has made + I've squandered a passing glance: + Marines I hate, madonnas and + Those Dutch freaks I detest; + But the peerless daubs of my native land,-- + They're red, and I like them best. + + 'Tis little I care how folk deride,-- + I'm backed by the West, at least; + And we are free to say that we can't abide + The tastes that obtain down East; + And we're mighty proud to have it said + That here in the versatile West + Most any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits us best. + + + + +JEWISH LULLABY. + + + MY harp is on the willow-tree, + Else would I sing, O love, to thee + A song of long ago,-- + Perchance the song that Miriam sung + Ere yet Judæa's heart was wrung + By centuries of woe. + + The shadow of those centuries lies + Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes; + But, hush! and close them now, + And in the dreams that thou shalt dream + The light of other days shall seem + To glorify thy brow. + + I ate my crust in tears to-day, + As, scourged, I went upon my way, + And yet my darling smiled,-- + Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed; + My anguish curdled not the draught, + 'Twas sweet with love, my child. + + Our harp is on the willow-tree: + I have no song to sing to thee, + As shadows round us roll; + But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hear + Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer + Judæa's fainting soul. + + + + +AT CHEYENNE. + + + YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west, + With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; + The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat, + His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet, + His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, + And he nourished a handful of aces on kings. + + The fair Mariana sate watching a star, + When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar! + Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, + And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!" + Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, + And modestly asked if he mightn't step in. + + With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, + The fair Mariana replied that he might; + So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, + Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar. + Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, + He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same. + + + + +THE NAUGHTY DOLL. + + + MY dolly is a dreadful care,-- + Her name is Miss Amandy; + I dress her up and curl her hair, + And feed her taffy candy. + Yet, heedless of the pleading voice + Of her devoted mother, + She will not wed her mother's choice, + But says she'll wed another. + + I'd have her wed the china vase,-- + There is no Dresden rarer; + You might go searching every place + And never find a fairer. + He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- + Of that there's no denying; + Yet when I speak of him, forsooth! + Amandy falls to crying. + + She loves the drum,--that's very plain,-- + And scorns the vase so clever, + And, weeping, vows she will remain + A spinster doll forever! + The protestations of the drum + I am convinced are hollow; + When once distressing times should come + How soon would ruin follow! + + Yet all in vain the Dresden boy + From yonder mantel woos her; + A mania for that vulgar toy, + The noisy drum, imbues her. + In vain I wheel her to and fro, + And reason with her mildly: + Her waxen tears in torrents flow, + Her sawdust heart beats wildly. + + I'm sure that when I'm big and tall, + And wear long trailing dresses, + I sha'n't encourage beaux at all + Till mamma acquiesces; + Our choice will be a suitor then + As pretty as this vase is,-- + Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men + With whiskers on their faces! + + + + +THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE. + + + UPON an average, twice a week, + When anguish clouds my brow, + My good physician friend I seek + To know "what ails me now." + He taps me on the back and chest, + And scans my tongue for bile, + And lays an ear against my breast + And listens there awhile; + Then is he ready to admit + That all he can observe + Is something wrong inside, to wit: + My pneumogastric nerve! + + Now, when these Latin names within + Dyspeptic hulks like mine + Go wrong, a fellow should begin + To draw what's called the line. + It seems, however, that this same, + Which in my hulk abounds, + Is not, despite its awful name, + So fatal as it sounds; + Yet of all torments known to me, + I'll say without reserve, + There is no torment like to thee, + Thou pneumogastric nerve! + + This subtle, envious nerve appears + To be a patient foe,-- + It waited nearly forty years + Its chance to lay me low; + Then, like some blithering blast of hell, + It struck this guileless bard, + And in that evil hour I fell + Prodigious far and hard. + Alas! what things I dearly love-- + Pies, puddings, and preserves-- + Are sure to rouse the vengeance of + All pneumogastric nerves! + + Oh that I could remodel man! + I'd end these cruel pains + By hitting on a different plan + From that which now obtains. + The stomach, greatly amplified, + Anon should occupy + The all of that domain inside + Where heart and lungs now lie. + But, first of all, I should depose + That diabolic curve + And author of my thousand woes, + The pneumogastric nerve! + + + + +TEENY-WEENY. + + + EVERY evening, after tea, + Teeny-Weeny comes to me, + And, astride my willing knee, + Plies his lash and rides away; + Though that palfrey, all too spare, + Finds his burden hard to bear, + Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,-- + He commands, and I obey! + + First it's trot; and gallop then,-- + Now it's back to trot again; + Teeny-Weeny likes it when + He is riding fierce and fast! + Then his dark eyes brighter grow + And his cheeks are all aglow,-- + "More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!" + Till the horse breaks down at last! + + Oh, the strange and lovely sights + Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, + As he makes those famous flights + On that wondrous horse of his! + Oftentimes, before he knows, + Wearylike his eyelids close, + And, still smiling, off he goes + Where the land of By-low is. + + There he sees the folk of fay + Hard at ring-a-rosie play, + And he hears those fairies say, + "Come, let's chase him to and fro!" + But, with a defiant shout, + Teeny puts that host to rout,-- + Of this tale I make no doubt,-- + Every night he tells it so! + + So I feel a tender pride + In my boy who dares to ride + (That fierce horse of his astride) + Off into those misty lands; + And as on my breast he lies, + Dreaming in that wondrous wise, + I caress his folded eyes,-- + Pat his little dimpled hands. + + On a time he went away, + Just a little while to stay, + And I'm not ashamed to say + I was very lonely then; + Life without him was so sad, + You can fancy I was glad + And made merry when I had + Teeny-Weeny back again! + + So of evenings, after tea, + When he toddles up to me + And goes tugging at my knee, + You should hear his palfrey neigh! + You should see him prance and shy, + When, with an exulting cry, + Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, + Plies his lash and rides away! + + + + +TELKA. + + + THROUGH those golden summer days + Our twin flocks were wont to graze + On the hillside, which the sun + Rested lovingly upon,-- + Telka's flock and mine; and we + Sung our songs in rapturous glee, + Idling in the pleasant shade + Which the solemn Yew-tree made, + While the Brook anear us played, + And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew + In the shadow of the Yew. + + Telka loved me passing well; + How I loved her none can tell! + How I love her none may know,-- + Oh that man love woman so! + When she was not at my side, + Loud my heart in anguish cried, + And my lips, till she replied. + Yet they think to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Still I wend my lonely way, + "Telka," evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the weary years go by. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And the glory of her hair + Was such glory as the sun + With his blessing casts upon + Yonder lonely mountain height, + Lifting up to bid good-night + To her sovereign in the west, + Sinking wearily to rest, + Drowsing in that golden sea + Where the realms of Dreamland be. + + So our love to fulness grew, + Whilst beneath the solemn Yew + Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, + As it were some fancied sight + Blanched it with a dread affright. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And our peace was perfect there + Till, enchanted by her smile, + Lurked the South Wind there awhile, + Underneath that hillside tree + Where with singing idled we, + And I heard the South Wind say + Flattering words to her that day + Of a city far away. + But the Yew-tree crouched as though + It were like to whisper No + To the words the South Wind said + As he smoothed my Telka's head. + And the Brook, all pleading, cried + To the dear one at my side: + "Linger always where I am; + Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! + Wander not where shadows deep + On the treacherous quicksands sleep, + And the haunted waters leap; + Be thou ware the waves that flow + Toward the prison pool below, + Where, beguiled from yonder sky, + Captive moonbeams shivering lie, + And at dawn of morrow die." + So the Brook to Telka cried, + But my Telka naught replied; + And, as in a strange affright, + Paled the Rose a ghostlier white. + + When anon the North Wind came,-- + Rudely blustering Telka's name, + And he kissed the leaves that grew + Round about the trembling Yew,-- + Kissed and romped till, blushing red, + All one day in terror fled, + And the white Rose hung her head; + Coming to our trysting spot, + Long I called; she answered not. + "Telka!" pleadingly I cried + Up and down the mountain-side + Where we twain were wont to bide. + + There were those who thought that I + Could be silenced with a lie, + And they told me Telka's name + Should be spoken now with shame: + "She is lost to us and thee,"-- + That is what they said to me. + + "Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. + "On this hilltop shall I cry, + So that she may hear and then + Find her way to me again. + The South Wind spoke a lie that day; + All deceived, she lost her way + Yonder where the shadows sleep + 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap + Over treacherous quicksands deep, + And where captive moonbeams lie + Doomed at morrow's dawn to die + She is lost, and that is all; + I will search for her, and call." + + Summer comes and winter goes, + Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; + All the others are anear,-- + Only Telka is not here! + Gone the peace and love I knew + Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; + And the Rose, that mocks me so, + I had crushed it long ago + But that Telka loved it then, + And shall soothe its terror when + She comes back to me again. + Call I, seek I everywhere + For my Telka, passing fair. + It is, oh, so many a year + I have called! She does not hear, + Yet nor feared nor worn am I; + For I know that if I cry + She shall sometime hear my call. + She is lost, and that is all,-- + She is lost in some far spot; + I have searched, and found it not. + Could she hear me calling, then + Would she come to me again; + For she loved me passing well,-- + How I love her none can tell! + That is why these years I've cried + "Telka!" on this mountain-side. + "Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the lonely years go by. + + On an evening dark and chill + Came a shadow up the hill,-- + Came a spectre, grim and white + As a ghost that walks the night, + Grim and bowed, and with the cry + Of a wretch about to die,-- + Came and fell and cried to me: + "It is Telka come!" said she. + So she fell and so she cried + On that lonely mountain-side + Where was Telka wont to bide. + + "Who hath bribed those lips to lie? + Telka's face was fair," quoth I; + "Thine is furrowed with despair. + There is winter in thy hair; + But upon her beauteous head + Was there summer glory shed,-- + Such a glory as the sun, + When his daily course is run, + Smiles upon this mountain height + As he kisses it good-night. + There was music in her tone, + Misery in thy voice alone. + They have bid thee lie to me. + Let me pass! Thou art not she! + Let my sorrow sacred be + Underneath this trysting tree!" + + So in wrath I went my way, + And they came another day,-- + Came another day, and said: + "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, + Yonder on the mountain-side + She is buried where she died, + Where you twain were wont to bide, + Where she came and fell and cried + Pardon that thy wrath denied; + And above her bosom grows + As in mockery the Rose: + It was white; but now 'tis red, + And in shame it bows its head + Over sinful Telka dead." + + So they thought to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Scornfully I went my way, + And upon the mountain-side + "Telka!" evermore I cried. + "Telka!" evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky: + So the lonely years go by. + + She is lost, and that is all; + Sometime she shall hear my call, + Hear my pleading call, and then + Find her way to me again. + + + + +PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS. + + + FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, + And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. + I, too, am 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 am 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 round 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 wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight. + We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know + That ary 'coon can best 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 accustomed 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 still might swing at home from tree to tree, + The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, 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 Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; + My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, 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 Chauncey 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. + + + + +ARMENIAN LULLABY. + + + IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, + My mulberry one, my golden son, + The rose shall sing thee lullabies, + My pretty cosset lambkin! + And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, + With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- + A silver boat in a golden sea,-- + My velvet love, my nestling dove, + My own pomegranate-blossom! + + The stork shall guard thee passing well + All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, + And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, + My gentle rain-of-springtime; + And for thy slumber-play shall twine + The diamond stars with an emerald vine, + To trail in the waves of ruby wine, + My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, + My cooing little turtle! + + And when the morn wakes up to see + My apple-bright, my soul's delight, + The partridge shall come calling thee, + My jar of milk-and-honey! + Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies + In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, + If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, + You wakeful one, you naughty son, + You chirping little sparrow! + + + + +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 beak, + 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 thee most blest of all, + And pretty, pretty, + The birds come with thee at thy call; + In flocks they come, and round thee play, + And this is what they seem to say,-- + They say and sing, each feathered thing, + "Ah, pretty, pretty! + Ah, dear little partridge!" + + + + +CORINTHIAN HALL. + + + CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace; + But once was a time when Corinthian Hall + Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, + With its carpeted stairs, + And its new yellow chairs, + And its stunning _ensemble_ of citified airs. + Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best + Of Thespian temples extant in the West. + + It was new, and was ours,--that was ages ago, + Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,-- + It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers + Our rivals had launched at our city for years. + Corinthian Hall! + Why, it discounted all + Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall + The night of the opening; from near and afar + Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar. + + Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again + Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; + For actors were actors, and each one knew how + To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow. + He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; + And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare. + Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,--in fact, never could + When liquor was handy and walking was good. + + And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall + The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall! + Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime; + And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; + And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare + With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; + While in passionate rôles it was patent to us + That the great John A. Stevens was _ne ultra plus_. + + And was there demand for the tribute of tears, + We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, + And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow + That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now. + What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, + Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say! + And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette" + Opined that the sun of our drama had set. + + Corinthian Hall was devoted to song + When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, + Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, + Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; + But the one special card + That hit us all hard + Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; + And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; + And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years! + + The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, + And our critics accorded them columns of praise; + They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings, + And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; + They gave a parade, and sweet music they made + Every evening in front of the house where they played. + 'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog + For Primrose and West in their great statue clog. + + Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain + That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; + Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth + That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: + While in rôles that were thrillin', involving much killin', + Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; + Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,--they all + Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall. + + But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell + On the spot I revere and remember so well, + Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, + And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; + So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold + Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, + And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, + Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall. + + When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, + And the music goes floating on billows of light, + Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man, + And I pine to be back where my mission began, + And I'm fain to recall + Reminiscences all + That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,-- + To hear and to see what delighted me then, + And to revel in raptures of boyhood again. + + Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace, + There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, + Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, + Would surrender what gold + He's amassed to behold + A tithe of the wonderful doings of old, + A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall + Our _crême de la crême_ in Corinthian Hall. + + + + +THE RED, RED WEST. + + + I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, + Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so + smart; + And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show + That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go. + + I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, + And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; + I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green, + And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen. + + The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal + Dutch, + The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised + overmuch, + The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,-- + All, _ad infin._, have I taken in a hundred thousand times. + + Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught + Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is + fraught; + For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker + grows, + And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes. + + Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, + And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; + It answers every purpose that this is manifest: + The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West. + + Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, + No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; + But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, + Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still! + + + + +THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE. + + + FROM out Cologne there came three kings + To worship Jesus Christ, their King. + To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, + And many a beauteous golden thing; + They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, + And in that manger set them down. + + Then spake the first king, and he said: + "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! + I bring this crown to Bethlehem town + For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; + So give a heavenly crown to me + When I shall come at last to Thee!" + + The second, then. "I bring Thee here + This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; + "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one + There is not in the world beside; + So in the day of doom requite + Me with a heavenly robe of white!" + + The third king gave his gift, and quoth: + "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, + And with these twain would I most fain + Anoint the body of my King; + So may their incense sometime rise + To plead for me in yonder skies!" + + Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, + That gave their gifts, and went their way; + And now kneel I in prayer hard by + The cradle of the Child to-day; + Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring + As offering unto Christ, my King. + + Yet have I brought a gift the Child + May not despise, however small; + For here I lay my heart to-day, + And it is full of love to all. + Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, + My only tribute, Christ, my King! + + + + +IPSWICH. + + + IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, + And the voice that comes from the yonder sea + Sings to the quaint old mansions there + Of "the time, the time that used to be;" + And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, + And they seem to say in an undertone, + With half a sigh and with half a moan: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich witches weave at night + Their magic, spells with impish glee; + They shriek and laugh in their demon flight + From the old Main House to the frightened sea. + And ghosts of eld come out to weep + Over the town that is fast asleep; + And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill + Over against the calling sea; + And through the nights so deep and chill + Watcheth a maiden constantly,-- + Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear + Over the roar of the waves anear + The pitiful cry of a far-off year: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich once a witch I knew,-- + An artless Saxon witch was she; + By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, + Sweet was the spell she cast on me. + Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, + And the heart that is old and battered and chill + Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill + What was, but never again can be. + + Dear Anna, I would not conjure down + The ghost that cometh to solace me; + I love to think of old Ipswich town, + Where somewhat better than friends were we; + For with every thought of the dear old place + Cometh again the tender grace + Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, + As it was, and is, and ever shall be. + + + + +BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS. + + + BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; + I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; + Clothes would never seem to set so nice on _me_ as _him_,-- + Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,-- + But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; + And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,-- + Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire! + She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,-- + Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird; + Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er, + A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place, + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,-- + _She_ sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat; + Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, + One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"! + But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that; + On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face + When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, + Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when + We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days, + And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise. + Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again! + For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace + When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, + Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me. + Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, + Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer + When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D! + The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race + 'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass. + + Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54, + And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more; + Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell, + And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell + That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store; + And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace + Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, + I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me; + And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day, + I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away. + Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be; + "Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, + "When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass." + + + + +FIDUCIT. + + + THREE comrades on the German Rhine, + Defying care and weather, + Together quaffed the mellow wine, + And sung their songs together. + What recked they of the griefs of life, + With wine and song to cheer them? + Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, + It would not come anear them. + + Anon one comrade passed away, + And presently another, + And yet unto the tryst each day + Repaired the lonely brother; + And still, as gayly as of old, + That third one, hero-hearted, + Filled to the brim each cup of gold, + And called to the departed,-- + + "O comrades mine! I see ye not, + Nor hear your kindly greeting, + Yet in this old, familiar spot + Be still our loving meeting! + Here have I filled each bouting-cup + With juices red and cheery; + I pray ye drink the portion up, + And as of old make merry!" + + And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, + All in the haunted gloaming, + He saw two ghostly figures rise, + And quaff the beakers foaming; + He heard two spirit voices call, + "Fiducit, jovial brother!" + And so forever from that hall + Went they with one another. + + + + +THE "ST. JO GAZETTE." + + + WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette," + I was upon familiar terms with every one I met; + For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time, + Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,-- + Before I found in verses + Those soothing, gracious mercies, + Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is. + A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat, + And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + The labors of the day began at half-past eight A.M., + For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them; + And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire + By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire, + With my daily commentary + On affairs of farm and dairy, + The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,-- + Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due, + Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous; + Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case, + And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space; + Of fevers, fractures, humors, + Contusions, fits, and tumors, + Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors; + From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,-- + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,-- + Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race; + And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink, + And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink. + Those drinks at the Pacific, + When days were sudorific, + Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;" + And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow, + To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go. + The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough + For local application in lieu of better stuff; + And when the ducks were flying, + Or the fishing well worth trying-- + Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at + lying! + And I--I printed all their yarns, though not without regret, + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young, + Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;" + Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call + On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all. + Lon Tullar used to pony + Up descriptions that were tony + Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione; + For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett" + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue; + And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,-- + The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read, + And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed. + Oh, but it takes agility, + Combined with versatility, + To run a country daily with appropriate ability! + There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet, + Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent + Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent + If so, I don't remember; this only do I know,-- + My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo. + The years that speed so fleetly + Have blotted out completely + All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly; + The friendships of that time,--ah, me! they are as precious yet + As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + + + +IN AMSTERDAM. + + + MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got + A majazin in Kalverstraat, + Where one may buy for sordid gold + Wares quaint and curious, new and old. + Here are antiquities galore,-- + The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore, + Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks, + Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks, + And all those joys I might rehearse + That please the eye, but wreck the purse. + + I most admired an ancient bed, + With ornate carvings at its head,-- + A massive frame of dingy oak, + Whose curious size and mould bespoke + Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried. + "Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied; + And then the honest Dutchman said + A king once owned that glorious bed,-- + King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame, + Had owned and slept within the same! + + Then long I stood and mutely gazed, + By reminiscent splendors dazed, + And I had bought it right away, + Had I the wherewithal to pay. + But, lacking of the needed pelf, + I thus discoursed within myself: + "O happy Holland! where's the bliss + That can approximate to this + Possession of the rare antique + Which maniacs hanker for and seek? + _My_ native land is full of stuff + That's good, but is not old enough. + Alas! it has no oaken beds + Wherein have slumbered royal heads, + No relic on whose face we see + The proof of grand antiquity." + + Thus reasoned I a goodly spell + Until, perchance, my vision fell + Upon a trademark at the head + Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,-- + A rampant wolverine, and round + This strange device these words I found: + "Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay, + Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A." + + At present I'm not saying much + About the simple, guileless Dutch; + And as it were a loathsome spot + I keep away from Kalverstraat, + Determined when I want a bed + In which hath slept a royal head + I'll patronize no middleman, + But deal direct with Michigan. + + + + +TO THE PASSING SAINT. + + + AS to-night you came your way, + Bearing earthward heavenly joy, + Tell me, O dear saint, I pray, + Did you see my little boy? + + By some fairer voice beguiled, + Once he wandered from my sight; + He is such a little child, + He should have my love this night. + + It has been so many a year,-- + Oh, so many a year since then! + Yet he was so very dear, + Surely he will come again. + + If upon your way you see + One whose beauty is divine, + Will you send him back to me? + He is lost, and he is mine. + + Tell him that his little chair + Nestles where the sunbeams meet, + That the shoes he used to wear + Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet. + + Tell him of each pretty toy + That was wont to share his glee; + Maybe that will bring my boy + Back to them and back to me. + + O dear saint, as on you go + Through the glad and sparkling frost, + Bid those bells ring high and low + For a little child that's lost! + + O dear saint, that blessest men + With the grace of Christmas joy, + Soothe this heart with love again,-- + Give me back my little boy! + + + + +THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. + + + OF all the gracious gifts of Spring, + Is there another can 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 again, 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 water-lilies grew! + How often have you filched my bait, + How often snapped my treacherous line! + Yet here I have you on this plate,-- + You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_. + + And, harkee, garçon! let the blood + Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,-- + Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood + This piscatorial pride should swim; + So, were he living, he would say + He gladly died for me and mine, + And, as it were his native spray, + He'd lash the sauce--what, ho! the wine! + + I would it were ordained for me + To share your fate, O 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 ecstasy 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! + + + + +NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT. + + + THE mill goes toiling slowly around + With steady and solemn creak, + And my little one hears in the kindly sound + The voice of the old mill speak; + While round and round those big white wings + Grimly and ghostlike creep, + My little one hears that the old mill sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, + And over his pot of beer + The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, + Lustily maketh cheer; + He mocks at the winds that caper along + From the far-off, clamorous deep, + But we--we love their lullaby-song + Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound, + Groans of the stony mart; + To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around, + Hitched to our new milk-cart! + And you shall help me blanket the kine, + And fold the gentle sheep, + And set the herring a-soak in brine,-- + But now, little tulip, sleep! + + A Dream-One comes to button the eyes + That wearily droop and blink, + While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, + And scolds at the stars that wink; + Over your face the misty wings + Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, + And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + + + +THE ONION TART. + + + OF tarts there be a thousand kinds, + So versatile the art, + And, as we all have different minds, + Each has his favorite tart; + But those which most delight the rest + Methinks should suit me not: + The onion tart doth please me best,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Where but in Deutschland can be found + This boon of which I sing? + Who but a Teuton could compound + This _sui generis_ thing? + None with the German frau can vie + In arts cuisine, I wot, + Whose _summum bonum_ breeds the sigh, + "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!" + + You slice the fruit upon the dough, + And season to the taste, + Then in an oven (not too slow) + The viand should be placed; + And when 'tis done, upon a plate + You serve it piping hot. + Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + It sweeps upon the sight and smell + In overwhelming tide, + And then the sense of taste as well + Betimes is gratified: + Three noble senses drowned in bliss! + I prithee tell me, what + Is there beside compares with this? + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + For if the fruit be proper young, + And if the crust be good, + How shall they melt upon the tongue + Into a savory flood! + How seek the Mecca down below, + And linger round that spot, + Entailing weeks and months of woe,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + If Nature gives men appetites + For things that won't digest, + Why, let _them_ eat whatso delights, + And let _her_ stand the rest; + And though the sin involve the cost + Of Carlsbad, like as not + 'Tis better to have loved and lost,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, + Where my compatriots dwell, + All kinds of victuals have I tried, + All kinds of drinks, as well; + But nothing known to Yankee art + Appears to reach _the spot_ + Like this Teutonic onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide + As full as I can hold, + And for complete reform inside + Plank down my horde of gold, + Remorse shall not consume my heart, + Nor sorrow vex my lot, + For I have eaten onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + + + +GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE. + + + IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, + And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny: + The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, + The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,--all give me keen delight; + And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen + A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine. + + Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown + Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town. + 'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,-- + Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,-- + And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, + And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine. + + Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown; + For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town." + The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess + When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress: + To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between, + Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine. + + With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end + (The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!); + And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise, + Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes; + For grandma knew a thing or two,--by which remark I mean + That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine. + + I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle + With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile. + It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round, + That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found. + How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen! + And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine. + + But there _were_ those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect + gown; + For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town: + The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!" + The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split; + Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, _she_ turned a bilious green, + When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine. + + But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,-- + The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign. + Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, + And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown; + But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!" + Yet evermore my grandma wore _his_ favorite bombazine. + + And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,-- + Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs! + Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing, + And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous + thing. + 'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene; + And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine. + + Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,-- + The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart. + This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair, + Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear. + Yet wear it, _do_; perchance when you and I are off the scene, + Our boy shall sing _this_ comely thing as _I_ the bombazine. + + + + +RARE ROAST BEEF. + + + WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir + Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair; + When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head, + Filling _bon vivants_ and epicures with certain nameless dread; + When _any_ ill of body or of intellect abounds, + Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,-- + In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief + That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef. + + And even when the body's in the very prime of health, + When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth, + And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more, + And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,-- + Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side, + And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied, + Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief, + And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef. + + Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,-- + 'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest; + Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour + Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more; + The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour; + Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour, + And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf + Of that glorious _summum bonum_, rare roast beef. + + Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife, + How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life! + Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,-- + Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab? + Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam, + A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream! + Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief! + Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef. + + Most every kind and rôle of modern victuals have I tried, + Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried, + Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese, + Your patties _à la_ Turkey and your doughnuts _à la_ grease; + I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls, + And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls; + But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief + And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef. + + I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood, + Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood; + And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast, + Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (_feste Burg_) and host; + For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath, + Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path. + So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef + When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. + + + + +GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT. + + + I WAS just a little thing + When a fairy came and kissed me; + Floating in upon the light + Of a haunted summer night, + Lo! the fairies came to sing + Pretty slumber songs, and bring + Certain boons that else had missed me. + From a dream I turned to see + What those strangers brought for me, + When that fairy up and kissed me,-- + Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me! + + Simmerdew was there, but she + Did not like me altogether; + Daisybright and Turtledove, + Pilfercurds and Honeylove, + Thistleblow and Amberglee + On that gleaming, ghostly sea + Floated from the misty heather, + And around my trundle-bed + Frisked and looked and whispering said, + Solemn-like and all together: + "_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!" + + Ganderfeather kissed me then,-- + Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! + No attenuate sprite was he, + But as buxom as could be; + Kissed me twice and once again, + And the others shouted when + On my cheek uprose a berry + Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, + But the kiss-mark of that chap + Ganderfeather, passing merry,-- + Humorsome but kindly, very! + + I was just a tiny thing + When the prankish Ganderfeather + Brought this curious gift to me + With his fairy kisses three; + Yet with honest pride I sing + That same gift he chose to bring + Out of yonder haunted heather; + Other charms and friendships fly,-- + Constant friends this mole and I, + Who have been so long together! + Thank you, little Ganderfeather! + + + + +OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE. + + + THERE are no days like the good old days,-- + The days when we were youthful! + When humankind were pure of mind, + And speech and deeds were truthful; + Before a love for sordid gold + Became man's ruling passion, + And before each dame and maid became + Slave to the tyrant fashion! + + There are no girls like the good old girls,-- + Against the world I'd stake 'em! + As buxom and smart and clean of heart + As the Lord knew how to make 'em! + They were rich in spirit and common-sense, + And piety all supportin'; + They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, + And they made such likely courtin'! + + There are no boys like the good old boys,-- + When _we_ were boys together! + When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet + That dimpled the laughing heather; + When the pewee sung to the summer dawn + Of the bee in the billowy clover, + Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will + Echoed his night song over. + + There is no love like the good old love,-- + The love that mother gave us! + We are old, old men, yet we pine again + For that precious grace,--God save us! + So we dream and dream of the good old times, + And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, + As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams + Of heaven away off yonder. + + + + +OUR WHIPPINGS. + + + COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys + As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise! + Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show + The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; + What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,-- + Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,--oh, my! + + The way that we played hookey those many years ago, + We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know! + The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,-- + Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold! + How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his + He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"! + It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,-- + Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though! + + We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, + And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; + How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,-- + But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand; + And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed, + Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red. + Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert + The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt! + + For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild + That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; + And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she + Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: + But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- + Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry! + Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, + For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did! + + In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, + But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! + Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: + "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" + Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,-- + What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! + Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, + With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt! + + The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest + Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; + Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight + The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night. + The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways + That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times. + + + + +BION'S SONG OF EROS. + + + EROS is the god of love; + He and I are hand-in-glove. + All the gentle, gracious Muses + Follow Eros where he leads, + And they bless the bard who chooses + To proclaim love's famous deeds; + Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- + That is why they're good to me. + + Sometimes I have gone astray + From love's sunny, flowery way: + How I floundered, how I stuttered! + And, deprived of ways and means, + What egregious rot I uttered,-- + Such as suits the magazines! + I was rescued only when + Eros called me back again. + + Gods forefend that I should shun + That benignant Mother's son! + Why, the poet who refuses + To emblazon love's delights + Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- + Then what balderdash he writes! + I love Love; which being so, + See how smooth my verses flow! + + Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- + I will follow while I may: + Be thy path by hill or hollow, + I will follow fast and free; + And when I'm too old to follow, + I will sit and sing of thee,-- + Potent still in intellect, + Sit, and sing, and retrospect. + + + + +MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE. + + + THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; + And the time I remember's the evening I met + A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown + Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: + A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, + And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; + He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, + But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: + I felt that he honored and flattered me when + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I wonder that never again since that night + A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; + I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill + That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: + I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; + But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; + To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, + With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, + These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: + "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." + + + + +POET AND KING. + + + THOUGH I am king, I have no throne + Save this rough wooden siege alone; + I have no empire, yet my sway + Extends a myriad leagues away; + No servile vassal bends his knee + In grovelling reverence to me, + Yet at my word all hearts beat high, + And there is fire in every eye, + And love and gratitude they bring + As tribute unto me, a king. + + The folk that throng the busy street + Know not it is a king they meet; + And I am glad there is not seen + The monarch in my face and mien. + I should not choose to be the cause + Of fawning or of coarse applause: + I am content to know the arts + Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; + For when unto their hearts I sing, + I am a king, I am a king! + + My sceptre,--see, it is a pen! + Wherewith I rule these hearts of men. + Sometime it pleaseth to beguile + Its monarch fancy with a smile; + Sometime it is athirst for tears: + And so adown the laurelled years + I walk, the noblest lord on earth, + Dispensing sympathy and mirth. + Aha! it is a magic thing + That makes me what I am,--a king! + + Let empires crumble as they may, + Proudly I hold imperial sway; + The sunshine and the rain of years + Are human smiles and human tears + That come or vanish at my call,-- + I am the monarch of them all! + Mindful alone of this am I: + The songs I sing shall never die; + Not even envious Death can wring + His glory from so great a king. + + Come, brother, be a king with me, + And rule mankind eternally; + Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, + Defend the truth, combat the wrong! + You'll find no sceptre like the pen + To hold and sway the hearts of men; + Its edicts flow in blood and tears + That will outwash the flood of years: + So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing! + And be with me a king, a king! + + + + +LYDIA DICK. + + + WHEN I was a boy at college, + Filling up with classic knowledge, + Frequently I wondered why + Old Professor Demas Bentley + Used to praise so eloquently + "Opera Horatii." + + Toiling on a season longer + Till my reasoning powers 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 hers 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. + + Maybe 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 siècle_ 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. + + + + +LIZZIE. + + + I WONDER ef all wimmin air + Like Lizzie is when we go out + To theaters an' concerts where + Is things the papers talk about. + Do other wimmin fret an' stew + Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- + Frettin' a show or concert through, + With wonderin' ef the baby cried? + + Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there + To see that everything is right; + Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care + Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. + Yet what am I to answer when + She kind uv fidgets at my side, + An' asks me every now an' then, + "I wonder ef the baby cried"? + + Seems like she seen two little eyes + A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; + Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries + Uv one she thinks uv all the while; + An' so she's sorry that she come. + An' though she allus tries to hide + The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum + Than wonder ef the baby cried. + + Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- + By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; + There never wuz a little tyke, + But that his mother loved him best. + And nex' to bein' what I be-- + The husband uv my gentle bride-- + I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, + With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. + + + + +LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE. + + + AFTER dear old grandma died, + Hunting through an oaken chest + In the attic, we espied + What repaid our childish quest: + 'Twas a homely little slate, + Seemingly of ancient date. + + On its quaint and battered face + Was the picture of a cart + Drawn with all that awkward grace + Which betokens childish art. + But what meant this legend, pray: + "Homer drew this yesterday"? + + Mother recollected then + What the years were fain to hide: + She was but a baby when + Little Homer lived and died. + Forty years, so mother said, + Little Homer had been dead. + + This one secret through those years + Grandma kept from all apart, + Hallowed by her lonely tears + And the breaking of her heart; + While each year that sped away + Seemed to her but yesterday. + + So the homely little slate + Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, + To a memory consecrate, + Lieth in the oaken chest, + Where, unwilling we should know, + Grandma put it years ago. + + + + +ALWAYS RIGHT. + + + DON'T take on so, Hiram, + But do what you're told to do; + It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows + A heap sight more than you. + I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way + Don't seem the wisest, quite; + But the _easiest_ way, + When she's had her say, + Is to reckon yer mother is right. + + Courted her ten long winters, + Saw her to singin'-school; + When she went down one spell to town, + I cried like a durned ol' fool; + Got mad at the boys for callin' + When I sparked her Sunday night: + But she said she knew + A thing or two,-- + An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right. + + I courted till I wuz aging, + And she wuz past her prime,-- + I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes + When I popped f'r the hundredth time. + Said she'd never have took me + If I hadn't stuck so tight; + Opined that we + Could never agree,-- + And I reckon yer mother wuz right! + + + + +"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!" + + + WHERE my true love abideth + I make my way to-night; + Lo! waiting, she + Espieth me, + And calleth in delight: + "I see his steed anear + Come trotting with my dear,-- + Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, + Trot thou my lover here!" + + Aloose I cast the bridle, + And ply the whip and spur; + And gayly I + Speed this reply, + While faring on to her: + "Oh, true love, fear thou not! + I seek our trysting spot; + And double feed be yours, my steed, + If you more swiftly trot." + + I vault from out the saddle, + And make my good steed fast; + Then to my breast + My love is pressed,-- + At last, true heart, at last! + The garden drowsing lies, + The stars fold down their eyes,-- + In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, + Nor stamp in restless wise! + + O passing sweet communion + Of young hearts, warm and true! + To thee belongs + The old, old songs + Love finds forever new. + We sing those songs, and then + Cometh the moment when + It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,-- + Trot, trot me home again!" + + + + +PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG. + + + WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago, + Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; + And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, + With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,-- + A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read + The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said: + "The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; + You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog." + + McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name + Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame. + A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,-- + Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup! + The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green + Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen; + And my proud name was heralded,--oh that I'd gone incog. + When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog! + + Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town? + Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down! + The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said + The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead, + And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest + The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast; + For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog + When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog. + + They never came at all,--aha! I knew it all the time,-- + They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime. + Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first! + Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst! + But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night, + When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's + blight,-- + When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog + For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog! + + Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro, + Ejaculating platitudes that were quite _mal à propos_; + And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot + Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot. + I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt, + If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front; + But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log + When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog. + + We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,-- + For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track? + "Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame, + What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!" + Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties + 'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies; + But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,-- + 'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog. + + So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,-- + And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same. + Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies! + The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies. + So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware! + Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare; + Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog, + But never go to Providence to try it on a dog. + + + + +GETTIN' ON. + + + WHEN I wuz somewhat younger, + I wuz reckoned purty gay; + I had my fling at everything + In a rollickin', coltish way. + But times have strangely altered + Since sixty years ago-- + This age of steam an' things don't seem + Like the age I used to know. + Your modern innovations + Don't suit me, I confess, + As did the ways of the good ol' days,-- + But I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + I set on the piazza, + An' hitch round with the sun; + Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, + Waitin' till school is done. + An' then I tell the children + The things I done in youth,-- + An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man, + I stick to the honest truth,-- + But the looks of them 'at listen + Seem sometimes to express + The remote idee that I'm gone--you see?-- + An' I _am_ gettin' on, I guess. + + I get up in the mornin', + An', nothin' else to do, + Before the rest are up an' dressed, + I read the papers through. + I hang round with the women + All day an' hear 'em talk; + An' while they sew or knit I show + The baby how to walk. + An', somehow, I feel sorry + When they put away his dress + An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + Sometimes, with twilight round me, + I see, or seem to see, + A distant shore where friends of yore + Linger an' watch for me. + Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' + So tender-like 'nd low + That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, + Or an echo of long ago; + An' sometimes on my forehead + There falls a soft caress, + Or the touch of a hand,--you understand,-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + + + +THE SCHNELLEST ZUG. + + + FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way, + Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day; + You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night + Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight; + From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,--of that I'll not complain,-- + But from Hanover to Magdeburg--confound that schnellest train! + + The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster + yet,-- + In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met! + Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go, + While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow; + And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain + That one _can't_ know what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest + train! + + Fool that I was! I should have walked,--I had no time to waste; + The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,-- + The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart, + And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art, + The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,-- + These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train. + + The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear + The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer); + I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops + Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops, + Whilst _I_ crouched in a corner, a monument to woe, + And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow! + And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that + train,-- + The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain, + Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts + Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts! + The husbands strut in soldier garb,--indeed _they_ were too vain + To let creation see _them_ work from that creeping schnellest train! + + I found the German language all too feeble to convey + The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day; + I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint + Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print, + But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brain + While snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train. + + The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro, + The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O., + The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things, + The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings, + The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,-- + All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake! + My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime, + Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time; + From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mile + By "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while; + Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain, + But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest + train! + + + + +BETHLEHEM-TOWN. + + + AS I was going to Bethlehem-town, + Upon the earth I cast me down + All underneath a little tree + That whispered in this wise to me: + "Oh, I shall stand on Calvary + And bear what burthen saveth thee!" + + As up I fared to Bethlehem-town, + I met a shepherd coming down, + And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight + Hath spread before mine eyes this night,-- + An angel host most fair to see, + That sung full sweetly of a tree + That shall uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth you and me!" + + And as I gat to Bethlehem-town, + Lo! wise men came that bore a crown. + "Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem + A King shall wear this diadem?" + "Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He + That shall be lifted on the tree + And freely shed on Calvary + What blood redeemeth us and thee!" + + Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town + The wise men came and brought the crown; + And while the infant smiling slept, + Upon their knees they fell and wept; + But, with her babe upon her knee, + Naught recked that Mother of the tree, + That should uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth all and me. + + Again I walk in Bethlehem-town + And think on Him that wears the crown. + I may not kiss His feet again, + Nor worship Him as did I then; + My King hath died upon the tree, + And hath outpoured on Calvary + What blood redeemeth you and me! + + + + +THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME. + + + DEAREST, how hard it is to say + That all is for the best, + Since, sometimes, in a grievous way + God's will is manifest. + + See with what hearty, noisy glee + Our little ones to-night + Dance round and round our Christmas-tree + With pretty toys bedight. + + Dearest, one voice they may not hear, + One face they may not see,-- + Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer + Cometh to you and me? + + Cometh before our misty eyes + That other little face; + And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, + That love in the old embrace. + + Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, + Bringing His peace to men; + And He bringeth to you and to me the light + Of the old, old years again: + + Bringeth the peace of long ago + When a wee one clasped your knee + And lisped of the morrow,--dear one, you know,-- + And here come back is he! + + Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say + That all is for the best, + For, often in a grievous way, + God's will is manifest. + + But in the grace of this holy night + That bringeth us back our child, + Let us see that the ways of God are right, + And so be reconciled. + + + + +THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE. + + + IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth, + And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth; + And my career + From year to year + Was full of cheer + And things, + Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings; + But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene! + Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene: + Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart, + Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte. + In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me, + She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,-- + Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to + t'other, + The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother. + Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth + Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth. + If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart, + What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte? + + In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, + But now you see + Revealed in me + The gloomiest bard on earth. + I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, + But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife. + Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate, + One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: + This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart + Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, + Delsarte. + + Where'er she goes, + She loves to pose, + In classic attitudes, + And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; + And she, my child, + Who all so wild, + So helpless and so sweet, + That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, + Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, + Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. + Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, + And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte. + + In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; + Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; + But now these wise + Folks criticise + My figure and my face, + And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. + Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek + Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,-- + With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part + Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte. + + Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, + When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more. + Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; + The old-time bard + Of pork and lard + Is plainly out of sight. + All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, + While Lachesis brews + For the poor old Muse + A portion of scalding soup. + Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: + "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter + learned Delsarte." + + + + +BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT. + + + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- + These three bloomed in a garden spot; + And once, all merry with song and play, + A little one heard three voices say: + "Shine or shadow, summer or spring, + O thou child with the tangled hair + And laughing eyes, we three shall bring + Each an offering, passing fair!" + The little one did not understand; + But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. + + Buttercup gambolled all day long, + Sharing the little one's mirth and song; + Then, stealing along on misty gleams, + Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, + Playing and dreaming, that was all, + Till once the sleeper would not awake; + Kissing the little face under the pall, + We thought of the words the third flower spake, + And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot, + The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. + + Buttercup shareth the joy of day, + Glinting with gold the hours of play; + Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, + When the hands would fold and the eyes would close. + And after it all,--the play and the sleep + Of a little life,--what cometh then? + To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep, + A wee flower bringeth God's peace again: + Each one serveth its tender lot,-- + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +A midi file of the music on the first page is available in the HTML edition +of this text. + +Page ix, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 31874-0.txt or 31874-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/8/7/31874/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + +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. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/31874-0.zip b/31874-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b6419e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/31874-0.zip diff --git a/31874-8.txt b/31874-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ede2ea8 --- /dev/null +++ b/31874-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5208 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, 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: Second Book of Verse + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: April 3, 2010 [EBook #31874] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + + + + + + + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + + + + +BY EUGENE FIELD + + + Second Book of Tales. + Songs and Other Verse. + The Holy Cross and Other Tales. + The House. + The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. + A Little Book Of Profitable Tales. + A Little Book of Western Verse. + Second Book of Verse. + Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25 + A Little Book of Profitable Tales. + Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. + Echoes from the Sabine Farm. + 4to, $2.00 + With Trumpet and Drum. + 16mo, $1.00. + Love Songs of Childhood. + 16mo, $1.00. + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + +BY + +EUGENE FIELD + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + 1896 + + + + + _Copyright, 1892_, + + BY JULIA SUTHERLAND FIELD. + + + _A little bit of a woman came + Athwart my path one day; + So tiny was she that she seemed to be + A pixy strayed from the misty sea, + Or a wandering greenwood fay._ + + _"Oho, you little elf!" I cried, + "And what are you doing here? + So tiny as you will never do + For the brutal rush and hullaballoo + Of this practical world, I fear."_ + + _"Voice have I, good sir," said she.-- + "'Tis soft as an Angel's sigh, + But to fancy a word of yours were heard + In all the din of this world's absurd!" + Smiling, I made reply._ + + _"Hands have I, good sir" she quoth.-- + "Marry, and that have you! + But amid the strife and the tumult rife + In all the struggle and battle for life, + What can those wee hands do?"_ + + _"Eyes have I, good sir," she said.-- + "Sooth, you have," quoth I, + "And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow, + And they betimes shall dim with woe, + As the hard, hard years go by!"_ + + _That little bit of a woman cast + Her two eyes full on me, + And they smote me sore to my inmost core, + And they hold me slaved forevermore,-- + Yet would I not be free!_ + + _That little bit of a woman's hands + Reached up into my breast + And rent apart my scoffing heart,-- + And they buffet it still with such sweet art + As cannot be expressed._ + + _That little bit of a woman's voice + Hath grown most wondrous dear; + Above the blare of all elsewhere + (An inspiration that mocks at care) + It riseth full and clear._ + + _Dear one, I bless the subtle power + That makes me wholly thine; + And I'm proud to say that I bless the day + When a little woman wrought her way + Into this life of mine!_ + + + + +The Verse in this Second Book. + + + PAGE + + FATHER'S WAY 1 + + TO MY MOTHER 5 + + KÖRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER 7 + + GOSLING STEW 9 + + CATULLUS TO LESBIA 12 + + JOHN SMITH 13 + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE 22 + + THE SINGING IN GOD'S-ACRE 25 + + DEAR OLD LONDON 28 + + CORSICAN LULLABY (Folk-Song) 33 + + THE CLINK OF THE ICE 35 + + BELLS OF NOTRE DAME 39 + + LOVER'S LANE, ST. JO 41 + + CRUMPETS AND TEA 44 + + AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS 47 + + INTRY-MINTRY 48 + + MODJESKY AS CAMEEL 51 + + TELLING THE BEES 60 + + THE TEA-GOWN 62 + + DOCTORS 64 + + BARBARA 69 + + THE CAFÉ MOLINEAU 72 + + HOLLY AND IVY 75 + + THE BOLTONS, 22 77 + + DIBDIN'S GHOST 83 + + THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 87 + + THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD 91 + + AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 96 + + PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 103 + + ASHES ON THE SLIDE 106 + + THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS 110 + + CHRISTMAS EVE 113 + + CARLSBAD 115 + + THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 120 + + RED 122 + + JEWISH LULLABY 124 + + AT CHEYENNE 126 + + THE NAUGHTY DOLL 128 + + THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 131 + + TEENY-WEENY 134 + + TELKA 137 + + PLAINT OF A MISSOURI 'COON 146 + + ARMENIAN LULLABY 151 + + THE PARTRIDGE 153 + + CORINTHIAN HALL 156 + + THE RED, RED WEST 162 + + THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE 165 + + IPSWICH 167 + + BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS 170 + + FIDUCIT (from the German) 175 + + THE "ST. JO GAZETTE" 177 + + IN AMSTERDAM 183 + + TO THE PASSING SAINT 186 + + THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 188 + + NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT (Slumber Song) 191 + + THE ONION TART 193 + + GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE 197 + + RARE ROAST BEEF 203 + + GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT 208 + + OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE 211 + + OUR WHIPPINGS 213 + + BION'S SONG OF EROS 218 + + MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 220 + + POET AND KING 222 + + LYDIA DICK 225 + + LIZZIE 229 + + LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE 231 + + ALWAYS RIGHT 233 + + "TROT, MY GOOD STEED" (Volkslied) 235 + + PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG 237 + + GETTIN' ON 242 + + THE SCHNELLEST ZUG 245 + + BETHLEHEM-TOWN 250 + + THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 252 + + DOINGS OF DELSARTE 254 + + BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 259 + + + + +Second Book of Verse. + + + + +FATHER'S WAY. + + + MY father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,-- + Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. + He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,-- + I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; + But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue, + He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,-- + +[Illustration: Music] + + Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, + Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know; + He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way + But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay." + And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth + There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth. + + When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down + To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. + A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, + And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake! + But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, + Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low. + + And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West, + Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. + She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say + It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away; + But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, + Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers. + + When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, + He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; + And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so, + How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe! + You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,-- + He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it. + + I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,-- + To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men. + Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, + And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! + Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, + When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know! + + + + +TO MY MOTHER. + + + HOW fair you are, my mother! + Ah, though 't is many a year + Since you were here, + Still do I see your beauteous face, + And with the glow + Of your dark eyes cometh a grace + Of long ago. + So gentle, too, my mother! + Just as of old, upon my brow, + Like benedictions now, + Falleth your dear hand's touch; + And still, as then, + A voice that glads me over-much + Cometh again, + My fair and gentle mother! + + How you have loved me, mother, + I have not power to tell, + Knowing full well + That even in the rest above + It is your will + To watch and guard me with your love, + Loving me still. + And, as of old, my mother, + I am content to be a child, + By mother's love beguiled + From all these other charms; + So to the last + Within thy dear, protecting arms + Hold thou me fast, + My guardian angel, mother! + + + + +KÖRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER. + + + FATHER, I cry to Thee! + Round me the billows of battle are pouring, + Round me the thunders of battle are roaring; + Father on high, hear Thou my cry,-- + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious,-- + See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious; + Point Thou the way, lead where it may,-- + God, I acknowledge Thee! + + God, I acknowledge Thee! + As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me, + So, when the horrors of war would confound me, + Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near,-- + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + Living or dying, waking or sleeping, + Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping: + Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me! + Father, I worship Thee! + + Father, I worship Thee! + Not for the love of the riches that perish, + But for the freedom and justice we cherish, + Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all-- + God, I submit to Thee! + + God, I submit to Thee! + Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me, + Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me, + Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee,-- + Father, I cry to Thee! + + + + +GOSLING STEW. + + + IN Oberhausen, on a time, + I fared as might a king; + And now I feel the muse sublime + Inspire me to embalm in rhyme + That succulent and sapid thing + Behight of gentile and of Jew + A gosling stew! + + The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best,-- + Soup, cutlet, salad, roast,-- + And I partook with hearty zest, + And fervently anon I blessed + That generous and benignant host, + When suddenly dawned on my view + A gosling stew! + + I sniffed it coming on apace, + And as its odors filled + The curious little dining-place, + I felt a glow suffuse my face, + I felt my very marrow thrilled + With rapture altogether new,-- + 'Twas gosling stew! + + These callow birds had never played + In yonder village pond; + Had never through the gateway strayed, + And plaintive spissant music made + Upon the grassy green beyond: + Cooped up, they simply ate and grew + For gosling stew! + + My doctor said I mustn't eat + High food and seasoned game; + But surely gosling is a meat + With tender nourishment replete. + Leastwise I gayly ate this same; + I braved dyspepsy--wouldn't you + For gosling stew? + + I've feasted where the possums grow, + Roast turkey have I tried, + The joys of canvasbacks I know, + And frequently I've eaten crow + In bleak and chill Novembertide; + I'd barter all that native crew + For gosling stew! + + And when from Rhineland I adjourn + To seek my Yankee shore, + Back shall my memory often turn, + And fiercely shall my palate burn + For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more,-- + Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew + A gosling stew! + + Vain are these keen regrets of mine, + And vain the song I sing; + Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine + To Oberhausen auf der Rhine, + Where fared I like a very king: + And here's a last and fond adieu + To gosling stew! + + + + +CATULLUS TO LESBIA. + + + COME, my Lesbia, no repining; + Let us love while yet we may! + Suns go on forever shining; + But when we have had our day, + Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us, + And no morrow's dawn awake us. + + Come, in yonder nook reclining, + Where the honeysuckle climbs, + Let us mock at Fate's designing, + Let us kiss a thousand times! + And if they shall prove too few, dear, + When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear! + + And should any chance to see us, + Goodness! how they'll agonize! + How they'll wish that they could be us, + Kissing in such liberal wise! + Never mind their envious whining; + Come, my Lesbia, no repining! + + + + +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 hand-clasp 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 telltale dialect, that instantly I may + Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A." + + It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell ago + Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd _bona-fide_ schoolma'ams grow; + Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills, + And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd 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, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know + In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow; + Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn + Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters 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 the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night, + Whar blooms the furtive possum,--pride an' glory of the South! + And anty 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,-- + H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "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 '69 + In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine? + Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side, + And talked 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 mountains 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-singin' 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, + His 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." + + + + +ST. MARTIN'S LANE. + + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill, + And trends a devious way; + I walk therein amid the din + Of busy London day: + I walk where wealth and squalor meet, + And think upon a time + When others trod this saintly sod, + And heard St. Martin's chime. + + But when those solemn bells invoke + The midnight's slumbrous grace, + The ghosts of men come back again + To haunt that curious place: + The ghosts of sages, poets, wits, + Come back in goodly train; + And all night long, with mirth and song, + They walk St. Martin's Lane. + + There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray, + Maginn and Thomas Moore, + And here and there and everywhere + Fraserians by the score; + And one wee ghost that climbs the hill + Is welcomed with a shout,-- + No king could be revered as he,-- + The _padre_, Father Prout! + + They banter up and down the street, + And clamor at the door + Of yonder inn, which once has been + The scene of mirth galore: + 'Tis now a lonely, musty shell, + Deserted, like to fall; + And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks, + And iterates their call. + + Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host, + From Pluto's misty shore; + Renew to-night the keen delight + Of by-gone years once more; + Brew for this merry, motley horde, + And serve the steaming cheer; + And grant that I may lurk hard by, + To see the mirth, and hear. + + Ah, me! I dream what things may seem + To others childish vain, + And yet at night 'tis my delight + To walk St. Martin's Lane; + For, in the light of other days, + I walk with those I love, + And all the time St. Martin's chime + Makes piteous moan above. + + + + +THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE. + + + OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, + Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. + Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low, + As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd guardeth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight, + And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; + And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong + The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + He that guardeth His flock the best + Hath folded them to His loving breast; + So sleep ye now, and take your rest,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song, + And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along; + So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify, + God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + + + +DEAR OLD LONDON. + + + WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89, + I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,-- + "A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to look + Upon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book! + A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,-- + The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be; + And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89! + + Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day, + A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,-- + A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago, + Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know). + A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,-- + That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob; + But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore, + And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store. + Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command, + But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand. + Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,-- + It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot; + Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline? + For I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap + That Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap; + And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass, + And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass! + And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates, + The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates! + Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,-- + The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the + eye,-- + The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime, + The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time, + The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play, + And other costly relics of malodorous decay,-- + Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward, + Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record; + Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue, + Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung; + But in plain Anglo-Saxon--that he may know who seeks + What agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks-- + Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line: + "Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89." + + + + +CORSICAN LULLABY. + + + BAMBINO in his cradle slept; + And by his side his grandam grim + Bent down and smiled upon the child, + And sung this lullaby to him,-- + This "ninna and anninia": + + "When thou art older, thou shalt mind + To traverse countries far and wide, + And thou shalt go where roses blow + And balmy waters singing glide-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, + A famous jacket edged in red, + And, more than that, a peaked hat, + All decked in gold, upon thy head-- + Ah! ninna and anninia! + + "Then shalt thou carry gun and knife. + Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; + Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, + A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "No woman yet of our proud race + Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; + The brazen churl that eyed a girl + Bought her the ring or paid his head-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "But once came spies (I know the thieves!) + And brought disaster to our race; + God heard us when our fifteen men + Were hanged within the market-place-- + But ninna and anninia! + + "Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- + Right worthy fellows all, and strong; + Live thou and be for them and me + Avenger of that deadly wrong-- + So ninna and anninia!" + + + + +THE CLINK OF THE ICE. + + + NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone + Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known. + When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head + Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; + When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, + And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a + buffalo hide,-- + How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall + At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall! + + Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name, + That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame? + Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire, + That presently by combustion setteth us all afire? + Or is it the cheery magnum?--nay, I'll not chide the cup + That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up: + Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,-- + Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for + all. + + I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame, + And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same; + And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire + To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire; + I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and + screamed,-- + In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human + dreamed: + But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink + When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink. + + Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup? + Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up! + See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove + To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen + stove! + The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and + through: + An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.! + And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret + That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat. + + May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drink + That happens along at five A. M. with its rapturous clinkety-clink! + I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat + But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote; + So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem + For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five A. M., + But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall + Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall. + + + + +THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME. + + + WHAT though the radiant thoroughfare + Teems with a noisy throng? + What though men bandy everywhere + The ribald jest and song? + Over the din of oaths and cries + Broodeth a wondrous calm, + And mid that solemn stillness rise + The bells of Notre Dame. + + "Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, + "Thy weak and erring child; + And thou, O gentle Mother, pray + That God be reconciled; + And on mankind, O Christ, our King, + Pour out Thy gracious balm,"-- + 'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing, + Those bells of Notre Dame. + + And so, methinks, God, bending down + To ken the things of earth, + Heeds not the mockery of the town + Or cries of ribald mirth; + For ever soundeth in His ears + A penitential psalm,-- + 'T is thy angelic voice He hears, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice + May still forever be + An intercession to rejoice + Benign divinity; + And that thy tuneful grace may fall + Like dew, a quickening balm, + Upon the arid hearts of all, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + + + +LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO. + + + SAINT JO, Buchanan County, + Is leagues and leagues away; + And I sit in the gloom of this rented room, + And pine to be there to-day. + Yes, with London fog around me + And the bustling to and fro, + I am fretting to be across the sea + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + I would have a brown-eyed maiden + Go driving once again; + And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along, + That I sung to that maiden then: + I purposely say, "as we _snailed_ along," + For a proper horse goes slow + In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles, + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + From her boudoir in the alders + Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush, + And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way, + To the noisy cricket, "Hush!" + To think that the curious creature + Should crane her neck to know + The various things one says and sings + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + But the maples they should shield us + From the gossips of the place; + Nor should the sun, except by pun, + Profane the maiden's face; + And the girl should do the driving, + For a fellow can't, you know, + Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectful + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Ah! sweet the hours of springtime, + When the heart inclines to woo, + And it's deemed all right for the callow wight + To do what he wants to do; + But cruel the age of winter, + When the way of the world says no + To the hoary men who would woo again + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + In the Union Bank of London + Are forty pounds or more, + Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end, + In an antiquarian store; + But I'd give it all, and gladly, + If for an hour or so + I could feel the grace of a distant place,-- + Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Let us sit awhile, beloved, + And dream of the good old days,-- + Of the kindly shade which the maples made + Round the stanch but squeaky chaise; + With your head upon my shoulder, + And my arm about you so, + Though exiles, we shall seem to be + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + + + +CRUMPETS AND TEA. + + + THERE are happenings in life that are destined to rise + Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes; + And the passage of years shall not dim in the least + The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,-- + The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,-- + My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, + And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. + + There are cynics who say with invidious zest + That a crumpet's a thing that will never digest; + But I happen to _know_ that a crumpet is prime + For digestion, if only you give it its time. + Or if, by a chance, it should _not_ quite agree, + Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee + For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea? + + To toast crumpets quite _à la mode_, I require + A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; + And when they are browned, without further ado, + I put on the butter, that soaks through and through. + And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, + Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three; + And so we sit down to our crumpets--and tea. + + A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,-- + Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit + Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, + Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. + (It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, + That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we + Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) + + The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak + Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; + Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell + Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell; + Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, + And purchase for sixpence enough for us three, + Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. + + But soon--ah! too soon--I must bid a farewell + To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, + Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore + That's filled me with colic and--yearnings for more! + Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea + Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh + And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea. + + Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes + That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise. + My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change, + Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range; + But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be + In London again with Teresa and Leigh, + Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea! + + + + +AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS. + + + THROUGH all my life the poor shall find + In me a constant friend; + And on the meek of every kind + My mercy shall attend. + + The dumb shall never call on me + In vain for kindly aid; + And in my hands the blind shall see + A bounteous alms displayed. + + In all their walks the lame shall know + And feel my goodness near; + And on the deaf will I bestow + My gentlest words of cheer. + + 'Tis by such pious works as these, + Which I delight to do, + That men their fellow-creatures please, + And please their Maker too. + + + + +INTRY-MINTRY. + + + WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Once as these children were hard at play, + An old man, hoary and tottering, came + And watched them playing their pretty game. + He seemed to wonder, while standing there, + What the meaning thereof could be. + Aha, but the old man yearned to share + Of the little children's innocent glee, + As they circled around with laugh and shout, + And told this rhyme at counting out: + "Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest." + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Ah, the mirth of that summer day! + 'Twas Father Time who had come to share + The innocent joy of those children there. + He learned betimes the game they played, + And into their sport with them went he,-- + How _could_ the children have been afraid, + Since little they recked who he might be? + They laughed to hear old Father Time + Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme + Of intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest. + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, + And joy of summer,--where are they? + The grim old man still standeth near, + Crooning the song of a far-off year; + And into the winter I come alone, + Cheered by that mournful requiem, + Soothed by the dolorous monotone + That shall count me off as it counted them,-- + The solemn voice of old Father Time, + Chanting the homely nursery rhyme + He learned of the children a summer morn, + When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn," + Life was full of the dulcet cheer + That bringeth the grace of heaven anear: + The sound of the little ones hard at play,-- + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. + + + + +MODJESKY AS CAMEEL. + + + AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand, + Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land; + And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81, + Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun, + We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth, + And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health. + You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago; + (An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!) + Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal + Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel. + + Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go + To call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show. + "The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen, + And I reckon there is more for _me_ in some other kind uv queen." + "Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find + A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind? + You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more, + An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score, + Only to come down here among us _tong_ an' say you feel + You'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!" + + But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play, + With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both de_kolly_tay. + A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' + wealthy,-- + She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy. + She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind, + And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind + Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break, + And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake. + "Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor, + And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more. + + At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game, + And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same. + I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,-- + Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!" + He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen, + And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men; + Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer, + An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear; + And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel, + An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel. + + A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three, + And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see. + He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lick + Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick + To clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said. + He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red, + But good to helpless folks and weak,--a brave and manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + "Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow, + But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow; + So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,-- + Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,-- + I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night + To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white, + Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true, + Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you, + Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts, + Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no _onter acts_." + + I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout + That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect, + Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,-- + A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I come + Out West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum), + Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to sway + The popular opinion in a most persuasive way. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more, + Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door. + + First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to go + And see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low; + An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock, + An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block; + John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write, + And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight; + Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too; + And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do. + Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then; + Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again. + + I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in, + A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!" + I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,-- + They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break! + An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base, + I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face. + I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong + In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long. + I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,-- + And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day! + + I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again. + She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then. + An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill be + About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,-- + A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel; + He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal; + Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + + + +TELLING THE BEES. + + + OUT of the house where the slumberer lay + Grandfather came one summer day, + And under the pleasant orchard trees + He spake this wise to the murmuring bees: + "The clover-bloom that kissed her feet + And the posie-bed where she used to play + Have honey store, but none so sweet + As ere our little one went away. + O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low; + For she is gone who loved you so." + + A wonder fell on the listening bees + Under those pleasant orchard trees, + And in their toil that summer day + Ever their murmuring seemed to say: + "Child, O child, the grass is cool, + And the posies are waking to hear the song + Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, + Waiting for one that tarrieth long." + 'Twas so they called to the little one then, + As if to call her back again. + + O gentle bees, I have come to say + That grandfather fell asleep to-day, + And we know by the smile on grandfather's face + He has found his dear one's biding-place. + So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low, + As over the honey-fields you sweep,-- + To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow + Sing of grandfather fast asleep; + And ever beneath these orchard trees + Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees. + + + + +THE TEA-GOWN. + + + MY lady has a tea-gown + That is wondrous fair to see,-- + It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, + As a tea-gown ought to be; + And I thought she must be jesting + Last night at supper when + She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, + And had cost but two pounds ten. + + Had she told me fifty shillings, + I might (and wouldn't you?) + Have referred to that dress in a way folks express + By an eloquent dash or two; + But the guileful little creature + Knew well her tactics when + She casually said that that dream in red + Had cost but two pounds ten. + + Yet our home is all the brighter + For that dainty, sensient thing, + That floats away where it properly may, + And clings where it ought to cling; + And I count myself the luckiest + Of all us married men + That I have a wife whose joy in life + Is a gown at two pounds ten. + + It isn't the gown compels me + Condone this venial sin; + It's the pretty face above the lace, + And the gentle heart within. + And with her arms about me + I say, and say again, + "'Twas wondrous cheap,"--and I think a heap + Of that gown at two pounds ten! + + + + +DOCTORS. + + + 'Tis quite the thing to say and sing + Gross libels on the doctor,-- + To picture him an ogre grim + Or humbug-pill concocter; + Yet it's in quite another light + My friendly pen would show him, + Glad that it may with verse repay + Some part of what I owe him. + + When one's all right, he's prone to spite + The doctor's peaceful mission; + But when he's sick, it's loud and quick + He bawls for a physician. + With other things, the doctor brings + Sweet babes, our hearts to soften: + Though I have four, I pine for more,-- + Good doctor, pray come often! + + What though he sees death and disease + Run riot all around him? + Patient and true, and valorous too, + Such have I always found him. + Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes; + And when skill's unavailing, + And death is near, his words of cheer + Support our courage failing. + + In ancient days they used to praise + The godlike art of healing,-- + An art that then engaged all men + Possessed of sense and feeling. + Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be + Famed for a quack elixir; + And Digby sold, as we are told, + A charm for folk lovesick, sir. + + Napoleon knew a thing or two, + And clearly _he_ was partial + To doctors, for in time of war + He chose one for a marshal. + In our great cause a doctor was + The first to pass death's portal, + And Warren's name at once became + A beacon and immortal. + + A heap, indeed, of what we read + By doctors is provided; + For to those groves Apollo loves + Their leaning is decided. + Deny who may that Rabelais + Is first in wit and learning, + And yet all smile and marvel while + His brilliant leaves they're turning. + + How Lever's pen has charmed all men! + How touching Rab's short story! + And I will stake my all that Drake + Is still the schoolboy's glory. + A doctor-man it was began + Great Britain's great museum,-- + The treasures there are all so rare + It drives me wild to see 'em! + + There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are + Big monuments to learning. + To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) + We all are fondly turning. + Tomes might be writ of that keen wit + Which Abernethy's famed for; + With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills + Most doctors now get blamed for. + + In modern times the noble rhymes + Of Holmes, a great physician, + Have solace brought and wisdom taught + To hearts of all condition. + The sailor, bound for Puget Sound, + Finds pleasure still unfailing, + If he but troll the barcarole + Old Osborne wrote on Whaling. + + If there were need, I could proceed + _Ad naus._ with this prescription, + But, _inter nos_, a larger dose + Might give you fits conniption; + Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend + I'd hold before these others, + For he and I in years gone by + Have chummed around like brothers. + + Together we have sung in glee + The songs old Horace made for + Our genial craft, together quaffed + What bowls that doctor paid for! + I love the rest, but love him best; + And, were not times so pressing, + I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend? + Well, then, here goes my blessing. + + + + +BARBARA. + + + BLITHE was the youth that summer day, + As he smote at the ribs of earth, + And he plied his pick with a merry click, + And he whistled anon in mirth; + And the constant thought of his dear one's face + Seemed to illumine that ghostly place. + + The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy, + And she moved, and closed on his head: + With no one nigh and with never a cry + The beautiful boy lay dead; + And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair + Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair. + + Fifty years is a mighty space + In the human toil for bread; + But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath, + A dream that is quickly sped,-- + Fifty years, and the fair lad lay + Just as he fell that summer day. + + At last came others in quest of gold, + And hewed in that mountain place; + And deep in the ground one time they found + The boy with the smiling face: + All uncorrupt by the pitiless air, + He lay, with his crown of golden hair. + + They bore him up to the sun again, + And laid him beside the brook, + And the folk came down from the busy town + To wonder and prate and look; + And so, to a world that knew him not, + The boy came back to the old-time spot. + + Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,-- + Wrinkled and bowed was she,-- + And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh, + "At last he is come to me!" + And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, + And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair. + + "Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one! + And better it is 'tis so, + Else thou mightst see how harsh with me + Dealt Life thou couldst not know: + Kindlier Death has kept _thee_ fair; + The sorrow of Life hath been _my_ share." + + Barbara bowed her aged face, + And fell on the breast of her dead; + And the golden hair of her dear one there + Caressed her snow-white head. + Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain; + But sweeter the Death that joined those twain. + + + + +THE CAFÉ MOLINEAU. + + + THE Café Molineau is where + A dainty little minx + Serves God and man as best she can + By serving meats and drinks. + Oh, such an air the creature has, + And such a pretty face! + I took delight that autumn night + In hanging round the place. + + I know but very little French + (I have not long been here); + But when she spoke, her meaning broke + Full sweetly on my ear. + Then, too, she seemed to understand + Whatever I'd to say, + Though most I knew was "oony poo," + "Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." + + The female wit is always quick, + And of all womankind + 'Tis here in France that you, perchance, + The keenest wits shall find; + And here you'll find that subtle gift, + That rare, distinctive touch, + Combined with grace of form and face, + That glads men overmuch. + + "Our girls at home," I mused aloud, + "Lack either that or this; + They don't combine the arts divine + As does the Gallic miss. + Far be it from me to malign + Our belles across the sea, + And yet I'll swear none can compare + With this ideal She." + + And then I praised her dainty foot + In very awful French, + And parleyvood in guileful mood + Until the saucy wench + Tossed back her haughty auburn head, + And froze me with disdain: + "There are on me no flies," said she, + "For I come from Bangor, Maine!" + + + + +HOLLY AND IVY. + + + HOLLY standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Evermore at ye door + Standeth Ivy, shivering sore + In ye night wind bleak and drear; + And, as weary hours go by, + Doth ye one to other cry. + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "What is that within you see? + To and fro doth ye glow + Of ye yule-log flickering go; + Would its warmth did cherish me! + Where thou bidest is it warm; + I am shaken of ye storm." + + "Sister Ivy," Holly quoth, + "Brightly burns the yule-log here, + And love brings beauteous things, + While a guardian angel sings + To the babes that slumber near; + But, O Ivy! tell me now, + What without there seest thou?" + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "With fair music comes ye Morn, + And afar burns ye Star + Where ye wondering shepherds are, + And the Shepherd King is born: + 'Peace on earth, good-will to men,' + Angels cry, and cry again." + + Holly standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Clambering o'er yonder door, + Ivy standeth evermore; + And to them that rightly hear + Each one speaketh of ye love + That outpoureth from Above. + + + + +THE BOLTONS, 22. + + + WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog + Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; + When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, + Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; + When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, + Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,-- + When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, + and more, + To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore, + There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do: + Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22. + + The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend + My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend. + One sees _chefs d'oeuvre_ of masters in profusion on the walls, + And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls; + There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please, + And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease: + But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,-- + The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace; + Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through, + It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22. + + My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor; + And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore. + The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare + On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,-- + A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device + To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice, + A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite + Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light; + But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do + For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22. + + Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit, + And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit; + And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse) + Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse. + And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars, + He smokes his modest pipe, and I--I smoke his choice cigars! + For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,-- + The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size; + And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,--and so will you, + If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22. + + But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived: + 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived. + A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then + A cordial invitation to us both to come again. + So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog, + On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,-- + The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace, + Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place; + And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew + In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22. + + God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife; + May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life; + And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within, + Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been. + So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup; + Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up, + That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine, + Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine: + "May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew + Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!" + + + + +DIBDIN'S GHOST. + + + DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read + The tomes you so despise, + A spectre rose beside the bed, + And spake in this true wise: + "From Canaan's beatific coast + I've come to visit thee, + For I am 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. + + + + +THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN. + + + THE Hawthorne children, seven in all, + Are famous friends of mine; + And with what pleasure I recall + How, years ago, one gloomy fall + I took a tedious railway line, + And journeyed by slow stages down + Unto that soporiferous town + (Albeit one worth seeing) + Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, + And Beatrix and Gwendolen, + And she that was the baby then,-- + These famous seven, as aforesaid, + Lived, moved, and had their being. + + The Hawthorne children gave me such + A welcome by the sea + That the eight of us were soon in touch, + And, though their mother marvelled much, + Happy as larks were we. + Egad, I was a boy again + With Henry, John, and Gwendolen; + And oh the funny capers + I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! + And oh the pranks we children played; + And oh the deafening noise we made-- + 'Twould shock my family if they read + About it in the papers! + + The Hawthorne children all were smart: + The girls, as I recall, + Had comprehended every art + Appealing to the head and heart; + The boys were gifted, all. + 'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how + To hitch a horse and milk a cow + And cook the best of suppers; + With Beatrix upon the sands + I sprinted daily, and was beat; + 'Twas Henry trained me to the feat + Of walking round upon my hands + Instead of on my uppers. + + The Hawthorne children liked me best + Of evenings, after tea, + For then, by general request, + I spun them yarns about the West,-- + Yarns all involving Me! + I represented how I'd slain + The bison on his native plain; + And divers tales of wonder + I told of how I'd fought and bled + In Indian scrimmages galore, + Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more," + And packed her darlings off to bed, + To dream of blood and thunder. + + They must have changed a deal since then; + The misses, tall and fair, + And those three handsome, lusty men,-- + Would they be girls and boys again, + Were I to happen there, + Down in that spot beside the sea + Where we made such tumultuous glee + That dull autumnal weather? + Ah, me! the years go swiftly by; + And yet how fondly I recall + The week when we were children all, + Dear Hawthorne children, you and I, + Just eight of us together! + + + + +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 revelled in the saltatory sights, + We sought a neighboring _café_ 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 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, pygmy 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 never more 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 telltale day,-- + Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths 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! + + + + +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 of + 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 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! nevermore 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 already is nigh,--the shadows creep over the heather, + And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the + breezes. + + + + +PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE. + + + ALL day long they come and go,-- + Pittypat and Tippytoe; + Footprints up and down the hall, + Playthings scattered on the floor, + Finger-marks along the wall, + Tell-tale streaks upon the door,-- + By these presents you shall know + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + How they riot at their play! + And, a dozen times a day, + In they troop, demanding bread,-- + Only buttered bread will do, + And that butter must be spread + Inches thick with sugar too! + Never yet have I said, "No, + Pittypat and Tippytoe!" + + Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, + Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; + For--I much regret to say-- + Tippytoe and Pittypat + Sometimes interrupt their play + With an internecine spat; + Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + Oh, the thousand worrying things + Every day recurrent brings! + Hands to scrub and hair to brush, + Search for playthings gone amiss, + Many a murmuring to hush, + Many a little bump to kiss; + Life's indeed a fleeting show, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + And when day is at an end, + There are little duds to mend; + Little frocks are strangely torn, + Little shoes great holes reveal, + Little hose, but one day worn, + Rudely yawn at toe or heel! + Who but you could work such woe, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + But when comes this thought to me, + "Some there are that childless be," + Stealing to their little beds, + With a love I cannot speak, + Tenderly I stroke their heads, + Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. + God help those who do not know + A Pittypat or Tippytoe! + + On the floor, along the hall, + Rudely traced upon the wall, + There are proofs in every kind + Of the havoc they have wrought; + And upon my heart you'd find + Just such trademarks, if you sought. + Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + + + +ASHES ON THE SLIDE. + + + WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago. + How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow! + Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright, + Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight + As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill + Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still. + + Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed! + Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed! + And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then + We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again; + But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside + When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide! + + The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums, + And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs, + And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew + The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue! + The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide; + And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!" + + Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy + Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ + To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite + In interfering with the play wherein we found delight; + And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride: + "Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!" + + But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest, + His money well invested in farm mortgages out West; + Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife + That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life; + That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide + Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide! + + And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now. + Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou! + Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; + The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; + And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, + He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide! + + + + +THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS. + + + "CUPID!" Venus went a-crying; + "Cupid, whither dost thou stray? + Tell me, people, hither hieing, + Have you seen my runaway? + Speak,--my kiss shall be your pay! + Yes, and sweets more gratifying, + If you bring him back to-day. + + "Cupid," Venus went a-calling, + "Is a rosy little youth, + But his beauty is inthralling. + He will speak you fair, in sooth, + Wheedle you with glib untruth,-- + Honey-like his words; but galling + Are his deeds, and full of ruth! + + "Cupid's hair is curling yellow, + And he hath a saucy face; + With his chubby hands the fellow + Shooteth into farthest space, + Heedless of all time and place; + King and squire and punchinello + He delighteth to abase! + + "Nude and winged the prankish blade is, + And he speedeth everywhere, + Vexing gentlemen and ladies, + Callow youths and damsels fair + Whom he catcheth unaware,-- + Venturing even into Hades, + He hath sown his torments there! + + "For that bow, that bow and quiver,-- + Oh, they are a cruel twain! + Thinking of them makes me shiver. + Oft, with all his might and main, + Cupid sends those darts profane + Whizzing through my heart and liver, + Setting fire to every vein! + + "And the torch he carries blazing,-- + Truly 'tis a tiny one; + Yet, that tiny torch upraising, + Cupid scarifies the sun! + Ah, good people, there is none + Knows what mischief most amazing + Cupid's evil torch hath done! + + "Show no mercy when you find him! + Spite of every specious plea + And of all his whimpering, bind him! + Full of flatteries is he; + Armed with treachery, _cap-a-pie_, + He'll play 'possum; never mind him,-- + March him straightway back to me! + + "Bow and arrows and sweet kisses + He will offer you, no doubt; + But beware those proffered blisses,-- + They are venomous throughout! + Seize and bind him fast about; + Mind you,--most important this is: + Bind him, bring him, but--watch out!" + + + + +CHRISTMAS EVE. + + + OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + The evening shades are falling,-- + Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear + The voice of the Master calling? + + Deep lies the snow upon the earth, + But all the sky is ringing + With joyous song, and all night long + The stars shall dance, with singing. + + Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + And close thine eyes in dreaming, + And angels fair shall lead thee where + The singing stars are beaming. + + A shepherd calls his little lambs, + And he longeth to caress them; + He bids them rest upon his breast, + That his tender love may bless them. + + So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + Whilst evening shades are falling, + And above the song of the heavenly throng + Thou shalt hear the Master calling. + + + + +CARLSBAD. + + + DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, + Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; + To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,-- + You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! + The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; + The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; + And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,-- + All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know. + + The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,--that's what the guide-books say; + We did not think so at that time, nor think _I_ so to-day! + The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views, + But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues. + With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen, + We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between; + And constantly we made our moan,--ah, none so drear as we, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane, + And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain; + And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force, + Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse. + Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink, + Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink; + Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie, + But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry; + Then, too, that water twice a day,--one swallow was enough + To take one's appetite away,--the tepid, awful stuff! + Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I'd little else to do + Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you. + The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date! + When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate. + The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away, + And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,-- + To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale, + To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale! + And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then, + With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again! + + And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes, + I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies; + I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar,-- + To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more; + And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours, + For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures! + So I am happy to have known that time across the sea + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + + + +THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE. + + + HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? + 'Tis a marvel of great renown! + It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; + The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet + (As those who have tasted it say) + That good little children have only to eat + Of that fruit to be happy next day. + + When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time + To capture the fruit which I sing; + The tree is so tall that no person could climb + To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! + But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, + And a gingerbread dog prowls below; + And this is the way you contrive to get at + Those sugar-plums tempting you so: + + You say but the word to that gingerbread dog, + And he barks with such terrible zest + That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, + As her swelling proportions attest. + And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around + From _this_ leafy limb unto _that_, + And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground,-- + Hurrah for that chocolate cat! + + There are marshmallows, gum-drops, and peppermint canes, + With stripings of scarlet or gold, + And you carry away of the treasure that rains + As much as your apron can hold! + So come, little child, cuddle closer to me + In your dainty white nightcap and gown, + And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. + + + + +RED. + + + ANY color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best, + Though I will allow there is much to be said + For yellow and green and the rest; + But the feeble tints which some affect + In the things they make or buy + Have never--I say it with all respect-- + Appealed to my critical eye. + + There's that in red that warmeth the blood, + And quickeneth a man within, + And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud + The germs of original sin; + So, though I'm properly born and bred, + I'll own, with a certain zest, + That any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best. + + For where is a color that can compare + With the blush of a buxom lass; + Or where such warmth as of the hair + Of the genuine white horse class? + And, lo! reflected within this cup + Of cheery Bordeaux I see + What inspiration girdeth me up,-- + Yes, red is the color for me! + + Through acres and acres of art I've strayed + In Italy, Germany, France; + On many a picture a master has made + I've squandered a passing glance: + Marines I hate, madonnas and + Those Dutch freaks I detest; + But the peerless daubs of my native land,-- + They're red, and I like them best. + + 'Tis little I care how folk deride,-- + I'm backed by the West, at least; + And we are free to say that we can't abide + The tastes that obtain down East; + And we're mighty proud to have it said + That here in the versatile West + Most any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits us best. + + + + +JEWISH LULLABY. + + + MY harp is on the willow-tree, + Else would I sing, O love, to thee + A song of long ago,-- + Perchance the song that Miriam sung + Ere yet Judæa's heart was wrung + By centuries of woe. + + The shadow of those centuries lies + Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes; + But, hush! and close them now, + And in the dreams that thou shalt dream + The light of other days shall seem + To glorify thy brow. + + I ate my crust in tears to-day, + As, scourged, I went upon my way, + And yet my darling smiled,-- + Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed; + My anguish curdled not the draught, + 'Twas sweet with love, my child. + + Our harp is on the willow-tree: + I have no song to sing to thee, + As shadows round us roll; + But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hear + Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer + Judæa's fainting soul. + + + + +AT CHEYENNE. + + + YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west, + With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; + The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat, + His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet, + His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, + And he nourished a handful of aces on kings. + + The fair Mariana sate watching a star, + When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar! + Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, + And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!" + Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, + And modestly asked if he mightn't step in. + + With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, + The fair Mariana replied that he might; + So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, + Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar. + Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, + He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same. + + + + +THE NAUGHTY DOLL. + + + MY dolly is a dreadful care,-- + Her name is Miss Amandy; + I dress her up and curl her hair, + And feed her taffy candy. + Yet, heedless of the pleading voice + Of her devoted mother, + She will not wed her mother's choice, + But says she'll wed another. + + I'd have her wed the china vase,-- + There is no Dresden rarer; + You might go searching every place + And never find a fairer. + He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- + Of that there's no denying; + Yet when I speak of him, forsooth! + Amandy falls to crying. + + She loves the drum,--that's very plain,-- + And scorns the vase so clever, + And, weeping, vows she will remain + A spinster doll forever! + The protestations of the drum + I am convinced are hollow; + When once distressing times should come + How soon would ruin follow! + + Yet all in vain the Dresden boy + From yonder mantel woos her; + A mania for that vulgar toy, + The noisy drum, imbues her. + In vain I wheel her to and fro, + And reason with her mildly: + Her waxen tears in torrents flow, + Her sawdust heart beats wildly. + + I'm sure that when I'm big and tall, + And wear long trailing dresses, + I sha'n't encourage beaux at all + Till mamma acquiesces; + Our choice will be a suitor then + As pretty as this vase is,-- + Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men + With whiskers on their faces! + + + + +THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE. + + + UPON an average, twice a week, + When anguish clouds my brow, + My good physician friend I seek + To know "what ails me now." + He taps me on the back and chest, + And scans my tongue for bile, + And lays an ear against my breast + And listens there awhile; + Then is he ready to admit + That all he can observe + Is something wrong inside, to wit: + My pneumogastric nerve! + + Now, when these Latin names within + Dyspeptic hulks like mine + Go wrong, a fellow should begin + To draw what's called the line. + It seems, however, that this same, + Which in my hulk abounds, + Is not, despite its awful name, + So fatal as it sounds; + Yet of all torments known to me, + I'll say without reserve, + There is no torment like to thee, + Thou pneumogastric nerve! + + This subtle, envious nerve appears + To be a patient foe,-- + It waited nearly forty years + Its chance to lay me low; + Then, like some blithering blast of hell, + It struck this guileless bard, + And in that evil hour I fell + Prodigious far and hard. + Alas! what things I dearly love-- + Pies, puddings, and preserves-- + Are sure to rouse the vengeance of + All pneumogastric nerves! + + Oh that I could remodel man! + I'd end these cruel pains + By hitting on a different plan + From that which now obtains. + The stomach, greatly amplified, + Anon should occupy + The all of that domain inside + Where heart and lungs now lie. + But, first of all, I should depose + That diabolic curve + And author of my thousand woes, + The pneumogastric nerve! + + + + +TEENY-WEENY. + + + EVERY evening, after tea, + Teeny-Weeny comes to me, + And, astride my willing knee, + Plies his lash and rides away; + Though that palfrey, all too spare, + Finds his burden hard to bear, + Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,-- + He commands, and I obey! + + First it's trot; and gallop then,-- + Now it's back to trot again; + Teeny-Weeny likes it when + He is riding fierce and fast! + Then his dark eyes brighter grow + And his cheeks are all aglow,-- + "More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!" + Till the horse breaks down at last! + + Oh, the strange and lovely sights + Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, + As he makes those famous flights + On that wondrous horse of his! + Oftentimes, before he knows, + Wearylike his eyelids close, + And, still smiling, off he goes + Where the land of By-low is. + + There he sees the folk of fay + Hard at ring-a-rosie play, + And he hears those fairies say, + "Come, let's chase him to and fro!" + But, with a defiant shout, + Teeny puts that host to rout,-- + Of this tale I make no doubt,-- + Every night he tells it so! + + So I feel a tender pride + In my boy who dares to ride + (That fierce horse of his astride) + Off into those misty lands; + And as on my breast he lies, + Dreaming in that wondrous wise, + I caress his folded eyes,-- + Pat his little dimpled hands. + + On a time he went away, + Just a little while to stay, + And I'm not ashamed to say + I was very lonely then; + Life without him was so sad, + You can fancy I was glad + And made merry when I had + Teeny-Weeny back again! + + So of evenings, after tea, + When he toddles up to me + And goes tugging at my knee, + You should hear his palfrey neigh! + You should see him prance and shy, + When, with an exulting cry, + Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, + Plies his lash and rides away! + + + + +TELKA. + + + THROUGH those golden summer days + Our twin flocks were wont to graze + On the hillside, which the sun + Rested lovingly upon,-- + Telka's flock and mine; and we + Sung our songs in rapturous glee, + Idling in the pleasant shade + Which the solemn Yew-tree made, + While the Brook anear us played, + And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew + In the shadow of the Yew. + + Telka loved me passing well; + How I loved her none can tell! + How I love her none may know,-- + Oh that man love woman so! + When she was not at my side, + Loud my heart in anguish cried, + And my lips, till she replied. + Yet they think to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Still I wend my lonely way, + "Telka," evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the weary years go by. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And the glory of her hair + Was such glory as the sun + With his blessing casts upon + Yonder lonely mountain height, + Lifting up to bid good-night + To her sovereign in the west, + Sinking wearily to rest, + Drowsing in that golden sea + Where the realms of Dreamland be. + + So our love to fulness grew, + Whilst beneath the solemn Yew + Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, + As it were some fancied sight + Blanched it with a dread affright. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And our peace was perfect there + Till, enchanted by her smile, + Lurked the South Wind there awhile, + Underneath that hillside tree + Where with singing idled we, + And I heard the South Wind say + Flattering words to her that day + Of a city far away. + But the Yew-tree crouched as though + It were like to whisper No + To the words the South Wind said + As he smoothed my Telka's head. + And the Brook, all pleading, cried + To the dear one at my side: + "Linger always where I am; + Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! + Wander not where shadows deep + On the treacherous quicksands sleep, + And the haunted waters leap; + Be thou ware the waves that flow + Toward the prison pool below, + Where, beguiled from yonder sky, + Captive moonbeams shivering lie, + And at dawn of morrow die." + So the Brook to Telka cried, + But my Telka naught replied; + And, as in a strange affright, + Paled the Rose a ghostlier white. + + When anon the North Wind came,-- + Rudely blustering Telka's name, + And he kissed the leaves that grew + Round about the trembling Yew,-- + Kissed and romped till, blushing red, + All one day in terror fled, + And the white Rose hung her head; + Coming to our trysting spot, + Long I called; she answered not. + "Telka!" pleadingly I cried + Up and down the mountain-side + Where we twain were wont to bide. + + There were those who thought that I + Could be silenced with a lie, + And they told me Telka's name + Should be spoken now with shame: + "She is lost to us and thee,"-- + That is what they said to me. + + "Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. + "On this hilltop shall I cry, + So that she may hear and then + Find her way to me again. + The South Wind spoke a lie that day; + All deceived, she lost her way + Yonder where the shadows sleep + 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap + Over treacherous quicksands deep, + And where captive moonbeams lie + Doomed at morrow's dawn to die + She is lost, and that is all; + I will search for her, and call." + + Summer comes and winter goes, + Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; + All the others are anear,-- + Only Telka is not here! + Gone the peace and love I knew + Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; + And the Rose, that mocks me so, + I had crushed it long ago + But that Telka loved it then, + And shall soothe its terror when + She comes back to me again. + Call I, seek I everywhere + For my Telka, passing fair. + It is, oh, so many a year + I have called! She does not hear, + Yet nor feared nor worn am I; + For I know that if I cry + She shall sometime hear my call. + She is lost, and that is all,-- + She is lost in some far spot; + I have searched, and found it not. + Could she hear me calling, then + Would she come to me again; + For she loved me passing well,-- + How I love her none can tell! + That is why these years I've cried + "Telka!" on this mountain-side. + "Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the lonely years go by. + + On an evening dark and chill + Came a shadow up the hill,-- + Came a spectre, grim and white + As a ghost that walks the night, + Grim and bowed, and with the cry + Of a wretch about to die,-- + Came and fell and cried to me: + "It is Telka come!" said she. + So she fell and so she cried + On that lonely mountain-side + Where was Telka wont to bide. + + "Who hath bribed those lips to lie? + Telka's face was fair," quoth I; + "Thine is furrowed with despair. + There is winter in thy hair; + But upon her beauteous head + Was there summer glory shed,-- + Such a glory as the sun, + When his daily course is run, + Smiles upon this mountain height + As he kisses it good-night. + There was music in her tone, + Misery in thy voice alone. + They have bid thee lie to me. + Let me pass! Thou art not she! + Let my sorrow sacred be + Underneath this trysting tree!" + + So in wrath I went my way, + And they came another day,-- + Came another day, and said: + "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, + Yonder on the mountain-side + She is buried where she died, + Where you twain were wont to bide, + Where she came and fell and cried + Pardon that thy wrath denied; + And above her bosom grows + As in mockery the Rose: + It was white; but now 'tis red, + And in shame it bows its head + Over sinful Telka dead." + + So they thought to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Scornfully I went my way, + And upon the mountain-side + "Telka!" evermore I cried. + "Telka!" evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky: + So the lonely years go by. + + She is lost, and that is all; + Sometime she shall hear my call, + Hear my pleading call, and then + Find her way to me again. + + + + +PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS. + + + FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, + And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. + I, too, am 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 am 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 round 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 wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight. + We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know + That ary 'coon can best 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 accustomed 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 still might swing at home from tree to tree, + The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, 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 Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; + My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, 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 Chauncey 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. + + + + +ARMENIAN LULLABY. + + + IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, + My mulberry one, my golden son, + The rose shall sing thee lullabies, + My pretty cosset lambkin! + And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, + With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- + A silver boat in a golden sea,-- + My velvet love, my nestling dove, + My own pomegranate-blossom! + + The stork shall guard thee passing well + All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, + And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, + My gentle rain-of-springtime; + And for thy slumber-play shall twine + The diamond stars with an emerald vine, + To trail in the waves of ruby wine, + My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, + My cooing little turtle! + + And when the morn wakes up to see + My apple-bright, my soul's delight, + The partridge shall come calling thee, + My jar of milk-and-honey! + Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies + In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, + If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, + You wakeful one, you naughty son, + You chirping little sparrow! + + + + +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 beak, + 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 thee most blest of all, + And pretty, pretty, + The birds come with thee at thy call; + In flocks they come, and round thee play, + And this is what they seem to say,-- + They say and sing, each feathered thing, + "Ah, pretty, pretty! + Ah, dear little partridge!" + + + + +CORINTHIAN HALL. + + + CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace; + But once was a time when Corinthian Hall + Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, + With its carpeted stairs, + And its new yellow chairs, + And its stunning _ensemble_ of citified airs. + Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best + Of Thespian temples extant in the West. + + It was new, and was ours,--that was ages ago, + Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,-- + It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers + Our rivals had launched at our city for years. + Corinthian Hall! + Why, it discounted all + Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall + The night of the opening; from near and afar + Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar. + + Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again + Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; + For actors were actors, and each one knew how + To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow. + He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; + And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare. + Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,--in fact, never could + When liquor was handy and walking was good. + + And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall + The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall! + Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime; + And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; + And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare + With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; + While in passionate rôles it was patent to us + That the great John A. Stevens was _ne ultra plus_. + + And was there demand for the tribute of tears, + We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, + And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow + That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now. + What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, + Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say! + And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette" + Opined that the sun of our drama had set. + + Corinthian Hall was devoted to song + When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, + Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, + Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; + But the one special card + That hit us all hard + Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; + And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; + And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years! + + The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, + And our critics accorded them columns of praise; + They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings, + And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; + They gave a parade, and sweet music they made + Every evening in front of the house where they played. + 'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog + For Primrose and West in their great statue clog. + + Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain + That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; + Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth + That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: + While in rôles that were thrillin', involving much killin', + Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; + Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,--they all + Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall. + + But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell + On the spot I revere and remember so well, + Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, + And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; + So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold + Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, + And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, + Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall. + + When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, + And the music goes floating on billows of light, + Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man, + And I pine to be back where my mission began, + And I'm fain to recall + Reminiscences all + That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,-- + To hear and to see what delighted me then, + And to revel in raptures of boyhood again. + + Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace, + There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, + Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, + Would surrender what gold + He's amassed to behold + A tithe of the wonderful doings of old, + A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall + Our _crême de la crême_ in Corinthian Hall. + + + + +THE RED, RED WEST. + + + I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, + Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so + smart; + And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show + That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go. + + I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, + And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; + I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green, + And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen. + + The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal + Dutch, + The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised + overmuch, + The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,-- + All, _ad infin._, have I taken in a hundred thousand times. + + Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught + Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is + fraught; + For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker + grows, + And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes. + + Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, + And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; + It answers every purpose that this is manifest: + The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West. + + Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, + No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; + But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, + Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still! + + + + +THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE. + + + FROM out Cologne there came three kings + To worship Jesus Christ, their King. + To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, + And many a beauteous golden thing; + They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, + And in that manger set them down. + + Then spake the first king, and he said: + "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! + I bring this crown to Bethlehem town + For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; + So give a heavenly crown to me + When I shall come at last to Thee!" + + The second, then. "I bring Thee here + This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; + "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one + There is not in the world beside; + So in the day of doom requite + Me with a heavenly robe of white!" + + The third king gave his gift, and quoth: + "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, + And with these twain would I most fain + Anoint the body of my King; + So may their incense sometime rise + To plead for me in yonder skies!" + + Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, + That gave their gifts, and went their way; + And now kneel I in prayer hard by + The cradle of the Child to-day; + Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring + As offering unto Christ, my King. + + Yet have I brought a gift the Child + May not despise, however small; + For here I lay my heart to-day, + And it is full of love to all. + Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, + My only tribute, Christ, my King! + + + + +IPSWICH. + + + IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, + And the voice that comes from the yonder sea + Sings to the quaint old mansions there + Of "the time, the time that used to be;" + And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, + And they seem to say in an undertone, + With half a sigh and with half a moan: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich witches weave at night + Their magic, spells with impish glee; + They shriek and laugh in their demon flight + From the old Main House to the frightened sea. + And ghosts of eld come out to weep + Over the town that is fast asleep; + And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill + Over against the calling sea; + And through the nights so deep and chill + Watcheth a maiden constantly,-- + Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear + Over the roar of the waves anear + The pitiful cry of a far-off year: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich once a witch I knew,-- + An artless Saxon witch was she; + By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, + Sweet was the spell she cast on me. + Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, + And the heart that is old and battered and chill + Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill + What was, but never again can be. + + Dear Anna, I would not conjure down + The ghost that cometh to solace me; + I love to think of old Ipswich town, + Where somewhat better than friends were we; + For with every thought of the dear old place + Cometh again the tender grace + Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, + As it was, and is, and ever shall be. + + + + +BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS. + + + BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; + I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; + Clothes would never seem to set so nice on _me_ as _him_,-- + Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,-- + But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; + And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,-- + Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire! + She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,-- + Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird; + Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er, + A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place, + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,-- + _She_ sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat; + Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, + One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"! + But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that; + On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face + When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, + Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when + We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days, + And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise. + Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again! + For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace + When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, + Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me. + Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, + Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer + When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D! + The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race + 'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass. + + Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54, + And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more; + Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell, + And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell + That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store; + And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace + Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, + I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me; + And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day, + I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away. + Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be; + "Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, + "When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass." + + + + +FIDUCIT. + + + THREE comrades on the German Rhine, + Defying care and weather, + Together quaffed the mellow wine, + And sung their songs together. + What recked they of the griefs of life, + With wine and song to cheer them? + Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, + It would not come anear them. + + Anon one comrade passed away, + And presently another, + And yet unto the tryst each day + Repaired the lonely brother; + And still, as gayly as of old, + That third one, hero-hearted, + Filled to the brim each cup of gold, + And called to the departed,-- + + "O comrades mine! I see ye not, + Nor hear your kindly greeting, + Yet in this old, familiar spot + Be still our loving meeting! + Here have I filled each bouting-cup + With juices red and cheery; + I pray ye drink the portion up, + And as of old make merry!" + + And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, + All in the haunted gloaming, + He saw two ghostly figures rise, + And quaff the beakers foaming; + He heard two spirit voices call, + "Fiducit, jovial brother!" + And so forever from that hall + Went they with one another. + + + + +THE "ST. JO GAZETTE." + + + WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette," + I was upon familiar terms with every one I met; + For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time, + Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,-- + Before I found in verses + Those soothing, gracious mercies, + Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is. + A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat, + And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + The labors of the day began at half-past eight A.M., + For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them; + And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire + By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire, + With my daily commentary + On affairs of farm and dairy, + The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,-- + Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due, + Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous; + Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case, + And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space; + Of fevers, fractures, humors, + Contusions, fits, and tumors, + Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors; + From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,-- + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,-- + Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race; + And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink, + And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink. + Those drinks at the Pacific, + When days were sudorific, + Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;" + And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow, + To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go. + The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough + For local application in lieu of better stuff; + And when the ducks were flying, + Or the fishing well worth trying-- + Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at + lying! + And I--I printed all their yarns, though not without regret, + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young, + Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;" + Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call + On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all. + Lon Tullar used to pony + Up descriptions that were tony + Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione; + For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett" + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue; + And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,-- + The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read, + And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed. + Oh, but it takes agility, + Combined with versatility, + To run a country daily with appropriate ability! + There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet, + Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent + Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent + If so, I don't remember; this only do I know,-- + My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo. + The years that speed so fleetly + Have blotted out completely + All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly; + The friendships of that time,--ah, me! they are as precious yet + As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + + + +IN AMSTERDAM. + + + MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got + A majazin in Kalverstraat, + Where one may buy for sordid gold + Wares quaint and curious, new and old. + Here are antiquities galore,-- + The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore, + Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks, + Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks, + And all those joys I might rehearse + That please the eye, but wreck the purse. + + I most admired an ancient bed, + With ornate carvings at its head,-- + A massive frame of dingy oak, + Whose curious size and mould bespoke + Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried. + "Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied; + And then the honest Dutchman said + A king once owned that glorious bed,-- + King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame, + Had owned and slept within the same! + + Then long I stood and mutely gazed, + By reminiscent splendors dazed, + And I had bought it right away, + Had I the wherewithal to pay. + But, lacking of the needed pelf, + I thus discoursed within myself: + "O happy Holland! where's the bliss + That can approximate to this + Possession of the rare antique + Which maniacs hanker for and seek? + _My_ native land is full of stuff + That's good, but is not old enough. + Alas! it has no oaken beds + Wherein have slumbered royal heads, + No relic on whose face we see + The proof of grand antiquity." + + Thus reasoned I a goodly spell + Until, perchance, my vision fell + Upon a trademark at the head + Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,-- + A rampant wolverine, and round + This strange device these words I found: + "Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay, + Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A." + + At present I'm not saying much + About the simple, guileless Dutch; + And as it were a loathsome spot + I keep away from Kalverstraat, + Determined when I want a bed + In which hath slept a royal head + I'll patronize no middleman, + But deal direct with Michigan. + + + + +TO THE PASSING SAINT. + + + AS to-night you came your way, + Bearing earthward heavenly joy, + Tell me, O dear saint, I pray, + Did you see my little boy? + + By some fairer voice beguiled, + Once he wandered from my sight; + He is such a little child, + He should have my love this night. + + It has been so many a year,-- + Oh, so many a year since then! + Yet he was so very dear, + Surely he will come again. + + If upon your way you see + One whose beauty is divine, + Will you send him back to me? + He is lost, and he is mine. + + Tell him that his little chair + Nestles where the sunbeams meet, + That the shoes he used to wear + Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet. + + Tell him of each pretty toy + That was wont to share his glee; + Maybe that will bring my boy + Back to them and back to me. + + O dear saint, as on you go + Through the glad and sparkling frost, + Bid those bells ring high and low + For a little child that's lost! + + O dear saint, that blessest men + With the grace of Christmas joy, + Soothe this heart with love again,-- + Give me back my little boy! + + + + +THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. + + + OF all the gracious gifts of Spring, + Is there another can 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 again, 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 water-lilies grew! + How often have you filched my bait, + How often snapped my treacherous line! + Yet here I have you on this plate,-- + You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_. + + And, harkee, garçon! let the blood + Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,-- + Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood + This piscatorial pride should swim; + So, were he living, he would say + He gladly died for me and mine, + And, as it were his native spray, + He'd lash the sauce--what, ho! the wine! + + I would it were ordained for me + To share your fate, O 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 ecstasy 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! + + + + +NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT. + + + THE mill goes toiling slowly around + With steady and solemn creak, + And my little one hears in the kindly sound + The voice of the old mill speak; + While round and round those big white wings + Grimly and ghostlike creep, + My little one hears that the old mill sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, + And over his pot of beer + The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, + Lustily maketh cheer; + He mocks at the winds that caper along + From the far-off, clamorous deep, + But we--we love their lullaby-song + Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound, + Groans of the stony mart; + To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around, + Hitched to our new milk-cart! + And you shall help me blanket the kine, + And fold the gentle sheep, + And set the herring a-soak in brine,-- + But now, little tulip, sleep! + + A Dream-One comes to button the eyes + That wearily droop and blink, + While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, + And scolds at the stars that wink; + Over your face the misty wings + Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, + And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + + + +THE ONION TART. + + + OF tarts there be a thousand kinds, + So versatile the art, + And, as we all have different minds, + Each has his favorite tart; + But those which most delight the rest + Methinks should suit me not: + The onion tart doth please me best,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Where but in Deutschland can be found + This boon of which I sing? + Who but a Teuton could compound + This _sui generis_ thing? + None with the German frau can vie + In arts cuisine, I wot, + Whose _summum bonum_ breeds the sigh, + "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!" + + You slice the fruit upon the dough, + And season to the taste, + Then in an oven (not too slow) + The viand should be placed; + And when 'tis done, upon a plate + You serve it piping hot. + Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + It sweeps upon the sight and smell + In overwhelming tide, + And then the sense of taste as well + Betimes is gratified: + Three noble senses drowned in bliss! + I prithee tell me, what + Is there beside compares with this? + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + For if the fruit be proper young, + And if the crust be good, + How shall they melt upon the tongue + Into a savory flood! + How seek the Mecca down below, + And linger round that spot, + Entailing weeks and months of woe,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + If Nature gives men appetites + For things that won't digest, + Why, let _them_ eat whatso delights, + And let _her_ stand the rest; + And though the sin involve the cost + Of Carlsbad, like as not + 'Tis better to have loved and lost,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, + Where my compatriots dwell, + All kinds of victuals have I tried, + All kinds of drinks, as well; + But nothing known to Yankee art + Appears to reach _the spot_ + Like this Teutonic onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide + As full as I can hold, + And for complete reform inside + Plank down my horde of gold, + Remorse shall not consume my heart, + Nor sorrow vex my lot, + For I have eaten onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + + + +GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE. + + + IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, + And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny: + The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, + The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,--all give me keen delight; + And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen + A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine. + + Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown + Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town. + 'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,-- + Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,-- + And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, + And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine. + + Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown; + For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town." + The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess + When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress: + To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between, + Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine. + + With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end + (The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!); + And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise, + Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes; + For grandma knew a thing or two,--by which remark I mean + That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine. + + I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle + With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile. + It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round, + That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found. + How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen! + And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine. + + But there _were_ those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect + gown; + For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town: + The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!" + The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split; + Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, _she_ turned a bilious green, + When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine. + + But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,-- + The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign. + Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, + And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown; + But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!" + Yet evermore my grandma wore _his_ favorite bombazine. + + And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,-- + Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs! + Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing, + And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous + thing. + 'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene; + And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine. + + Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,-- + The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart. + This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair, + Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear. + Yet wear it, _do_; perchance when you and I are off the scene, + Our boy shall sing _this_ comely thing as _I_ the bombazine. + + + + +RARE ROAST BEEF. + + + WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir + Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair; + When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head, + Filling _bon vivants_ and epicures with certain nameless dread; + When _any_ ill of body or of intellect abounds, + Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,-- + In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief + That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef. + + And even when the body's in the very prime of health, + When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth, + And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more, + And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,-- + Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side, + And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied, + Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief, + And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef. + + Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,-- + 'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest; + Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour + Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more; + The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour; + Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour, + And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf + Of that glorious _summum bonum_, rare roast beef. + + Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife, + How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life! + Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,-- + Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab? + Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam, + A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream! + Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief! + Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef. + + Most every kind and rôle of modern victuals have I tried, + Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried, + Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese, + Your patties _à la_ Turkey and your doughnuts _à la_ grease; + I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls, + And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls; + But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief + And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef. + + I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood, + Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood; + And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast, + Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (_feste Burg_) and host; + For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath, + Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path. + So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef + When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. + + + + +GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT. + + + I WAS just a little thing + When a fairy came and kissed me; + Floating in upon the light + Of a haunted summer night, + Lo! the fairies came to sing + Pretty slumber songs, and bring + Certain boons that else had missed me. + From a dream I turned to see + What those strangers brought for me, + When that fairy up and kissed me,-- + Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me! + + Simmerdew was there, but she + Did not like me altogether; + Daisybright and Turtledove, + Pilfercurds and Honeylove, + Thistleblow and Amberglee + On that gleaming, ghostly sea + Floated from the misty heather, + And around my trundle-bed + Frisked and looked and whispering said, + Solemn-like and all together: + "_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!" + + Ganderfeather kissed me then,-- + Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! + No attenuate sprite was he, + But as buxom as could be; + Kissed me twice and once again, + And the others shouted when + On my cheek uprose a berry + Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, + But the kiss-mark of that chap + Ganderfeather, passing merry,-- + Humorsome but kindly, very! + + I was just a tiny thing + When the prankish Ganderfeather + Brought this curious gift to me + With his fairy kisses three; + Yet with honest pride I sing + That same gift he chose to bring + Out of yonder haunted heather; + Other charms and friendships fly,-- + Constant friends this mole and I, + Who have been so long together! + Thank you, little Ganderfeather! + + + + +OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE. + + + THERE are no days like the good old days,-- + The days when we were youthful! + When humankind were pure of mind, + And speech and deeds were truthful; + Before a love for sordid gold + Became man's ruling passion, + And before each dame and maid became + Slave to the tyrant fashion! + + There are no girls like the good old girls,-- + Against the world I'd stake 'em! + As buxom and smart and clean of heart + As the Lord knew how to make 'em! + They were rich in spirit and common-sense, + And piety all supportin'; + They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, + And they made such likely courtin'! + + There are no boys like the good old boys,-- + When _we_ were boys together! + When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet + That dimpled the laughing heather; + When the pewee sung to the summer dawn + Of the bee in the billowy clover, + Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will + Echoed his night song over. + + There is no love like the good old love,-- + The love that mother gave us! + We are old, old men, yet we pine again + For that precious grace,--God save us! + So we dream and dream of the good old times, + And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, + As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams + Of heaven away off yonder. + + + + +OUR WHIPPINGS. + + + COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys + As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise! + Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show + The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; + What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,-- + Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,--oh, my! + + The way that we played hookey those many years ago, + We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know! + The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,-- + Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold! + How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his + He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"! + It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,-- + Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though! + + We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, + And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; + How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,-- + But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand; + And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed, + Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red. + Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert + The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt! + + For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild + That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; + And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she + Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: + But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- + Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry! + Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, + For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did! + + In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, + But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! + Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: + "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" + Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,-- + What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! + Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, + With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt! + + The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest + Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; + Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight + The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night. + The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways + That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times. + + + + +BION'S SONG OF EROS. + + + EROS is the god of love; + He and I are hand-in-glove. + All the gentle, gracious Muses + Follow Eros where he leads, + And they bless the bard who chooses + To proclaim love's famous deeds; + Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- + That is why they're good to me. + + Sometimes I have gone astray + From love's sunny, flowery way: + How I floundered, how I stuttered! + And, deprived of ways and means, + What egregious rot I uttered,-- + Such as suits the magazines! + I was rescued only when + Eros called me back again. + + Gods forefend that I should shun + That benignant Mother's son! + Why, the poet who refuses + To emblazon love's delights + Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- + Then what balderdash he writes! + I love Love; which being so, + See how smooth my verses flow! + + Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- + I will follow while I may: + Be thy path by hill or hollow, + I will follow fast and free; + And when I'm too old to follow, + I will sit and sing of thee,-- + Potent still in intellect, + Sit, and sing, and retrospect. + + + + +MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE. + + + THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; + And the time I remember's the evening I met + A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown + Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: + A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, + And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; + He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, + But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: + I felt that he honored and flattered me when + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I wonder that never again since that night + A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; + I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill + That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: + I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; + But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; + To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, + With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, + These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: + "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." + + + + +POET AND KING. + + + THOUGH I am king, I have no throne + Save this rough wooden siege alone; + I have no empire, yet my sway + Extends a myriad leagues away; + No servile vassal bends his knee + In grovelling reverence to me, + Yet at my word all hearts beat high, + And there is fire in every eye, + And love and gratitude they bring + As tribute unto me, a king. + + The folk that throng the busy street + Know not it is a king they meet; + And I am glad there is not seen + The monarch in my face and mien. + I should not choose to be the cause + Of fawning or of coarse applause: + I am content to know the arts + Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; + For when unto their hearts I sing, + I am a king, I am a king! + + My sceptre,--see, it is a pen! + Wherewith I rule these hearts of men. + Sometime it pleaseth to beguile + Its monarch fancy with a smile; + Sometime it is athirst for tears: + And so adown the laurelled years + I walk, the noblest lord on earth, + Dispensing sympathy and mirth. + Aha! it is a magic thing + That makes me what I am,--a king! + + Let empires crumble as they may, + Proudly I hold imperial sway; + The sunshine and the rain of years + Are human smiles and human tears + That come or vanish at my call,-- + I am the monarch of them all! + Mindful alone of this am I: + The songs I sing shall never die; + Not even envious Death can wring + His glory from so great a king. + + Come, brother, be a king with me, + And rule mankind eternally; + Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, + Defend the truth, combat the wrong! + You'll find no sceptre like the pen + To hold and sway the hearts of men; + Its edicts flow in blood and tears + That will outwash the flood of years: + So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing! + And be with me a king, a king! + + + + +LYDIA DICK. + + + WHEN I was a boy at college, + Filling up with classic knowledge, + Frequently I wondered why + Old Professor Demas Bentley + Used to praise so eloquently + "Opera Horatii." + + Toiling on a season longer + Till my reasoning powers 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 hers 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. + + Maybe 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 siècle_ 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. + + + + +LIZZIE. + + + I WONDER ef all wimmin air + Like Lizzie is when we go out + To theaters an' concerts where + Is things the papers talk about. + Do other wimmin fret an' stew + Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- + Frettin' a show or concert through, + With wonderin' ef the baby cried? + + Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there + To see that everything is right; + Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care + Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. + Yet what am I to answer when + She kind uv fidgets at my side, + An' asks me every now an' then, + "I wonder ef the baby cried"? + + Seems like she seen two little eyes + A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; + Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries + Uv one she thinks uv all the while; + An' so she's sorry that she come. + An' though she allus tries to hide + The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum + Than wonder ef the baby cried. + + Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- + By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; + There never wuz a little tyke, + But that his mother loved him best. + And nex' to bein' what I be-- + The husband uv my gentle bride-- + I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, + With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. + + + + +LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE. + + + AFTER dear old grandma died, + Hunting through an oaken chest + In the attic, we espied + What repaid our childish quest: + 'Twas a homely little slate, + Seemingly of ancient date. + + On its quaint and battered face + Was the picture of a cart + Drawn with all that awkward grace + Which betokens childish art. + But what meant this legend, pray: + "Homer drew this yesterday"? + + Mother recollected then + What the years were fain to hide: + She was but a baby when + Little Homer lived and died. + Forty years, so mother said, + Little Homer had been dead. + + This one secret through those years + Grandma kept from all apart, + Hallowed by her lonely tears + And the breaking of her heart; + While each year that sped away + Seemed to her but yesterday. + + So the homely little slate + Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, + To a memory consecrate, + Lieth in the oaken chest, + Where, unwilling we should know, + Grandma put it years ago. + + + + +ALWAYS RIGHT. + + + DON'T take on so, Hiram, + But do what you're told to do; + It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows + A heap sight more than you. + I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way + Don't seem the wisest, quite; + But the _easiest_ way, + When she's had her say, + Is to reckon yer mother is right. + + Courted her ten long winters, + Saw her to singin'-school; + When she went down one spell to town, + I cried like a durned ol' fool; + Got mad at the boys for callin' + When I sparked her Sunday night: + But she said she knew + A thing or two,-- + An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right. + + I courted till I wuz aging, + And she wuz past her prime,-- + I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes + When I popped f'r the hundredth time. + Said she'd never have took me + If I hadn't stuck so tight; + Opined that we + Could never agree,-- + And I reckon yer mother wuz right! + + + + +"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!" + + + WHERE my true love abideth + I make my way to-night; + Lo! waiting, she + Espieth me, + And calleth in delight: + "I see his steed anear + Come trotting with my dear,-- + Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, + Trot thou my lover here!" + + Aloose I cast the bridle, + And ply the whip and spur; + And gayly I + Speed this reply, + While faring on to her: + "Oh, true love, fear thou not! + I seek our trysting spot; + And double feed be yours, my steed, + If you more swiftly trot." + + I vault from out the saddle, + And make my good steed fast; + Then to my breast + My love is pressed,-- + At last, true heart, at last! + The garden drowsing lies, + The stars fold down their eyes,-- + In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, + Nor stamp in restless wise! + + O passing sweet communion + Of young hearts, warm and true! + To thee belongs + The old, old songs + Love finds forever new. + We sing those songs, and then + Cometh the moment when + It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,-- + Trot, trot me home again!" + + + + +PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG. + + + WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago, + Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; + And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, + With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,-- + A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read + The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said: + "The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; + You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog." + + McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name + Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame. + A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,-- + Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup! + The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green + Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen; + And my proud name was heralded,--oh that I'd gone incog. + When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog! + + Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town? + Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down! + The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said + The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead, + And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest + The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast; + For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog + When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog. + + They never came at all,--aha! I knew it all the time,-- + They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime. + Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first! + Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst! + But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night, + When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's + blight,-- + When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog + For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog! + + Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro, + Ejaculating platitudes that were quite _mal à propos_; + And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot + Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot. + I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt, + If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front; + But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log + When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog. + + We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,-- + For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track? + "Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame, + What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!" + Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties + 'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies; + But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,-- + 'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog. + + So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,-- + And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same. + Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies! + The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies. + So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware! + Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare; + Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog, + But never go to Providence to try it on a dog. + + + + +GETTIN' ON. + + + WHEN I wuz somewhat younger, + I wuz reckoned purty gay; + I had my fling at everything + In a rollickin', coltish way. + But times have strangely altered + Since sixty years ago-- + This age of steam an' things don't seem + Like the age I used to know. + Your modern innovations + Don't suit me, I confess, + As did the ways of the good ol' days,-- + But I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + I set on the piazza, + An' hitch round with the sun; + Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, + Waitin' till school is done. + An' then I tell the children + The things I done in youth,-- + An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man, + I stick to the honest truth,-- + But the looks of them 'at listen + Seem sometimes to express + The remote idee that I'm gone--you see?-- + An' I _am_ gettin' on, I guess. + + I get up in the mornin', + An', nothin' else to do, + Before the rest are up an' dressed, + I read the papers through. + I hang round with the women + All day an' hear 'em talk; + An' while they sew or knit I show + The baby how to walk. + An', somehow, I feel sorry + When they put away his dress + An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + Sometimes, with twilight round me, + I see, or seem to see, + A distant shore where friends of yore + Linger an' watch for me. + Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' + So tender-like 'nd low + That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, + Or an echo of long ago; + An' sometimes on my forehead + There falls a soft caress, + Or the touch of a hand,--you understand,-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + + + +THE SCHNELLEST ZUG. + + + FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way, + Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day; + You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night + Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight; + From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,--of that I'll not complain,-- + But from Hanover to Magdeburg--confound that schnellest train! + + The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster + yet,-- + In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met! + Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go, + While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow; + And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain + That one _can't_ know what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest + train! + + Fool that I was! I should have walked,--I had no time to waste; + The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,-- + The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart, + And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art, + The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,-- + These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train. + + The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear + The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer); + I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops + Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops, + Whilst _I_ crouched in a corner, a monument to woe, + And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow! + And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that + train,-- + The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain, + Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts + Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts! + The husbands strut in soldier garb,--indeed _they_ were too vain + To let creation see _them_ work from that creeping schnellest train! + + I found the German language all too feeble to convey + The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day; + I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint + Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print, + But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brain + While snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train. + + The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro, + The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O., + The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things, + The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings, + The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,-- + All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake! + My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime, + Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time; + From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mile + By "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while; + Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain, + But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest + train! + + + + +BETHLEHEM-TOWN. + + + AS I was going to Bethlehem-town, + Upon the earth I cast me down + All underneath a little tree + That whispered in this wise to me: + "Oh, I shall stand on Calvary + And bear what burthen saveth thee!" + + As up I fared to Bethlehem-town, + I met a shepherd coming down, + And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight + Hath spread before mine eyes this night,-- + An angel host most fair to see, + That sung full sweetly of a tree + That shall uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth you and me!" + + And as I gat to Bethlehem-town, + Lo! wise men came that bore a crown. + "Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem + A King shall wear this diadem?" + "Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He + That shall be lifted on the tree + And freely shed on Calvary + What blood redeemeth us and thee!" + + Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town + The wise men came and brought the crown; + And while the infant smiling slept, + Upon their knees they fell and wept; + But, with her babe upon her knee, + Naught recked that Mother of the tree, + That should uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth all and me. + + Again I walk in Bethlehem-town + And think on Him that wears the crown. + I may not kiss His feet again, + Nor worship Him as did I then; + My King hath died upon the tree, + And hath outpoured on Calvary + What blood redeemeth you and me! + + + + +THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME. + + + DEAREST, how hard it is to say + That all is for the best, + Since, sometimes, in a grievous way + God's will is manifest. + + See with what hearty, noisy glee + Our little ones to-night + Dance round and round our Christmas-tree + With pretty toys bedight. + + Dearest, one voice they may not hear, + One face they may not see,-- + Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer + Cometh to you and me? + + Cometh before our misty eyes + That other little face; + And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, + That love in the old embrace. + + Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, + Bringing His peace to men; + And He bringeth to you and to me the light + Of the old, old years again: + + Bringeth the peace of long ago + When a wee one clasped your knee + And lisped of the morrow,--dear one, you know,-- + And here come back is he! + + Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say + That all is for the best, + For, often in a grievous way, + God's will is manifest. + + But in the grace of this holy night + That bringeth us back our child, + Let us see that the ways of God are right, + And so be reconciled. + + + + +THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE. + + + IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth, + And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth; + And my career + From year to year + Was full of cheer + And things, + Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings; + But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene! + Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene: + Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart, + Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte. + In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me, + She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,-- + Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to + t'other, + The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother. + Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth + Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth. + If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart, + What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte? + + In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, + But now you see + Revealed in me + The gloomiest bard on earth. + I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, + But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife. + Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate, + One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: + This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart + Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, + Delsarte. + + Where'er she goes, + She loves to pose, + In classic attitudes, + And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; + And she, my child, + Who all so wild, + So helpless and so sweet, + That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, + Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, + Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. + Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, + And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte. + + In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; + Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; + But now these wise + Folks criticise + My figure and my face, + And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. + Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek + Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,-- + With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part + Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte. + + Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, + When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more. + Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; + The old-time bard + Of pork and lard + Is plainly out of sight. + All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, + While Lachesis brews + For the poor old Muse + A portion of scalding soup. + Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: + "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter + learned Delsarte." + + + + +BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT. + + + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- + These three bloomed in a garden spot; + And once, all merry with song and play, + A little one heard three voices say: + "Shine or shadow, summer or spring, + O thou child with the tangled hair + And laughing eyes, we three shall bring + Each an offering, passing fair!" + The little one did not understand; + But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. + + Buttercup gambolled all day long, + Sharing the little one's mirth and song; + Then, stealing along on misty gleams, + Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, + Playing and dreaming, that was all, + Till once the sleeper would not awake; + Kissing the little face under the pall, + We thought of the words the third flower spake, + And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot, + The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. + + Buttercup shareth the joy of day, + Glinting with gold the hours of play; + Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, + When the hands would fold and the eyes would close. + And after it all,--the play and the sleep + Of a little life,--what cometh then? + To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep, + A wee flower bringeth God's peace again: + Each one serveth its tender lot,-- + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +A midi file of the music on the first page is available in the HTML edition +of this text. + +Page ix, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 31874-8.txt or 31874-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/8/7/31874/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + +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. 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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: Second Book of Verse + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: April 3, 2010 [EBook #31874] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> +<h1>Second<br />BOOK OF VERSE</h1> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>BY EUGENE FIELD</h2> + + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="List of other works"> +<tr><td align='left'>Second Book of Tales.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Songs and Other Verse.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The Holy Cross and Other Tales.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The House.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>A Little Book Of Profitable Tales.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>A Little Book of Western Verse.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Second Book of Verse.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>A Little Book of Profitable Tales.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Echoes from the Sabine Farm.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">4to, $2.00</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>With Trumpet and Drum.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">16mo, $1.00.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Love Songs of Childhood.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">16mo, $1.00.</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> + +<h1>Second<br /> + +BOOK OF VERSE</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>EUGENE FIELD</h2> + +<div class='center'> +NEW YORK<br /> +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS<br /> +1896<br /></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class='copyright'> +<i>Copyright, 1892</i>,<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">By Julia Sutherland Field</span>.<br /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> + + +<div class='poemi'> +A little bit of a woman came<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Athwart my path one day;</span><br /> +So tiny was she that she seemed to be<br /> +A pixy strayed from the misty sea,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or a wandering greenwood fay.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Oho, you little elf!" I cried,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And what are you doing here?</span><br /> +So tiny as you will never do<br /> +For the brutal rush and hullaballoo<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of this practical world, I fear."</span><br /> +<br /> +"Voice have I, good sir," said she.—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"'Tis soft as an Angel's sigh,</span><br /> +But to fancy a word of yours were heard<br /> +In all the din of this world's absurd!"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Smiling, I made reply.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Hands have I, good sir" she quoth.—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Marry, and that have you!</span><br /> +But amid the strife and the tumult rife<br /> +In all the struggle and battle for life,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What can those wee hands do?"</span><br /> +<br /> +"Eyes have I, good sir," she said.—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sooth, you have," quoth I,</span><br /> +"And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow,<br /> +And they betimes shall dim with woe,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the hard, hard years go by!"</span> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poemi'><br /> +That little bit of a woman cast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her two eyes full on me,</span><br /> +And they smote me sore to my inmost core,<br /> +And they hold me slaved forevermore,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet would I not be free!</span><br /> +<br /> +That little bit of a woman's hands<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reached up into my breast</span><br /> +And rent apart my scoffing heart,—<br /> +And they buffet it still with such sweet art<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As cannot be expressed.</span><br /> +<br /> +That little bit of a woman's voice<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hath grown most wondrous dear;</span><br /> +Above the blare of all elsewhere<br /> +(An inspiration that mocks at care)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It riseth full and clear.</span><br /> +<br /> +Dear one, I bless the subtle power<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That makes me wholly thine;</span><br /> +And I'm proud to say that I bless the day<br /> +When a little woman wrought her way<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into this life of mine!</span><br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> + +<h2>The Verse in this Second Book.</h2> + + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Page</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Father's Way</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">To my Mother</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Körner's Battle Prayer</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Gosling Stew</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Catullus to Lesbia</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">John Smith</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">St. Martin's Lane</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Singing in God's-Acre</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Dear Old London</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Corsican Lullaby</span> (Folk-Song) </td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Clink of the Ice</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Bells of Notre Dame</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lover's Lane, St. Jo</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Crumpets and Tea</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">An Imitation of Dr. Watts</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Intry-Mintry</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Modjesky as Cameel</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Telling the Bees</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Tea-Gown</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span><span class="smcap">Doctors</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Barbara</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Café Molineau</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Holly and Ivy</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Boltons, 22</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Dibdin's Ghost</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Hawthorne Children</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Bottle and the Bird</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">An Eclogue from Virgil</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Pittypat and Tippytoe</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ashes on the Slide</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Lost Cupid of Moschus</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Christmas Eve</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Carlsbad</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Sugar-Plum Tree</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Red</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Jewish Lullaby</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">At Cheyenne</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Naughty Doll</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Pneumogastric Nerve</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Teeny-Weeny</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Telka</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Plaint of a Missouri 'Coon</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Armenian Lullaby</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Partridge</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Corinthian Hall</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Red, Red West</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Three Kings of Cologne</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ipswich</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Bill's Tenor and my Bass</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span><span class="smcap">Fiducit</span> (from the German)</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The "St. Jo Gazette"</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">In Amsterdam</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">To the Passing Saint</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Fisherman's Feast</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Nightfall in Dordrecht</span> (Slumber Song)</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Onion Tart</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Grandma's Bombazine</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Rare Roast Beef</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Ganderfeather's Gift</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Old Times, Old Friends, Old Love</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Our Whippings</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Bion's Song of Eros</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Mr. Billings of Louisville</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_220">220</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Poet and King</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lydia Dick</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Lizzie</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Little Homer's Slate</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Always Right</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>"<span class="smcap">Trot, my good Steed</span>" (Volkslied)</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Providence and the Dog</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Gettin' on</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Schnellest Zug</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Bethlehem-Town</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Peace of Christmas-Time</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_252">252</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Doings of Delsarte</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> +<h2>Second Book of Verse.</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>FATHER'S WAY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +MY father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,—<br /> +Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth.<br /> +He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,—<br /> +I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song;<br /> +But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue,<br /> +He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,—<br /></div> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/music.png" width="200" height="30" alt="Music" title="" /> +<span class="caption">[<i>Transcriber's Note: You can play this music (MIDI file) by clicking</i> <a href="music/011.mid">here</a>.]</span> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem2'> +Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so,<br /> +Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know;<br /> +He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way<br /> +But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay."<br /> +And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth<br /> +There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth.<br /> +<br /> +When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down<br /> +To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town.<br /> +A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break,<br /> +And all us children, too,—for <i>hers</i>, and <i>not</i> for <i>William's</i> sake!<br /> +But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so,<br /> +Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span><br /> +And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West,<br /> +Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest.<br /> +She was the sunlight in our home,—why, father used to say<br /> +It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away;<br /> +But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears,<br /> +Poor father whistled lonesome-like—and went to feed the steers.<br /> +<br /> +When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot,<br /> +He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not;<br /> +And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so,<br /> +How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe!<br /> +You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,—<br /> +He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span><br /> +I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,—<br /> +To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men.<br /> +Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong,<br /> +And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song!<br /> +Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago,<br /> +When he did battle with the griefs he would not have <i>us</i> know!<br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> +<h2>TO MY MOTHER.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +HOW fair you are, my mother!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, though 't is many a year</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since you were here,</span><br /> +Still do I see your beauteous face,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with the glow</span><br /> +Of your dark eyes cometh a grace<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of long ago.</span><br /> +So gentle, too, my mother!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just as of old, upon my brow,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like benedictions now,</span><br /> +Falleth your dear hand's touch;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And still, as then,</span><br /> +A voice that glads me over-much<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cometh again,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">My fair and gentle mother!</span><br /> +<br /> +How you have loved me, mother,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have not power to tell,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Knowing full well</span><br /> +That even in the rest above<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It is your will</span><br /> +To watch and guard me with your love,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Loving me still.</span><br /> +And, as of old, my mother,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I am content to be a child,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By mother's love beguiled</span><br /> +From all these other charms;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So to the last</span><br /> +Within thy dear, protecting arms<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hold thou me fast,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My guardian angel, mother!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> +<h2>KÖRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;">FATHER, I cry to Thee!</span><br /> +Round me the billows of battle are pouring,<br /> +Round me the thunders of battle are roaring;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Father on high, hear Thou my cry,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, oh, lead Thou me!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, oh, lead Thou me!</span><br /> +Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious,—<br /> +See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Point Thou the way, lead where it may,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">God, I acknowledge Thee!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">God, I acknowledge Thee!</span><br /> +As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me,<br /> +So, when the horrors of war would confound me,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near,—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, oh, bless Thou me!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, oh, bless Thou me!</span><br /> +Living or dying, waking or sleeping,<br /> +Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, I worship Thee!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, I worship Thee!</span><br /> +Not for the love of the riches that perish,<br /> +But for the freedom and justice we cherish,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">God, I submit to Thee!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">God, I submit to Thee!</span><br /> +Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me,<br /> +Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Father, I cry to Thee!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> +<h2>GOSLING STEW.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +IN Oberhausen, on a time,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I fared as might a king;</span><br /> +And now I feel the muse sublime<br /> +Inspire me to embalm in rhyme<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That succulent and sapid thing</span><br /> +Behight of gentile and of Jew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">A gosling stew!</span><br /> +<br /> +The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soup, cutlet, salad, roast,—</span><br /> +And I partook with hearty zest,<br /> +And fervently anon I blessed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That generous and benignant host,</span><br /> +When suddenly dawned on my view<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">A gosling stew!</span><br /> +<br /> +I sniffed it coming on apace,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as its odors filled</span><br /> +The curious little dining-place,<br /> +I felt a glow suffuse my face,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I felt my very marrow thrilled</span><br /> +With rapture altogether new,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Twas gosling stew!</span><br /> +<br /> +These callow birds had never played<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In yonder village pond;</span><br /> +Had never through the gateway strayed,<br /> +And plaintive spissant music made<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the grassy green beyond:</span><br /> +Cooped up, they simply ate and grew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">For gosling stew!</span><br /> +<br /> +My doctor said I mustn't eat<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">High food and seasoned game;</span><br /> +But surely gosling is a meat<br /> +With tender nourishment replete.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leastwise I gayly ate this same;</span><br /> +I braved dyspepsy—wouldn't you<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">For gosling stew?</span><br /> +<br /> +I've feasted where the possums grow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Roast turkey have I tried,</span><br /> +The joys of canvasbacks I know,<br /> +And frequently I've eaten crow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In bleak and chill Novembertide;</span><br /> +I'd barter all that native crew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">For gosling stew!</span><br /> +<br /> +And when from Rhineland I adjourn<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To seek my Yankee shore,</span><br /> +Back shall my memory often turn,<br /> +And fiercely shall my palate burn<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more,—</span><br /> +Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">A gosling stew!</span><br /> +<br /> +Vain are these keen regrets of mine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And vain the song I sing;</span><br /> +Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine<br /> +To Oberhausen auf der Rhine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where fared I like a very king:</span><br /> +And here's a last and fond adieu<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">To gosling stew!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> +<h2>CATULLUS TO LESBIA.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +COME, my Lesbia, no repining;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let us love while yet we may!</span><br /> +Suns go on forever shining;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But when we have had our day,</span><br /> +Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us,<br /> +And no morrow's dawn awake us.<br /> +<br /> +Come, in yonder nook reclining,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the honeysuckle climbs,</span><br /> +Let us mock at Fate's designing,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let us kiss a thousand times!</span><br /> +And if they shall prove too few, dear,<br /> +When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear!<br /> +<br /> +And should any chance to see us,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Goodness! how they'll agonize!</span><br /> +How they'll wish that they could be us,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kissing in such liberal wise!</span><br /> +Never mind their envious whining;<br /> +Come, my Lesbia, no repining!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p> +<h2>JOHN SMITH.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +TO-DAY I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be,<br /> +With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea;<br /> +There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed,<br /> +And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast.<br /> +This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by;<br /> +Not one in all the crowd knew me, and not a one knew I.<br /> +"Oh for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh for a friendly face!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>Oh for a hearty hand-clasp in this teeming, desert place!"<br /> +And so soliloquizing, as a homesick creature will,<br /> +Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill,<br /> +And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's,<br /> +Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes.<br /> +The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight<br /> +A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight,—<br /> +The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day,—<br /> +The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U. S. A."<br /> +<br /> +Wildly I clutched the register, and brooded on that name;<br /> +I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West;<br /> +I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best.<br /> +His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue;<br /> +And when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue;<br /> +Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde, and a brunette,—<br /> +Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet!<br /> +I see you yet; and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem<br /> +To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream.<br /> +Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme<br /> +Appropriate to your character, your politics, and clime.<br /> +So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"? your pedigree confess<br /> +In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess."<br /> +Let fall your telltale dialect, that instantly I may<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A."<br /> +<br /> +It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell ago<br /> +Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd <i>bona-fide</i> schoolma'ams grow;<br /> +Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills,<br /> +And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd trills;<br /> +Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size,<br /> +And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies;<br /> +Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond,<br /> +And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond;<br /> +Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent<br /> +Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent;<br /> +Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire;<br /> +Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week,<br /> +And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak;<br /> +And where our grandmas sleep their sleep—God rest their souls, I say;<br /> +And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U. S. A."<br /> +<br /> +Or, mebbe, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know<br /> +In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow;<br /> +Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn<br /> +Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters are bawn.<br /> +You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott;<br /> +Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot;<br /> +And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue,<br /> +Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight,<br /> +Whar the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night,<br /> +Whar blooms the furtive possum,—pride an' glory of the South!<br /> +And anty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth,<br /> +Whar all night long the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees,<br /> +And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze,<br /> +Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay,—<br /> +H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "John Smith, U. S. A."<br /> +<br /> +Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West,—<br /> +That part of our Republic I shall always love the best!<br /> +Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of '69<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine?<br /> +Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side,<br /> +And talked about the good old days beyond the Big Divide,—<br /> +Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat,<br /> +Of the conversazzhyony, 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote,<br /> +And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago,—<br /> +Three-fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom, and Parson Jim, you know!<br /> +Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again,<br /> +And we'd see the snow-top mountains like we used to see 'em then;<br /> +The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro,<br /> +And we'd hear the pines a-singin' in the ragged gulch below;<br /> +And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.<br /> +You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall;<br /> +And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all!<br /> +For when a man sojourns abroad awhile, as I have done,<br /> +He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one.<br /> +And so they are,—for well you know there's nothing in a name;<br /> +Our Browns, our Joneses, and our Smiths are happily the same,—<br /> +All represent the spirit of the land across the sea;<br /> +All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free.<br /> +Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East,<br /> +So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least;<br /> +Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword, or pine,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>His is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine.<br /> +Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known,<br /> +Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone;<br /> +And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day<br /> +Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U. S. A."<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> +<h2>ST. MARTIN'S LANE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And trends a devious way;</span><br /> +I walk therein amid the din<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of busy London day:</span><br /> +I walk where wealth and squalor meet,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And think upon a time</span><br /> +When others trod this saintly sod,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And heard St. Martin's chime.</span><br /> +<br /> +But when those solemn bells invoke<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The midnight's slumbrous grace,</span><br /> +The ghosts of men come back again<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To haunt that curious place:</span><br /> +The ghosts of sages, poets, wits,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come back in goodly train;</span><br /> +And all night long, with mirth and song,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">They walk St. Martin's Lane.</span><br /> +<br /> +There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Maginn and Thomas Moore,</span><br /> +And here and there and everywhere<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fraserians by the score;</span><br /> +And one wee ghost that climbs the hill<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is welcomed with a shout,—</span><br /> +No king could be revered as he,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The <i>padre</i>, Father Prout!</span><br /> +<br /> +They banter up and down the street,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And clamor at the door</span><br /> +Of yonder inn, which once has been<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The scene of mirth galore:</span><br /> +'Tis now a lonely, musty shell,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deserted, like to fall;</span><br /> +And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And iterates their call.</span><br /> +<br /> +Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From Pluto's misty shore;</span><br /> +Renew to-night the keen delight<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of by-gone years once more;</span><br /> +Brew for this merry, motley horde,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And serve the steaming cheer;</span><br /> +And grant that I may lurk hard by,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To see the mirth, and hear.</span><br /> +<br /> +Ah, me! I dream what things may seem<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To others childish vain,</span><br /> +And yet at night 'tis my delight<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To walk St. Martin's Lane;</span><br /> +For, in the light of other days,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I walk with those I love,</span><br /> +And all the time St. Martin's chime<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes piteous moan above.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies,<br /> +Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies.<br /> +Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low,<br /> +As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">"Sleep, oh, sleep!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The Shepherd guardeth His sheep.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fast speedeth the night away,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Soon cometh the glorious day;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 4em;">Sleep, oh, sleep!"</span><br /> +<br /> +The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight,<br /> +And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night;<br /> +And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong<br /> +The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">"Sleep, oh, sleep!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The Shepherd loveth His sheep.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He that guardeth His flock the best</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath folded them to His loving breast;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So sleep ye now, and take your rest,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Sleep, oh, sleep!"</span><br /> +<br /> +From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song,<br /> +And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along;<br /> +So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,—<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">"Sleep, oh, sleep!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The Shepherd loveth His sheep.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fast speedeth the night away,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Soon cometh the glorious day;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Sleep, oh, sleep!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> +<h2>DEAR OLD LONDON.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89,<br /> +I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,—<br /> +"A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to look<br /> +Upon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book!<br /> +A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,—<br /> +The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be;<br /> +And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>When I was broke in London in the fall of '89!<br /> +<br /> +Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day,<br /> +A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,—<br /> +A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago,<br /> +Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know).<br /> +A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,—<br /> +That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob;<br /> +But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine,<br /> +When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.<br /> +<br /> +At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore,<br /> +And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store.<br /> +Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand.<br /> +Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,—<br /> +It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot;<br /> +Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline?<br /> +For I was broke in London in the fall of '89.<br /> +<br /> +Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap<br /> +That Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap;<br /> +And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass,<br /> +And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass!<br /> +And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates,<br /> +The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates!<br /> +Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.<br /> +<br /> +O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,—<br /> +The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the eye,—<br /> +The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime,<br /> +The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time,<br /> +The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play,<br /> +And other costly relics of malodorous decay,—<br /> +Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine<br /> +When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.<br /> +<br /> +When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward,<br /> +Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record;<br /> +Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue,<br /> +Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>But in plain Anglo-Saxon—that he may know who seeks<br /> +What agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks—<br /> +Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line:<br /> +"Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89."<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> +<h2>CORSICAN LULLABY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +BAMBINO in his cradle slept;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And by his side his grandam grim</span><br /> +Bent down and smiled upon the child,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sung this lullaby to him,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">This "ninna and anninia":</span><br /> +<br /> +"When thou art older, thou shalt mind<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To traverse countries far and wide,</span><br /> +And thou shalt go where roses blow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And balmy waters singing glide—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So ninna and anninia!</span><br /> +<br /> +"And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A famous jacket edged in red,</span><br /> +And, more than that, a peaked hat,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All decked in gold, upon thy head—</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ah! ninna and anninia!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor shall the soldiers bully thee;</span><br /> +Perchance, beset by wrong or debt,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A mighty bandit thou shalt be—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So ninna and anninia!</span><br /> +<br /> +"No woman yet of our proud race<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lived to her fourteenth year unwed;</span><br /> +The brazen churl that eyed a girl<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bought her the ring or paid his head—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So ninna and anninia!</span><br /> +<br /> +"But once came spies (I know the thieves!)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And brought disaster to our race;</span><br /> +God heard us when our fifteen men<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were hanged within the market-place—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">But ninna and anninia!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Good men they were, my babe, and true,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Right worthy fellows all, and strong;</span><br /> +Live thou and be for them and me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Avenger of that deadly wrong—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So ninna and anninia!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE CLINK OF THE ICE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone<br /> +Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known.<br /> +When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head<br /> +Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed;<br /> +When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside,<br /> +And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a buffalo hide,—<br /> +How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall!<br /> +<br /> +Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name,<br /> +That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame?<br /> +Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire,<br /> +That presently by combustion setteth us all afire?<br /> +Or is it the cheery magnum?—nay, I'll not chide the cup<br /> +That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up:<br /> +Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,—<br /> +Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for all.<br /> +<br /> +I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame,<br /> +And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same;<br /> +And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire;<br /> +I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and screamed,—<br /> +In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human dreamed:<br /> +But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink<br /> +When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink.<br /> +<br /> +Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup?<br /> +Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up!<br /> +See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove<br /> +To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen stove!<br /> +The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and through:<br /> +An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.!<br /> +And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat.<br /> +<br /> +May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drink<br /> +That happens along at five <span class="smcap">a. m.</span> with its rapturous clinkety-clink!<br /> +I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat<br /> +But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote;<br /> +So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem<br /> +For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five <span class="smcap">a. m.</span>,<br /> +But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall<br /> +Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +WHAT though the radiant thoroughfare<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Teems with a noisy throng?</span><br /> +What though men bandy everywhere<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ribald jest and song?</span><br /> +Over the din of oaths and cries<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Broodeth a wondrous calm,</span><br /> +And mid that solemn stillness rise<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The bells of Notre Dame.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Thy weak and erring child;</span><br /> +And thou, O gentle Mother, pray<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That God be reconciled;</span><br /> +And on mankind, O Christ, our King,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pour out Thy gracious balm,"—</span><br /> +'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those bells of Notre Dame.</span><br /> +<br /> +And so, methinks, God, bending down<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To ken the things of earth,</span><br /> +Heeds not the mockery of the town<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or cries of ribald mirth;</span><br /> +For ever soundeth in His ears<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A penitential psalm,—</span><br /> +'T is thy angelic voice He hears,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O bells of Notre Dame!</span><br /> +<br /> +Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">May still forever be</span><br /> +An intercession to rejoice<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Benign divinity;</span><br /> +And that thy tuneful grace may fall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like dew, a quickening balm,</span><br /> +Upon the arid hearts of all,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O bells of Notre Dame!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p> +<h2>LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +SAINT JO, Buchanan County,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is leagues and leagues away;</span><br /> +And I sit in the gloom of this rented room,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And pine to be there to-day.</span><br /> +Yes, with London fog around me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the bustling to and fro,</span><br /> +I am fretting to be across the sea<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.</span><br /> +<br /> +I would have a brown-eyed maiden<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Go driving once again;</span><br /> +And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I sung to that maiden then:</span><br /> +I purposely say, "as we <i>snailed</i> along,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For a proper horse goes slow</span><br /> +In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.</span><br /> +<br /> +From her boudoir in the alders<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush,</span><br /> +And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the noisy cricket, "Hush!"</span><br /> +To think that the curious creature<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Should crane her neck to know</span><br /> +The various things one says and sings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!</span><br /> +<br /> +But the maples they should shield us<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the gossips of the place;</span><br /> +Nor should the sun, except by pun,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Profane the maiden's face;</span><br /> +And the girl should do the driving,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For a fellow can't, you know,</span><br /> +Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectful<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.</span><br /> +<br /> +Ah! sweet the hours of springtime,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the heart inclines to woo,</span><br /> +And it's deemed all right for the callow wight<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">To do what he wants to do;</span><br /> +But cruel the age of winter,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the way of the world says no</span><br /> +To the hoary men who would woo again<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!</span><br /> +<br /> +In the Union Bank of London<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are forty pounds or more,</span><br /> +Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In an antiquarian store;</span><br /> +But I'd give it all, and gladly,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If for an hour or so</span><br /> +I could feel the grace of a distant place,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.</span><br /> +<br /> +Let us sit awhile, beloved,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dream of the good old days,—</span><br /> +Of the kindly shade which the maples made<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Round the stanch but squeaky chaise;</span><br /> +With your head upon my shoulder,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And my arm about you so,</span><br /> +Though exiles, we shall seem to be<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> +<h2>CRUMPETS AND TEA.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +THERE are happenings in life that are destined to rise<br /> +Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes;<br /> +And the passage of years shall not dim in the least<br /> +The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,—<br /> +The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,—<br /> +My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh,<br /> +And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea.<br /> +<br /> +There are cynics who say with invidious zest<br /> +That a crumpet's a thing that will never digest;<br /> +But I happen to <i>know</i> that a crumpet is prime<br /> +For digestion, if only you give it its time.<br /> +Or if, by a chance, it should <i>not</i> quite agree,<br /> +Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea?<br /> +<br /> +To toast crumpets quite <i>à la mode</i>, I require<br /> +A proper long fork and a proper quick fire;<br /> +And when they are browned, without further ado,<br /> +I put on the butter, that soaks through and through.<br /> +And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh,<br /> +Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three;<br /> +And so we sit down to our crumpets—and tea.<br /> +<br /> +A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,—<br /> +Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit<br /> +Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs,<br /> +Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs.<br /> +(It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree,<br /> +That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we<br /> +Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!)<br /> +<br /> +The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak<br /> +Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week;<br /> +Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell;<br /> +Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee,<br /> +And purchase for sixpence enough for us three,<br /> +Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea.<br /> +<br /> +But soon—ah! too soon—I must bid a farewell<br /> +To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell,<br /> +Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore<br /> +That's filled me with colic and—yearnings for more!<br /> +Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea<br /> +Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh<br /> +And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea.<br /> +<br /> +Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes<br /> +That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise.<br /> +My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change,<br /> +Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range;<br /> +But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be<br /> +In London again with Teresa and Leigh,<br /> +Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> +<h2>AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THROUGH all my life the poor shall find<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In me a constant friend;</span><br /> +And on the meek of every kind<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My mercy shall attend.</span><br /> +<br /> +The dumb shall never call on me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In vain for kindly aid;</span><br /> +And in my hands the blind shall see<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A bounteous alms displayed.</span><br /> +<br /> +In all their walks the lame shall know<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And feel my goodness near;</span><br /> +And on the deaf will I bestow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My gentlest words of cheer.</span><br /> +<br /> +'Tis by such pious works as these,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which I delight to do,</span><br /> +That men their fellow-creatures please,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And please their Maker too.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> +<h2>INTRY-MINTRY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,—<br /> +Once as these children were hard at play,<br /> +An old man, hoary and tottering, came<br /> +And watched them playing their pretty game.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He seemed to wonder, while standing there,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What the meaning thereof could be.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Aha, but the old man yearned to share</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the little children's innocent glee,</span><br /> +As they circled around with laugh and shout,<br /> +And told this rhyme at counting out:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Apple-seed and apple-thorn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Wire, brier, limber, lock,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Twelve geese in a flock;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Some flew east, some flew west,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Some flew over the cuckoo's nest."</span><br /> +<br /> +Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>Ah, the mirth of that summer day!<br /> +'Twas Father Time who had come to share<br /> +The innocent joy of those children there.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He learned betimes the game they played,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And into their sport with them went he,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How <i>could</i> the children have been afraid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Since little they recked who he might be?</span><br /> +They laughed to hear old Father Time<br /> +Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Apple-seed and apple-thorn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Wire, brier, limber, lock,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Twelve geese in a flock;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Some flew east, some flew west,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Some flew over the cuckoo's nest.</span><br /> +<br /> +Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,<br /> +And joy of summer,—where are they?<br /> +The grim old man still standeth near,<br /> +Crooning the song of a far-off year;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And into the winter I come alone,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cheered by that mournful requiem,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Soothed by the dolorous monotone</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">That shall count me off as it counted them,—</span><br /> +The solemn voice of old Father Time,<br /> +Chanting the homely nursery rhyme<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">He learned of the children a summer morn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn,"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Life was full of the dulcet cheer</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">That bringeth the grace of heaven anear:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The sound of the little ones hard at play,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Willie and Bess, Georgie and May.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> +<h2>MODJESKY AS CAMEEL.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand,<br /> +Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land;<br /> +And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81,<br /> +Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun,<br /> +We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth,<br /> +And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health.<br /> +You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago;<br /> +(An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!)<br /> +Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel.<br /> +<br /> +Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go<br /> +To call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show.<br /> +"The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen,<br /> +And I reckon there is more for <i>me</i> in some other kind uv queen."<br /> +"Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find<br /> +A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind?<br /> +You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more,<br /> +An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score,<br /> +Only to come down here among us <i>tong</i> an' say you feel<br /> +You'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!"<br /> +<br /> +But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both de<i>kolly</i>tay.<br /> +A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' wealthy,—<br /> +She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy.<br /> +She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind,<br /> +And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind<br /> +Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break,<br /> +And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake.<br /> +"Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor,<br /> +And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more.<br /> +<br /> +At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game,<br /> +And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same.<br /> +I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!"<br /> +He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen,<br /> +And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men;<br /> +Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer,<br /> +An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear;<br /> +And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel,<br /> +An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel.<br /> +<br /> +A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three,<br /> +And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see.<br /> +He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lick<br /> +Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick<br /> +To clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red,<br /> +But good to helpless folks and weak,—a brave and manly heart<br /> +A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;<br /> +Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along,<br /> +But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song.<br /> +<br /> +"Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow,<br /> +But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow;<br /> +So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,—<br /> +Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,—<br /> +I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night<br /> +To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white,<br /> +Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you,<br /> +Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts,<br /> +Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no <i>onter acts</i>."<br /> +<br /> +I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout<br /> +That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out.<br /> +"Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect,<br /> +Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,—<br /> +A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I come<br /> +Out West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum),<br /> +Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to sway<br /> +The popular opinion in a most persuasive way.<br /> +"Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door.<br /> +<br /> +First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to go<br /> +And see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low;<br /> +An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock,<br /> +An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block;<br /> +John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write,<br /> +And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight;<br /> +Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too;<br /> +And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do.<br /> +Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then;<br /> +Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again.<br /> +<br /> +I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!"<br /> +I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,—<br /> +They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break!<br /> +An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base,<br /> +I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face.<br /> +I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong<br /> +In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long.<br /> +I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,—<br /> +And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day!<br /> +<br /> +I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again.<br /> +She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then.<br /> +An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill be<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,—<br /> +A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel;<br /> +He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal;<br /> +Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heart<br /> +A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;<br /> +So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along,<br /> +But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> +<h2>TELLING THE BEES.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +OUT of the house where the slumberer lay<br /> +Grandfather came one summer day,<br /> +And under the pleasant orchard trees<br /> +He spake this wise to the murmuring bees:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The clover-bloom that kissed her feet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the posie-bed where she used to play</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have honey store, but none so sweet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As ere our little one went away.</span><br /> +O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low;<br /> +For she is gone who loved you so."<br /> +<br /> +A wonder fell on the listening bees<br /> +Under those pleasant orchard trees,<br /> +And in their toil that summer day<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>Ever their murmuring seemed to say:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Child, O child, the grass is cool,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the posies are waking to hear the song</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Waiting for one that tarrieth long."</span><br /> +'Twas so they called to the little one then,<br /> +As if to call her back again.<br /> +<br /> +O gentle bees, I have come to say<br /> +That grandfather fell asleep to-day,<br /> +And we know by the smile on grandfather's face<br /> +He has found his dear one's biding-place.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As over the honey-fields you sweep,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sing of grandfather fast asleep;</span><br /> +And ever beneath these orchard trees<br /> +Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE TEA-GOWN.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +MY lady has a tea-gown<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That is wondrous fair to see,—</span><br /> +It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As a tea-gown ought to be;</span><br /> +And I thought she must be jesting<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Last night at supper when</span><br /> +She remarked, by chance, that it came from France,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And had cost but two pounds ten.</span><br /> +<br /> +Had she told me fifty shillings,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I might (and wouldn't you?)</span><br /> +Have referred to that dress in a way folks express<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By an eloquent dash or two;</span><br /> +But the guileful little creature<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Knew well her tactics when</span><br /> +She casually said that that dream in red<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Had cost but two pounds ten.</span><br /> +<br /> +Yet our home is all the brighter<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For that dainty, sensient thing,</span><br /> +That floats away where it properly may,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And clings where it ought to cling;</span><br /> +And I count myself the luckiest<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of all us married men</span><br /> +That I have a wife whose joy in life<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is a gown at two pounds ten.</span><br /> +<br /> +It isn't the gown compels me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Condone this venial sin;</span><br /> +It's the pretty face above the lace,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the gentle heart within.</span><br /> +And with her arms about me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I say, and say again,</span><br /> +"'Twas wondrous cheap,"—and I think a heap<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of that gown at two pounds ten!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> +<h2>DOCTORS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +'Tis quite the thing to say and sing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gross libels on the doctor,—</span><br /> +To picture him an ogre grim<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or humbug-pill concocter;</span><br /> +Yet it's in quite another light<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My friendly pen would show him,</span><br /> +Glad that it may with verse repay<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some part of what I owe him.</span><br /> +<br /> +When one's all right, he's prone to spite<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The doctor's peaceful mission;</span><br /> +But when he's sick, it's loud and quick<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He bawls for a physician.</span><br /> +With other things, the doctor brings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sweet babes, our hearts to soften:</span><br /> +Though I have four, I pine for more,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Good doctor, pray come often!</span><br /> +<br /> +What though he sees death and disease<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Run riot all around him?</span><br /> +Patient and true, and valorous too,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Such have I always found him.</span><br /> +Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when skill's unavailing,</span><br /> +And death is near, his words of cheer<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Support our courage failing.</span><br /> +<br /> +In ancient days they used to praise<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The godlike art of healing,—</span><br /> +An art that then engaged all men<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Possessed of sense and feeling.</span><br /> +Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Famed for a quack elixir;</span><br /> +And Digby sold, as we are told,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A charm for folk lovesick, sir.</span><br /> +<br /> +Napoleon knew a thing or two,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And clearly <i>he</i> was partial</span><br /> +To doctors, for in time of war<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">He chose one for a marshal.</span><br /> +In our great cause a doctor was<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The first to pass death's portal,</span><br /> +And Warren's name at once became<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A beacon and immortal.</span><br /> +<br /> +A heap, indeed, of what we read<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By doctors is provided;</span><br /> +For to those groves Apollo loves<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their leaning is decided.</span><br /> +Deny who may that Rabelais<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is first in wit and learning,</span><br /> +And yet all smile and marvel while<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His brilliant leaves they're turning.</span><br /> +<br /> +How Lever's pen has charmed all men!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How touching Rab's short story!</span><br /> +And I will stake my all that Drake<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is still the schoolboy's glory.</span><br /> +A doctor-man it was began<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great Britain's great museum,—</span><br /> +The treasures there are all so rare<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>It drives me wild to see 'em!<br /> +<br /> +There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Big monuments to learning.</span><br /> +To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We all are fondly turning.</span><br /> +Tomes might be writ of that keen wit<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which Abernethy's famed for;</span><br /> +With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Most doctors now get blamed for.</span><br /> +<br /> +In modern times the noble rhymes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Holmes, a great physician,</span><br /> +Have solace brought and wisdom taught<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To hearts of all condition.</span><br /> +The sailor, bound for Puget Sound,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Finds pleasure still unfailing,</span><br /> +If he but troll the barcarole<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Osborne wrote on Whaling.</span><br /> +<br /> +If there were need, I could proceed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Ad naus.</i> with this prescription,</span><br /> +But, <i>inter nos</i>, a larger dose<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might give you fits conniption;</span><br /> +Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'd hold before these others,</span><br /> +For he and I in years gone by<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have chummed around like brothers.</span><br /> +<br /> +Together we have sung in glee<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The songs old Horace made for</span><br /> +Our genial craft, together quaffed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What bowls that doctor paid for!</span><br /> +I love the rest, but love him best;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, were not times so pressing,</span><br /> +I'd buy and send—you smile, old friend?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well, then, here goes my blessing.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> +<h2>BARBARA.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +BLITHE was the youth that summer day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As he smote at the ribs of earth,</span><br /> +And he plied his pick with a merry click,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he whistled anon in mirth;</span><br /> +And the constant thought of his dear one's face<br /> +Seemed to illumine that ghostly place.<br /> +<br /> +The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And she moved, and closed on his head:</span><br /> +With no one nigh and with never a cry<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The beautiful boy lay dead;</span><br /> +And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair<br /> +Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair.<br /> +<br /> +Fifty years is a mighty space<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the human toil for bread;</span><br /> +But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A dream that is quickly sped,—</span><br /> +Fifty years, and the fair lad lay<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>Just as he fell that summer day.<br /> +<br /> +At last came others in quest of gold,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hewed in that mountain place;</span><br /> +And deep in the ground one time they found<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The boy with the smiling face:</span><br /> +All uncorrupt by the pitiless air,<br /> +He lay, with his crown of golden hair.<br /> +<br /> +They bore him up to the sun again,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And laid him beside the brook,</span><br /> +And the folk came down from the busy town<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To wonder and prate and look;</span><br /> +And so, to a world that knew him not,<br /> +The boy came back to the old-time spot.<br /> +<br /> +Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wrinkled and bowed was she,—</span><br /> +And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"At last he is come to me!"</span><br /> +And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair.<br /> +<br /> +"Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And better it is 'tis so,</span><br /> +Else thou mightst see how harsh with me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dealt Life thou couldst not know:</span><br /> +Kindlier Death has kept <i>thee</i> fair;<br /> +The sorrow of Life hath been <i>my</i> share."<br /> +<br /> +Barbara bowed her aged face,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And fell on the breast of her dead;</span><br /> +And the golden hair of her dear one there<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Caressed her snow-white head.</span><br /> +Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain;<br /> +But sweeter the Death that joined those twain.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE CAFÉ MOLINEAU.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THE Café Molineau is where<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A dainty little minx</span><br /> +Serves God and man as best she can<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By serving meats and drinks.</span><br /> +Oh, such an air the creature has,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And such a pretty face!</span><br /> +I took delight that autumn night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In hanging round the place.</span><br /> +<br /> +I know but very little French<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(I have not long been here);</span><br /> +But when she spoke, her meaning broke<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full sweetly on my ear.</span><br /> +Then, too, she seemed to understand<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whatever I'd to say,</span><br /> +Though most I knew was "oony poo,"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."</span><br /> +<br /> +The female wit is always quick,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of all womankind</span><br /> +'Tis here in France that you, perchance,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The keenest wits shall find;</span><br /> +And here you'll find that subtle gift,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That rare, distinctive touch,</span><br /> +Combined with grace of form and face,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That glads men overmuch.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Our girls at home," I mused aloud,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Lack either that or this;</span><br /> +They don't combine the arts divine<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As does the Gallic miss.</span><br /> +Far be it from me to malign<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our belles across the sea,</span><br /> +And yet I'll swear none can compare<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With this ideal She."</span><br /> +<br /> +And then I praised her dainty foot<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In very awful French,</span><br /> +And parleyvood in guileful mood<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Until the saucy wench</span><br /> +Tossed back her haughty auburn head,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And froze me with disdain:</span><br /> +"There are on me no flies," said she,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For I come from Bangor, Maine!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> +<h2>HOLLY AND IVY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +HOLLY standeth in ye house<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When that Noel draweth near;</span><br /> +Evermore at ye door<br /> +Standeth Ivy, shivering sore<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In ye night wind bleak and drear;</span><br /> +And, as weary hours go by,<br /> +Doth ye one to other cry.<br /> +<br /> +"Sister Holly," Ivy quoth,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"What is that within you see?</span><br /> +To and fro doth ye glow<br /> +Of ye yule-log flickering go;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would its warmth did cherish me!</span><br /> +Where thou bidest is it warm;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>I am shaken of ye storm."<br /> +<br /> +"Sister Ivy," Holly quoth,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Brightly burns the yule-log here,</span><br /> +And love brings beauteous things,<br /> +While a guardian angel sings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the babes that slumber near;</span><br /> +But, O Ivy! tell me now,<br /> +What without there seest thou?"<br /> +<br /> +"Sister Holly," Ivy quoth,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"With fair music comes ye Morn,</span><br /> +And afar burns ye Star<br /> +Where ye wondering shepherds are,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Shepherd King is born:</span><br /> +'Peace on earth, good-will to men,'<br /> +Angels cry, and cry again."<br /> +<br /> +Holly standeth in ye house<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When that Noel draweth near;</span><br /> +Clambering o'er yonder door,<br /> +Ivy standeth evermore;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And to them that rightly hear</span><br /> +Each one speaketh of ye love<br /> +That outpoureth from Above.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE BOLTONS, 22.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog<br /> +Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog;<br /> +When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell,<br /> +Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell;<br /> +When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along,<br /> +Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,—<br /> +When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, and more,<br /> +To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore,<br /> +There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22.<br /> +<br /> +The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend<br /> +My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend.<br /> +One sees <i>chefs d'œuvre</i> of masters in profusion on the walls,<br /> +And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls;<br /> +There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please,<br /> +And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease:<br /> +But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,—<br /> +The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace;<br /> +Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through,<br /> +It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22.<br /> +<br /> +My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore.<br /> +The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare<br /> +On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,—<br /> +A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device<br /> +To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice,<br /> +A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite<br /> +Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light;<br /> +But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do<br /> +For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22.<br /> +<br /> +Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit,<br /> +And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit;<br /> +And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse.<br /> +And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars,<br /> +He smokes his modest pipe, and I—I smoke his choice cigars!<br /> +For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,—<br /> +The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size;<br /> +And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,—and so will you,<br /> +If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22.<br /> +<br /> +But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived:<br /> +'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived.<br /> +A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then<br /> +A cordial invitation to us both to come again.<br /> +So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,—<br /> +The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace,<br /> +Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place;<br /> +And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew<br /> +In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22.<br /> +<br /> +God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife;<br /> +May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life;<br /> +And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within,<br /> +Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been.<br /> +So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup;<br /> +Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine,<br /> +Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine:<br /> +"May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew<br /> +Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!"<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> +<h2>DIBDIN'S GHOST.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tomes you so despise,</span><br /> +A spectre rose beside the bed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And spake in this true wise:</span><br /> +"From Canaan's beatific coast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I've come to visit thee,</span><br /> +For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says Dibdin's ghost to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +I bade him welcome, and we twain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Discussed with buoyant hearts</span><br /> +The various things that appertain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To bibliomaniac arts.</span><br /> +"Since you are fresh from t' other side,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pray tell me of that host</span><br /> +That treasured books before they died,"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says I to Dibdin's ghost.</span><br /> +<br /> +"They've entered into perfect rest;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For in the life they've won</span><br /> +There are no auctions to molest,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No creditors to dun.</span><br /> +Their heavenly rapture has no bounds<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beside that jasper sea;</span><br /> +It is a joy unknown to Lowndes,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says Dibdin's ghost to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +Much I rejoiced to hear him speak<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of biblio-bliss above,</span><br /> +For I am one of those who seek<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What bibliomaniacs love.</span><br /> +"But tell me, for I long to hear<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What doth concern me most,</span><br /> +Are wives admitted to that sphere?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says I to Dibdin's ghost.</span><br /> +<br /> +"The women folk are few up there;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For 'twere not fair, you know,</span><br /> +That they our heavenly joy should share<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who vex us here below.</span><br /> +The few are those who have been kind<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To husbands such as we;</span><br /> +They knew our fads, and didn't mind,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says Dibdin's ghost to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +"But what of those who scold at us<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When we would read in bed?</span><br /> +Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If we buy books instead?</span><br /> +And what of those who've dusted not<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our motley pride and boast,—</span><br /> +Shall they profane that sacred spot?"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says I to Dibdin's ghost.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Oh, no! they tread that other path,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which leads where torments roll,</span><br /> +And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the guilty soul.</span><br /> +Untouched of bibliomaniac grace,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That saveth such as we,</span><br /> +They wallow in that dreadful place,"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says Dibdin's ghost to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +"To my dear wife will I recite<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What things I've heard you say;</span><br /> +She'll let me read the books by night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She's let me buy by day.</span><br /> +For we together by and by<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would join that heavenly host;</span><br /> +She's earned a rest as well as I,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Says I to Dibdin's ghost.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THE Hawthorne children, seven in all,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are famous friends of mine;</span><br /> +And with what pleasure I recall<br /> +How, years ago, one gloomy fall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I took a tedious railway line,</span><br /> +And journeyed by slow stages down<br /> +Unto that soporiferous town<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">(Albeit one worth seeing)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred,</span><br /> +And Beatrix and Gwendolen,<br /> +And she that was the baby then,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These famous seven, as aforesaid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lived, moved, and had their being.</span><br /> +<br /> +The Hawthorne children gave me such<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A welcome by the sea</span><br /> +That the eight of us were soon in touch,<br /> +And, though their mother marvelled much,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Happy as larks were we.</span><br /> +Egad, I was a boy again<br /> +With Henry, John, and Gwendolen;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And oh the funny capers</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I cut with Hildegarde and Fred!</span><br /> +And oh the pranks we children played;<br /> +And oh the deafening noise we made—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Twould shock my family if they read</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">About it in the papers!</span><br /> +<br /> +The Hawthorne children all were smart:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The girls, as I recall,</span><br /> +Had comprehended every art<br /> +Appealing to the head and heart;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The boys were gifted, all.</span><br /> +'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how<br /> +To hitch a horse and milk a cow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And cook the best of suppers;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Beatrix upon the sands</span><br /> +I sprinted daily, and was beat;<br /> +'Twas Henry trained me to the feat<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of walking round upon my hands</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Instead of on my uppers.</span><br /> +<br /> +The Hawthorne children liked me best<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of evenings, after tea,</span><br /> +For then, by general request,<br /> +I spun them yarns about the West,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yarns all involving Me!</span><br /> +I represented how I'd slain<br /> +The bison on his native plain;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And divers tales of wonder</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I told of how I'd fought and bled</span><br /> +In Indian scrimmages galore,<br /> +Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And packed her darlings off to bed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To dream of blood and thunder.</span><br /> +<br /> +They must have changed a deal since then;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The misses, tall and fair,</span><br /> +And those three handsome, lusty men,—<br /> +Would they be girls and boys again,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were I to happen there,</span><br /> +Down in that spot beside the sea<br /> +Where we made such tumultuous glee<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">That dull autumnal weather?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, me! the years go swiftly by;</span><br /> +And yet how fondly I recall<br /> +The week when we were children all,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dear Hawthorne children, you and I,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Just eight of us together!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +ONCE on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go<br /> +To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show;<br /> +And after we had revelled in the saltatory sights,<br /> +We sought a neighboring <i>café</i> for more tangible delights.<br /> +When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,<br /> +He quoth: "A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!"<br /> +<br /> +Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!<br /> +There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine,<br /> +A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!<br /> +How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:<br /> +"Come! on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"<br /> +<br /> +But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate,—<br /> +How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!<br /> +You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches<br /> +That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;<br /> +To me, at least, (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred<br /> +What horror was encompassed in that small hot bird.<br /> +<br /> +Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!<br /> +What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied<br /> +To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!<br /> +And oh the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then<br /> +Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!<br /> +<br /> +The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,<br /> +But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!<br /> +The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,<br /> +Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,<br /> +And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,<br /> +Was the large cold bottle,—<i>not</i> the small hot bird.<br /> +<br /> +Of course I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>If ever it has been your wont to train around at night.<br /> +How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,<br /> +And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!<br /> +How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,<br /> +And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!<br /> +<br /> +But you, O noxious, pygmy bird! whether it be you fly,<br /> +Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering festering lie,—<br /> +I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,<br /> +Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;<br /> +Go, get thee hence! and never more discomfit me and mine,—<br /> +I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!<br /> +<br /> +So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the telltale day,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths of posies gay;<br /> +We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine<br /> +Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,<br /> +And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard<br /> +Of the large cold bottle,—<i>not</i> the small hot bird!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> +<h2>AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL.</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>[The exile Melibœus 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.]</p></div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />MELIBŒUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'><div class='cap'> +Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and slender;</span><br /> +Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless repining,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />TITYRUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +A god—yes, a god, I declare—vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar;</span><br /> +He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and of halter.</span><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />MELIBŒUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle.</span><br /> +To exile and hardship devote, and by merciless enemies hounded,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle.</span><br /> +Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me—<br /> +But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who <i>is</i> this good deity, tell me!<br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />TITYRUS (reminiscently).</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +The city—the city called Rome, with my head full of herding and tillage,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now wander;</span><br /> +But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out yonder.</span><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />MELIBŒUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city?<br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />TITYRUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion;</span><br /> +My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress to pity,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible fashion.</span><br /> +Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me;<br /> +And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me!<br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />MELIBŒUS (slyly, as if addressing the damsel).</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +So now, Amaryllis, the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobnobbing;</span><br /> +And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant lover,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The pine-trees, the copse and the brook, for Tityrus ever went sobbing.</span><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />TITYRUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +Melibœus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My toil was all vain the year through, no matter how earnest or clever,</span><br /> +Till, at last, came that god among men, that king from that wonderful city,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And quoth: "Take your homesteads again; they are yours and your assigns forever!"</span><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />MELIBŒUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what 's better than money,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening;</span><br /> +Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are glistening—</span><br /> +Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining,</span><br /> +The plash of the sacred cascade,—ah, restful, indeed, are these voices,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree reclining!</span><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />TITYRUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +And he who insures this to me—oh, craven I were not to love him!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in,</span><br /> +The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women!</span><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />MELIBŒUS (suddenly recalling his own misery).</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +But we who are exiled must go; and whither—ah, whither—God knoweth!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth only;</span><br /> +Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely.</span><br /> +Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the alien be squandered?</span><br /> +Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess thee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've wandered?</span><br /> +My flock! nevermore shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside above me;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to sorrow!</span><br /> +Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones that love me,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow!</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></div> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />TITYRUS.</div> + +<div class='poem3'> +But rest you this night with me here; my bed,—we will share it together,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and cheeses;</span><br /> +The evening already is nigh,—the shadows creep over the heather,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the breezes.</span><br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> +<h2>PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +ALL day long they come and go,—<br /> +Pittypat and Tippytoe;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Footprints up and down the hall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Playthings scattered on the floor,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Finger-marks along the wall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tell-tale streaks upon the door,—</span><br /> +By these presents you shall know<br /> +Pittypat and Tippytoe.<br /> +<br /> +How they riot at their play!<br /> +And, a dozen times a day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In they troop, demanding bread,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Only buttered bread will do,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And that butter must be spread</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Inches thick with sugar too!</span><br /> +Never yet have I said, "No,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>Pittypat and Tippytoe!"<br /> +<br /> +Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,<br /> +Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For—I much regret to say—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tippytoe and Pittypat</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sometimes interrupt their play</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With an internecine spat;</span><br /> +Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so,<br /> +Pittypat and Tippytoe!<br /> +<br /> +Oh, the thousand worrying things<br /> +Every day recurrent brings!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hands to scrub and hair to brush,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Search for playthings gone amiss,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Many a murmuring to hush,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Many a little bump to kiss;</span><br /> +Life's indeed a fleeting show,<br /> +Pittypat and Tippytoe!<br /> +<br /> +And when day is at an end,<br /> +There are little duds to mend;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little frocks are strangely torn,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Little shoes great holes reveal,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little hose, but one day worn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rudely yawn at toe or heel!</span><br /> +Who but you could work such woe,<br /> +Pittypat and Tippytoe!<br /> +<br /> +But when comes this thought to me,<br /> +"Some there are that childless be,"<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stealing to their little beds,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With a love I cannot speak,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tenderly I stroke their heads,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.</span><br /> +God help those who do not know<br /> +A Pittypat or Tippytoe!<br /> +<br /> +On the floor, along the hall,<br /> +Rudely traced upon the wall,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There are proofs in every kind</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the havoc they have wrought;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And upon my heart you'd find</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Just such trademarks, if you sought.</span><br /> +Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,<br /> +Pittypat and Tippytoe!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> +<h2>ASHES ON THE SLIDE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago.<br /> +How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow!<br /> +Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright,<br /> +Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight<br /> +As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill<br /> +Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still.<br /> +<br /> +Ah, coasting in those days—those good old days—was fun indeed!<br /> +Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then<br /> +We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again;<br /> +But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside<br /> +When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide!<br /> +<br /> +The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums,<br /> +And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs,<br /> +And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew<br /> +The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue!<br /> +The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide;<br /> +And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!"<br /> +<br /> +Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ<br /> +To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite<br /> +In interfering with the play wherein we found delight;<br /> +And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride:<br /> +"Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!"<br /> +<br /> +But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest,<br /> +His money well invested in farm mortgages out West;<br /> +Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife<br /> +That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life;<br /> +That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide<br /> +Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide!<br /> +<br /> +And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou!<br /> +Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go;<br /> +The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe;<br /> +And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died,<br /> +He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +"CUPID!" Venus went a-crying;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;">"Cupid, whither dost thou stray?</span><br /> +Tell me, people, hither hieing,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have you seen my runaway?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Speak,—my kiss shall be your pay!</span><br /> +Yes, and sweets more gratifying,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If you bring him back to-day.</span><br /> +<br /> +"Cupid," Venus went a-calling,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Is a rosy little youth,</span><br /> +But his beauty is inthralling.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He will speak you fair, in sooth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wheedle you with glib untruth,—</span><br /> +Honey-like his words; but galling<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are his deeds, and full of ruth!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Cupid's hair is curling yellow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he hath a saucy face;</span><br /> +With his chubby hands the fellow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shooteth into farthest space,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Heedless of all time and place;</span><br /> +King and squire and punchinello<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He delighteth to abase!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Nude and winged the prankish blade is,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he speedeth everywhere,</span><br /> +Vexing gentlemen and ladies,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Callow youths and damsels fair</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whom he catcheth unaware,—</span><br /> +Venturing even into Hades,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He hath sown his torments there!</span><br /> +<br /> +"For that bow, that bow and quiver,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, they are a cruel twain!</span><br /> +Thinking of them makes me shiver.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oft, with all his might and main,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cupid sends those darts profane</span><br /> +Whizzing through my heart and liver,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Setting fire to every vein!</span><br /> +<br /> +"And the torch he carries blazing,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Truly 'tis a tiny one;</span><br /> +Yet, that tiny torch upraising,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cupid scarifies the sun!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, good people, there is none</span><br /> +Knows what mischief most amazing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cupid's evil torch hath done!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Show no mercy when you find him!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Spite of every specious plea</span><br /> +And of all his whimpering, bind him!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full of flatteries is he;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Armed with treachery, <i>cap-a-pie</i>,</span><br /> +He 'll play 'possum; never mind him,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">March him straightway back to me!</span><br /> +<br /> +"Bow and arrows and sweet kisses<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He will offer you, no doubt;</span><br /> +But beware those proffered blisses,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They are venomous throughout!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seize and bind him fast about;</span><br /> +Mind you,—most important this is:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bind him, bring him, but—watch out!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHRISTMAS EVE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The evening shades are falling,—</span><br /> +Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The voice of the Master calling?</span><br /> +<br /> +Deep lies the snow upon the earth,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But all the sky is ringing</span><br /> +With joyous song, and all night long<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The stars shall dance, with singing.</span><br /> +<br /> +Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And close thine eyes in dreaming,</span><br /> +And angels fair shall lead thee where<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The singing stars are beaming.</span><br /> +<br /> +A shepherd calls his little lambs,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he longeth to caress them;</span><br /> +He bids them rest upon his breast,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">That his tender love may bless them.</span><br /> +<br /> +So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whilst evening shades are falling,</span><br /> +And above the song of the heavenly throng<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou shalt hear the Master calling.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> +<h2>CARLSBAD.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure,<br /> +Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure;<br /> +To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,—<br /> +You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three!<br /> +The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean;<br /> +The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien;<br /> +And though it 's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>All skin and feathers,—what of that? The cure takes time, you know.<br /> +<br /> +The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,—that's what the guide-books say;<br /> +We did not think so at that time, nor think <i>I</i> so to-day!<br /> +The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views,<br /> +But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues.<br /> +With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen,<br /> +We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between;<br /> +And constantly we made our moan,—ah, none so drear as we,<br /> +When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three!<br /> +<br /> +We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane,<br /> +And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain;<br /> +And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse.<br /> +Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink,<br /> +Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink;<br /> +Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me,<br /> +When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three!<br /> +<br /> +And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie,<br /> +But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry;<br /> +Then, too, that water twice a day,—one swallow was enough<br /> +To take one's appetite away,—the tepid, awful stuff!<br /> +Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I 'd little else to do<br /> +Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you.<br /> +The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three.<br /> +<br /> +Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date!<br /> +When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate.<br /> +The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away,<br /> +And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,—<br /> +To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale,<br /> +To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale!<br /> +And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then,<br /> +With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again!<br /> +<br /> +And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes,<br /> +I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies;<br /> +I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more;<br /> +And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours,<br /> +For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures!<br /> +So I am happy to have known that time across the sea<br /> +When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Tis a marvel of great renown!</span><br /> +It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;</span><br /> +The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(As those who have tasted it say)</span><br /> +That good little children have only to eat<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of that fruit to be happy next day.</span><br /> +<br /> +When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To capture the fruit which I sing;</span><br /> +The tree is so tall that no person could climb<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!</span><br /> +But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a gingerbread dog prowls below;</span><br /> +And this is the way you contrive to get at<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those sugar-plums tempting you so:</span><br /> +<br /> +You say but the word to that gingerbread dog,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he barks with such terrible zest</span><br /> +That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As her swelling proportions attest.</span><br /> +And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From <i>this</i> leafy limb unto <i>that</i>,</span><br /> +And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hurrah for that chocolate cat!</span><br /> +<br /> +There are marshmallows, gum-drops, and peppermint canes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With stripings of scarlet or gold,</span><br /> +And you carry away of the treasure that rains<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As much as your apron can hold!</span><br /> +So come, little child, cuddle closer to me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In your dainty white nightcap and gown,</span><br /> +And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> +<h2>RED.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +ANY color, so long as it's red,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the color that suits me best,</span><br /> +Though I will allow there is much to be said<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For yellow and green and the rest;</span><br /> +But the feeble tints which some affect<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the things they make or buy</span><br /> +Have never—I say it with all respect—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Appealed to my critical eye.</span><br /> +<br /> +There's that in red that warmeth the blood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And quickeneth a man within,</span><br /> +And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The germs of original sin;</span><br /> +So, though I'm properly born and bred,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'll own, with a certain zest,</span><br /> +That any color, so long as it's red,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the color that suits me best.</span><br /> +<br /> +For where is a color that can compare<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the blush of a buxom lass;</span><br /> +Or where such warmth as of the hair<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the genuine white horse class?</span><br /> +And, lo! reflected within this cup<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of cheery Bordeaux I see</span><br /> +What inspiration girdeth me up,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yes, red is the color for me!</span><br /> +<br /> +Through acres and acres of art I've strayed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Italy, Germany, France;</span><br /> +On many a picture a master has made<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I've squandered a passing glance:</span><br /> +Marines I hate, madonnas and<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those Dutch freaks I detest;</span><br /> +But the peerless daubs of my native land,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They're red, and I like them best.</span><br /> +<br /> +'Tis little I care how folk deride,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'm backed by the West, at least;</span><br /> +And we are free to say that we can't abide<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tastes that obtain down East;</span><br /> +And we're mighty proud to have it said<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That here in the versatile West</span><br /> +Most any color, so long as it's red,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the color that suits us best.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> +<h2>JEWISH LULLABY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +MY harp is on the willow-tree,<br /> +Else would I sing, O love, to thee<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A song of long ago,—</span><br /> +Perchance the song that Miriam sung<br /> +Ere yet Judæa's heart was wrung<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By centuries of woe.</span><br /> +<br /> +The shadow of those centuries lies<br /> +Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, hush! and close them now,</span><br /> +And in the dreams that thou shalt dream<br /> +The light of other days shall seem<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To glorify thy brow.</span><br /> +<br /> +I ate my crust in tears to-day,<br /> +As, scourged, I went upon my way,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet my darling smiled,—</span><br /> +Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed;<br /> +My anguish curdled not the draught,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Twas sweet with love, my child.</span><br /> +<br /> +Our harp is on the willow-tree:<br /> +I have no song to sing to thee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As shadows round us roll;</span><br /> +But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hear<br /> +Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Judæa's fainting soul.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> +<h2>AT CHEYENNE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west,<br /> +With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest;<br /> +The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat,<br /> +His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet,<br /> +His girdle was horrent with pistols and things,<br /> +And he nourished a handful of aces on kings.<br /> +<br /> +The fair Mariana sate watching a star,<br /> +When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar!<br /> +Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow,<br /> +And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!"<br /> +Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>And modestly asked if he mightn't step in.<br /> +<br /> +With presence of mind that was marvellous quite,<br /> +The fair Mariana replied that he might;<br /> +So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar,<br /> +Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar.<br /> +Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame,<br /> +He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE NAUGHTY DOLL.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +MY dolly is a dreadful care,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her name is Miss Amandy;</span><br /> +I dress her up and curl her hair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And feed her taffy candy.</span><br /> +Yet, heedless of the pleading voice<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of her devoted mother,</span><br /> +She will not wed her mother's choice,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But says she'll wed another.</span><br /> +<br /> +I'd have her wed the china vase,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is no Dresden rarer;</span><br /> +You might go searching every place<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never find a fairer.</span><br /> +He is a gentle, pinkish youth,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of that there's no denying;</span><br /> +Yet when I speak of him, forsooth!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amandy falls to crying.</span><br /> +<br /> +She loves the drum,—that's very plain,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And scorns the vase so clever,</span><br /> +And, weeping, vows she will remain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A spinster doll forever!</span><br /> +The protestations of the drum<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I am convinced are hollow;</span><br /> +When once distressing times should come<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How soon would ruin follow!</span><br /> +<br /> +Yet all in vain the Dresden boy<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From yonder mantel woos her;</span><br /> +A mania for that vulgar toy,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The noisy drum, imbues her.</span><br /> +In vain I wheel her to and fro,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And reason with her mildly:</span><br /> +Her waxen tears in torrents flow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her sawdust heart beats wildly.</span><br /> +<br /> +I'm sure that when I'm big and tall,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wear long trailing dresses,</span><br /> +I sha'n't encourage beaux at all<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till mamma acquiesces;</span><br /> +Our choice will be a suitor then<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As pretty as this vase is,—</span><br /> +Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With whiskers on their faces!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +UPON an average, twice a week,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When anguish clouds my brow,</span><br /> +My good physician friend I seek<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To know "what ails me now."</span><br /> +He taps me on the back and chest,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And scans my tongue for bile,</span><br /> +And lays an ear against my breast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And listens there awhile;</span><br /> +Then is he ready to admit<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That all he can observe</span><br /> +Is something wrong inside, to wit:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My pneumogastric nerve!</span><br /> +<br /> +Now, when these Latin names within<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dyspeptic hulks like mine</span><br /> +Go wrong, a fellow should begin<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">To draw what's called the line.</span><br /> +It seems, however, that this same,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which in my hulk abounds,</span><br /> +Is not, despite its awful name,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So fatal as it sounds;</span><br /> +Yet of all torments known to me,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'll say without reserve,</span><br /> +There is no torment like to thee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou pneumogastric nerve!</span><br /> +<br /> +This subtle, envious nerve appears<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To be a patient foe,—</span><br /> +It waited nearly forty years<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its chance to lay me low;</span><br /> +Then, like some blithering blast of hell,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It struck this guileless bard,</span><br /> +And in that evil hour I fell<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Prodigious far and hard.</span><br /> +Alas! what things I dearly love—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pies, puddings, and preserves—</span><br /> +Are sure to rouse the vengeance of<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">All pneumogastric nerves!</span><br /> +<br /> +Oh that I could remodel man!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'd end these cruel pains</span><br /> +By hitting on a different plan<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From that which now obtains.</span><br /> +The stomach, greatly amplified,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Anon should occupy</span><br /> +The all of that domain inside<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where heart and lungs now lie.</span><br /> +But, first of all, I should depose<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That diabolic curve</span><br /> +And author of my thousand woes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The pneumogastric nerve!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> +<h2>TEENY-WEENY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +EVERY evening, after tea,<br /> +Teeny-Weeny comes to me,<br /> +And, astride my willing knee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plies his lash and rides away;</span><br /> +Though that palfrey, all too spare,<br /> +Finds his burden hard to bear,<br /> +Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He commands, and I obey!</span><br /> +<br /> +First it's trot; and gallop then,—<br /> +Now it's back to trot again;<br /> +Teeny-Weeny likes it when<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He is riding fierce and fast!</span><br /> +Then his dark eyes brighter grow<br /> +And his cheeks are all aglow,—<br /> +"More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!"<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till the horse breaks down at last!</span><br /> +<br /> +Oh, the strange and lovely sights<br /> +Teeny-Weeny sees of nights,<br /> +As he makes those famous flights<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On that wondrous horse of his!</span><br /> +Oftentimes, before he knows,<br /> +Wearylike his eyelids close,<br /> +And, still smiling, off he goes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the land of By-low is.</span><br /> +<br /> +There he sees the folk of fay<br /> +Hard at ring-a-rosie play,<br /> +And he hears those fairies say,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Come, let's chase him to and fro!"</span><br /> +But, with a defiant shout,<br /> +Teeny puts that host to rout,—<br /> +Of this tale I make no doubt,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Every night he tells it so!</span><br /> +<br /> +So I feel a tender pride<br /> +In my boy who dares to ride<br /> +(That fierce horse of his astride)<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Off into those misty lands;</span><br /> +And as on my breast he lies,<br /> +Dreaming in that wondrous wise,<br /> +I caress his folded eyes,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pat his little dimpled hands.</span><br /> +<br /> +On a time he went away,<br /> +Just a little while to stay,<br /> +And I'm not ashamed to say<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I was very lonely then;</span><br /> +Life without him was so sad,<br /> +You can fancy I was glad<br /> +And made merry when I had<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Teeny-Weeny back again!</span><br /> +<br /> +So of evenings, after tea,<br /> +When he toddles up to me<br /> +And goes tugging at my knee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You should hear his palfrey neigh!</span><br /> +You should see him prance and shy,<br /> +When, with an exulting cry,<br /> +Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plies his lash and rides away!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> +<h2>TELKA.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THROUGH those golden summer days<br /> +Our twin flocks were wont to graze<br /> +On the hillside, which the sun<br /> +Rested lovingly upon,—<br /> +Telka's flock and mine; and we<br /> +Sung our songs in rapturous glee,<br /> +Idling in the pleasant shade<br /> +Which the solemn Yew-tree made,<br /> +While the Brook anear us played,<br /> +And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew<br /> +In the shadow of the Yew.<br /> +<br /> +Telka loved me passing well;<br /> +How I loved her none can tell!<br /> +How I love her none may know,—<br /> +Oh that man love woman so!<br /> +When she was not at my side,<br /> +Loud my heart in anguish cried,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>And my lips, till she replied.<br /> +Yet they think to silence me,—<br /> +As if love could silenced be!<br /> +Fool were I, and fools were they!<br /> +Still I wend my lonely way,<br /> +"Telka," evermore I cry;<br /> +Answer me the woods and sky,<br /> +And the weary years go by.<br /> +<br /> +Telka, she was passing fair;<br /> +And the glory of her hair<br /> +Was such glory as the sun<br /> +With his blessing casts upon<br /> +Yonder lonely mountain height,<br /> +Lifting up to bid good-night<br /> +To her sovereign in the west,<br /> +Sinking wearily to rest,<br /> +Drowsing in that golden sea<br /> +Where the realms of Dreamland be.<br /> +<br /> +So our love to fulness grew,<br /> +Whilst beneath the solemn Yew<br /> +Ghost-like paled the Rose of white,<br /> +As it were some fancied sight<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>Blanched it with a dread affright.<br /> +<br /> +Telka, she was passing fair;<br /> +And our peace was perfect there<br /> +Till, enchanted by her smile,<br /> +Lurked the South Wind there awhile,<br /> +Underneath that hillside tree<br /> +Where with singing idled we,<br /> +And I heard the South Wind say<br /> +Flattering words to her that day<br /> +Of a city far away.<br /> +But the Yew-tree crouched as though<br /> +It were like to whisper No<br /> +To the words the South Wind said<br /> +As he smoothed my Telka's head.<br /> +And the Brook, all pleading, cried<br /> +To the dear one at my side:<br /> +"Linger always where I am;<br /> +Stray not thence, O cosset lamb!<br /> +Wander not where shadows deep<br /> +On the treacherous quicksands sleep,<br /> +And the haunted waters leap;<br /> +Be thou ware the waves that flow<br /> +Toward the prison pool below,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>Where, beguiled from yonder sky,<br /> +Captive moonbeams shivering lie,<br /> +And at dawn of morrow die."<br /> +So the Brook to Telka cried,<br /> +But my Telka naught replied;<br /> +And, as in a strange affright,<br /> +Paled the Rose a ghostlier white.<br /> +<br /> +When anon the North Wind came,—<br /> +Rudely blustering Telka's name,<br /> +And he kissed the leaves that grew<br /> +Round about the trembling Yew,—<br /> +Kissed and romped till, blushing red,<br /> +All one day in terror fled,<br /> +And the white Rose hung her head;<br /> +Coming to our trysting spot,<br /> +Long I called; she answered not.<br /> +"Telka!" pleadingly I cried<br /> +Up and down the mountain-side<br /> +Where we twain were wont to bide.<br /> +<br /> +There were those who thought that I<br /> +Could be silenced with a lie,<br /> +And they told me Telka's name<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>Should be spoken now with shame:<br /> +"She is lost to us and thee,"—<br /> +That is what they said to me.<br /> +<br /> +"Is my Telka lost?" quoth I.<br /> +"On this hilltop shall I cry,<br /> +So that she may hear and then<br /> +Find her way to me again.<br /> +The South Wind spoke a lie that day;<br /> +All deceived, she lost her way<br /> +Yonder where the shadows sleep<br /> +'Mongst the haunted waves that leap<br /> +Over treacherous quicksands deep,<br /> +And where captive moonbeams lie<br /> +Doomed at morrow's dawn to die<br /> +She is lost, and that is all;<br /> +I will search for her, and call."<br /> +<br /> +Summer comes and winter goes,<br /> +Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose;<br /> +All the others are anear,—<br /> +Only Telka is not here!<br /> +Gone the peace and love I knew<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew;<br /> +And the Rose, that mocks me so,<br /> +I had crushed it long ago<br /> +But that Telka loved it then,<br /> +And shall soothe its terror when<br /> +She comes back to me again.<br /> +Call I, seek I everywhere<br /> +For my Telka, passing fair.<br /> +It is, oh, so many a year<br /> +I have called! She does not hear,<br /> +Yet nor feared nor worn am I;<br /> +For I know that if I cry<br /> +She shall sometime hear my call.<br /> +She is lost, and that is all,—<br /> +She is lost in some far spot;<br /> +I have searched, and found it not.<br /> +Could she hear me calling, then<br /> +Would she come to me again;<br /> +For she loved me passing well,—<br /> +How I love her none can tell!<br /> +That is why these years I've cried<br /> +"Telka!" on this mountain-side.<br /> +"Telka!" still I, pleading, cry;<br /> +Answer me the woods and sky,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>And the lonely years go by.<br /> +<br /> +On an evening dark and chill<br /> +Came a shadow up the hill,—<br /> +Came a spectre, grim and white<br /> +As a ghost that walks the night,<br /> +Grim and bowed, and with the cry<br /> +Of a wretch about to die,—<br /> +Came and fell and cried to me:<br /> +"It is Telka come!" said she.<br /> +So she fell and so she cried<br /> +On that lonely mountain-side<br /> +Where was Telka wont to bide.<br /> +<br /> +"Who hath bribed those lips to lie?<br /> +Telka's face was fair," quoth I;<br /> +"Thine is furrowed with despair.<br /> +There is winter in thy hair;<br /> +But upon her beauteous head<br /> +Was there summer glory shed,—<br /> +Such a glory as the sun,<br /> +When his daily course is run,<br /> +Smiles upon this mountain height<br /> +As he kisses it good-night.<br /> +There was music in her tone,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>Misery in thy voice alone.<br /> +They have bid thee lie to me.<br /> +Let me pass! Thou art not she!<br /> +Let my sorrow sacred be<br /> +Underneath this trysting tree!"<br /> +<br /> +So in wrath I went my way,<br /> +And they came another day,—<br /> +Came another day, and said:<br /> +"Hush thy cry, for she is dead,<br /> +Yonder on the mountain-side<br /> +She is buried where she died,<br /> +Where you twain were wont to bide,<br /> +Where she came and fell and cried<br /> +Pardon that thy wrath denied;<br /> +And above her bosom grows<br /> +As in mockery the Rose:<br /> +It was white; but now 'tis red,<br /> +And in shame it bows its head<br /> +Over sinful Telka dead."<br /> +<br /> +So they thought to silence me,—<br /> +As if love could silenced be!<br /> +Fool were I, and fools were they!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>Scornfully I went my way,<br /> +And upon the mountain-side<br /> +"Telka!" evermore I cried.<br /> +"Telka!" evermore I cry;<br /> +Answer me the woods and sky:<br /> +So the lonely years go by.<br /> +<br /> +She is lost, and that is all;<br /> +Sometime she shall hear my call,<br /> +Hear my pleading call, and then<br /> +Find her way to me again.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p> +<h2>PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know,<br /> +And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow.<br /> +I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate<br /> +Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble State;<br /> +And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree,<br /> +Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.<br /> +Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.<br /> +<br /> +My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skin<br /> +To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within,—<br /> +Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare<br /> +With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear.<br /> +Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole<br /> +All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole.<br /> +We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings,<br /> +As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things.<br /> +<br /> +And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh,<br /> +Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby;<br /> +And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>That nary 'coon could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight.<br /> +We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know<br /> +That ary 'coon can best a dog, if the coon gets half a show;<br /> +But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n,<br /> +And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n.<br /> +<br /> +Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days;<br /> +I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways.<br /> +The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine<br /> +For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine.<br /> +The 'coon that's been accustomed to stanch democratic cheer<br /> +Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!<br /> +No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>But send <i>me</i> back from whence I came, and let me grub for worms!<br /> +<br /> +They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons,<br /> +And wonder what I am,—alas, there are no German 'coons!<br /> +For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree,<br /> +The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free.<br /> +And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,<br /> +For <i>I</i> have tasted liberty, these others <i>they</i> have not;<br /> +So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels<br /> +Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels.<br /> +<br /> +Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill,<br /> +To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel;<br /> +My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest.<br /> +Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all<br /> +To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall;<br /> +And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here<br /> +By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> +<h2>ARMENIAN LULLABY.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My mulberry one, my golden son,</span><br /> +The rose shall sing thee lullabies,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My pretty cosset lambkin!</span><br /> +And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree,<br /> +With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,—<br /> +A silver boat in a golden sea,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My velvet love, my nestling dove,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My own pomegranate-blossom!</span><br /> +<br /> +The stork shall guard thee passing well<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet,</span><br /> +And bring thee myrrh and asphodel,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My gentle rain-of-springtime;</span><br /> +And for thy slumber-play shall twine<br /> +The diamond stars with an emerald vine,<br /> +To trail in the waves of ruby wine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">My cooing little turtle!</span><br /> +<br /> +And when the morn wakes up to see<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My apple-bright, my soul's delight,</span><br /> +The partridge shall come calling thee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My jar of milk-and-honey!</span><br /> +Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies<br /> +In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies,<br /> +If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You wakeful one, you naughty son,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You chirping little sparrow!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE PARTRIDGE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +AS beats the sun from mountain crest,<br /> +With "Pretty, pretty,"<br /> +Cometh the partridge from her nest.<br /> +The flowers threw kisses sweet to her<br /> +(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);<br /> +Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ah, pretty, pretty!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ah, dear little partridge!</span><br /> +<br /> +And when I hear the partridge cry<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So pretty, pretty,</span><br /> +Upon the house-top breakfast I.<br /> +She comes a-chirping far and wide,<br /> +And swinging from the mountain-side<br /> +I see and hear the dainty dear,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ah, pretty, pretty!</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ah, dear little partridge!</span><br /> +<br /> +Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And pretty, pretty;</span><br /> +Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;<br /> +The place is full of balmy dew<br /> +(The tears of flowers in love with you!);<br /> +And one and all, impassioned, call,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"O pretty, pretty!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">O dear little partridge!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Thy feathers they are soft and sleek,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So pretty, pretty!</span><br /> +Long is thy neck, and small thy beak,<br /> +The color of thy plumage far<br /> +More bright than rainbow colors are.<br /> +Sweeter than dove is she I love,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">My pretty, pretty!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">My dear little partridge!</span><br /> +<br /> +When comes the partridge from the tree,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So pretty, pretty,</span><br /> +And sings her little hymn to me,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>Why, all the world is cheered thereby,<br /> +The heart leaps up into the eye,<br /> +And Echo then gives back again<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Our "Pretty, pretty!"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Our "Dear little partridge!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Admitting thee most blest of all,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And pretty, pretty,</span><br /> +The birds come with thee at thy call;<br /> +In flocks they come, and round thee play,<br /> +And this is what they seem to say,—<br /> +They say and sing, each feathered thing,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"Ah, pretty, pretty!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ah, dear little partridge!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p> +<h2>CORINTHIAN HALL.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place,<br /> +Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace;<br /> +But once was a time when Corinthian Hall<br /> +Excited the rapture and plaudits of all,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">With its carpeted stairs,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And its new yellow chairs,</span><br /> +And its stunning <i>ensemble</i> of citified airs.<br /> +Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best<br /> +Of Thespian temples extant in the West.<br /> +<br /> +It was new, and was ours,—that was ages ago,<br /> +Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,—<br /> +It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>Our rivals had launched at our city for years.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Corinthian Hall!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Why, it discounted all</span><br /> +Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall<br /> +The night of the opening; from near and afar<br /> +Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar.<br /> +<br /> +Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again<br /> +Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then;<br /> +For actors were actors, and each one knew how<br /> +To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow.<br /> +He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair;<br /> +And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare.<br /> +Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,—in fact, never could<br /> +When liquor was handy and walking was good.<br /> +<br /> +And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall<br /> +The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall!<br /> +Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime;<br /> +And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare<br /> +With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair;<br /> +While in passionate rôles it was patent to us<br /> +That the great John A. Stevens was <i>ne ultra plus</i>.<br /> +<br /> +And was there demand for the tribute of tears,<br /> +We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years,<br /> +And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow<br /> +That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now.<br /> +What artist to-day have we equal to Rae,<br /> +Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say!<br /> +And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette"<br /> +Opined that the sun of our drama had set.<br /> +<br /> +Corinthian Hall was devoted to song<br /> +When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along,<br /> +Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">But the one special card</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">That hit us all hard</span><br /> +Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard;<br /> +And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears;<br /> +And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years!<br /> +<br /> +The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days,<br /> +And our critics accorded them columns of praise;<br /> +They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings,<br /> +And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things;<br /> +They gave a parade, and sweet music they made<br /> +Every evening in front of the house where they played.<br /> +'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog<br /> +For Primrose and West in their great statue clog.<br /> +<br /> +Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain<br /> +That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne;<br /> +Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth:<br /> +While in rôles that were thrillin', involving much killin',<br /> +Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain;<br /> +Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,—they all<br /> +Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall.<br /> +<br /> +But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell<br /> +On the spot I revere and remember so well,<br /> +Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint,<br /> +And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint;<br /> +So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold<br /> +Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould,<br /> +And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall,<br /> +Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall.<br /> +<br /> +When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night,<br /> +And the music goes floating on billows of light,<br /> +Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man,<br /> +And I pine to be back where my mission began,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And I'm fain to recall</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 4em;">Reminiscences all</span><br /> +That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,—<br /> +To hear and to see what delighted me then,<br /> +And to revel in raptures of boyhood again.<br /> +<br /> +Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place,<br /> +Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace,<br /> +There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they,<br /> +Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Would surrender what gold</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">He's amassed to behold</span><br /> +A tithe of the wonderful doings of old,<br /> +A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall<br /> +Our <i>crême de la crême</i> in Corinthian Hall.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE RED, RED WEST.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art,<br /> +Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so smart;<br /> +And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show<br /> +That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go.<br /> +<br /> +I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve,<br /> +And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve;<br /> +I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen.<br /> +<br /> +The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal Dutch,<br /> +The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised overmuch,<br /> +The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,—<br /> +All, <i>ad infin.</i>, have I taken in a hundred thousand times.<br /> +<br /> +Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught<br /> +Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is fraught;<br /> +For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows,<br /> +And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes.<br /> +<br /> +Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so,<br /> +And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know;<br /> +It answers every purpose that this is manifest:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West.<br /> +<br /> +Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies,<br /> +No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies;<br /> +But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill,<br /> +Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +FROM out Cologne there came three kings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;">To worship Jesus Christ, their King.</span><br /> +To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And many a beauteous golden thing;</span><br /> +They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,<br /> +And in that manger set them down.<br /> +<br /> +Then spake the first king, and he said:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!</span><br /> +I bring this crown to Bethlehem town<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For Thee, and only Thee, to wear;</span><br /> +So give a heavenly crown to me<br /> +When I shall come at last to Thee!"<br /> +<br /> +The second, then. "I bring Thee here<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This royal robe, O Child!" he cried;</span><br /> +"Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is not in the world beside;</span><br /> +So in the day of doom requite<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>Me with a heavenly robe of white!"<br /> +<br /> +The third king gave his gift, and quoth:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,</span><br /> +And with these twain would I most fain<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Anoint the body of my King;</span><br /> +So may their incense sometime rise<br /> +To plead for me in yonder skies!"<br /> +<br /> +Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That gave their gifts, and went their way;</span><br /> +And now kneel I in prayer hard by<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The cradle of the Child to-day;</span><br /> +Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring<br /> +As offering unto Christ, my King.<br /> +<br /> +Yet have I brought a gift the Child<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">May not despise, however small;</span><br /> +For here I lay my heart to-day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And it is full of love to all.</span><br /> +Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,<br /> +My only tribute, Christ, my King!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> +<h2>IPSWICH.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;">And the voice that comes from the yonder sea</span><br /> +Sings to the quaint old mansions there<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of "the time, the time that used to be;"</span><br /> +And the quaint old mansions rock and groan,<br /> +And they seem to say in an undertone,<br /> +With half a sigh and with half a moan:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"It was, but it never again will be."</span><br /> +<br /> +In Ipswich witches weave at night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their magic, spells with impish glee;</span><br /> +They shriek and laugh in their demon flight<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the old Main House to the frightened sea.</span><br /> +And ghosts of eld come out to weep<br /> +Over the town that is fast asleep;<br /> +And they sob and they wail, as on they creep:<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"It was, but it never again will be."</span><br /> +<br /> +In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over against the calling sea;</span><br /> +And through the nights so deep and chill<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Watcheth a maiden constantly,—</span><br /> +Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear<br /> +Over the roar of the waves anear<br /> +The pitiful cry of a far-off year:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"It was, but it never again will be."</span><br /> +<br /> +In Ipswich once a witch I knew,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An artless Saxon witch was she;</span><br /> +By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sweet was the spell she cast on me.</span><br /> +Alas! but the years have wrought me ill,<br /> +And the heart that is old and battered and chill<br /> +Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What was, but never again can be.</span><br /> +<br /> +Dear Anna, I would not conjure down<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ghost that cometh to solace me;</span><br /> +I love to think of old Ipswich town,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where somewhat better than friends were we;</span><br /> +For with every thought of the dear old place<br /> +Cometh again the tender grace<br /> +Of a Saxon witch's pretty face,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As it was, and is, and ever shall be.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> +<h2>BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall;<br /> +I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clothes would never seem to set so nice on <i>me</i> as <i>him</i>,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,—</span><br /> +But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.</span><br /> +<br /> +Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird;</span><br /> +Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.</span><br /> +<br /> +Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,—<br /> +<i>She</i> sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"!</span><br /> +But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass.</span><br /> +<br /> +Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then,<br /> +Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise.</span><br /> +Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass.</span><br /> +<br /> +The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be,<br /> +Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer</span><br /> +When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass.</span><br /> +<br /> +Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54,<br /> +And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell</span><br /> +That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.</span><br /> +<br /> +As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away.</span><br /> +Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass."</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p> +<h2>FIDUCIT.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THREE comrades on the German Rhine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Defying care and weather,</span><br /> +Together quaffed the mellow wine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sung their songs together.</span><br /> +What recked they of the griefs of life,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With wine and song to cheer them?</span><br /> +Though elsewhere trouble might be rife,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It would not come anear them.</span><br /> +<br /> +Anon one comrade passed away,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And presently another,</span><br /> +And yet unto the tryst each day<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Repaired the lonely brother;</span><br /> +And still, as gayly as of old,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That third one, hero-hearted,</span><br /> +Filled to the brim each cup of gold,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And called to the departed,—</span><br /> +<br /> +"O comrades mine! I see ye not,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor hear your kindly greeting,</span><br /> +Yet in this old, familiar spot<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be still our loving meeting!</span><br /> +Here have I filled each bouting-cup<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With juices red and cheery;</span><br /> +I pray ye drink the portion up,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And as of old make merry!"</span><br /> +<br /> +And once before his tear-dimmed eyes,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All in the haunted gloaming,</span><br /> +He saw two ghostly figures rise,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And quaff the beakers foaming;</span><br /> +He heard two spirit voices call,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Fiducit, jovial brother!"</span><br /> +And so forever from that hall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Went they with one another.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE "ST. JO GAZETTE."</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette,"<br /> +I was upon familiar terms with every one I met;<br /> +For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time,<br /> +Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Before I found in verses</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Those soothing, gracious mercies,</span><br /> +Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is.<br /> +A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat,<br /> +And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +<br /> +The labors of the day began at half-past eight <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them;<br /> +And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire<br /> +By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">With my daily commentary</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On affairs of farm and dairy,</span><br /> +The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,—<br /> +Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get<br /> +When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +<br /> +Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due,<br /> +Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous;<br /> +Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case,<br /> +And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of fevers, fractures, humors,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 3em;">Contusions, fits, and tumors,</span><br /> +Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors;<br /> +From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,—<br /> +When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +<br /> +For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,—<br /> +Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race;<br /> +And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink,<br /> +And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Those drinks at the Pacific,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">When days were sudorific,</span><br /> +Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;"<br /> +And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow,<br /> +To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go.<br /> +The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough<br /> +For local application in lieu of better stuff;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And when the ducks were flying,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Or the fishing well worth trying—</span><br /> +Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at lying!<br /> +And I—I printed all their yarns, though not without regret,<br /> +When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +<br /> +For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young,<br /> +Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;"<br /> +Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lon Tullar used to pony</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Up descriptions that were tony</span><br /> +Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione;<br /> +For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett"<br /> +When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +<br /> +So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue;<br /> +And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,—<br /> +The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read,<br /> +And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh, but it takes agility,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Combined with versatility,</span><br /> +To run a country daily with appropriate ability!<br /> +There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +<br /> +Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent<br /> +Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent<br /> +If so, I don't remember; this only do I know,—<br /> +My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The years that speed so fleetly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Have blotted out completely</span><br /> +All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly;<br /> +The friendships of that time,—ah, me! they are as precious yet<br /> +As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette."<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> +<h2>IN AMSTERDAM.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got<br /> +A majazin in Kalverstraat,<br /> +Where one may buy for sordid gold<br /> +Wares quaint and curious, new and old.<br /> +Here are antiquities galore,—<br /> +The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore,<br /> +Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks,<br /> +Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks,<br /> +And all those joys I might rehearse<br /> +That please the eye, but wreck the purse.<br /> +<br /> +I most admired an ancient bed,<br /> +With ornate carvings at its head,—<br /> +A massive frame of dingy oak,<br /> +Whose curious size and mould bespoke<br /> +Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried.<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>"Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied;<br /> +And then the honest Dutchman said<br /> +A king once owned that glorious bed,—<br /> +King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame,<br /> +Had owned and slept within the same!<br /> +<br /> +Then long I stood and mutely gazed,<br /> +By reminiscent splendors dazed,<br /> +And I had bought it right away,<br /> +Had I the wherewithal to pay.<br /> +But, lacking of the needed pelf,<br /> +I thus discoursed within myself:<br /> +"O happy Holland! where's the bliss<br /> +That can approximate to this<br /> +Possession of the rare antique<br /> +Which maniacs hanker for and seek?<br /> +<i>My</i> native land is full of stuff<br /> +That's good, but is not old enough.<br /> +Alas! it has no oaken beds<br /> +Wherein have slumbered royal heads,<br /> +No relic on whose face we see<br /> +The proof of grand antiquity."<br /> +<br /> +Thus reasoned I a goodly spell<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>Until, perchance, my vision fell<br /> +Upon a trademark at the head<br /> +Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,—<br /> +A rampant wolverine, and round<br /> +This strange device these words I found:<br /> +"Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay,<br /> +Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A."<br /> +<br /> +At present I'm not saying much<br /> +About the simple, guileless Dutch;<br /> +And as it were a loathsome spot<br /> +I keep away from Kalverstraat,<br /> +Determined when I want a bed<br /> +In which hath slept a royal head<br /> +I'll patronize no middleman,<br /> +But deal direct with Michigan.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> +<h2>TO THE PASSING SAINT.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +AS to-night you came your way,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bearing earthward heavenly joy,</span><br /> +Tell me, O dear saint, I pray,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Did you see my little boy?</span><br /> +<br /> +By some fairer voice beguiled,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Once he wandered from my sight;</span><br /> +He is such a little child,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He should have my love this night.</span><br /> +<br /> +It has been so many a year,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, so many a year since then!</span><br /> +Yet he was so very dear,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Surely he will come again.</span><br /> +<br /> +If upon your way you see<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One whose beauty is divine,</span><br /> +Will you send him back to me?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">He is lost, and he is mine.</span><br /> +<br /> +Tell him that his little chair<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nestles where the sunbeams meet,</span><br /> +That the shoes he used to wear<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet.</span><br /> +<br /> +Tell him of each pretty toy<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That was wont to share his glee;</span><br /> +Maybe that will bring my boy<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Back to them and back to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +O dear saint, as on you go<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through the glad and sparkling frost,</span><br /> +Bid those bells ring high and low<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For a little child that's lost!</span><br /> +<br /> +O dear saint, that blessest men<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the grace of Christmas joy,</span><br /> +Soothe this heart with love again,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give me back my little boy!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +OF all the gracious gifts of Spring,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is there another can surpass</span><br /> +This delicate, voluptuous thing,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?</span><br /> +Upon a damask napkin laid,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What exhalations superfine</span><br /> +Our gustatory nerves pervade,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!</span><br /> +<br /> +The ancients loved this noble fish;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, coming from the kitchen fire</span><br /> +All piping hot upon a dish,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What raptures did he not inspire?</span><br /> +"Fish should swim twice," they used to say,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Once in their native, vapid brine,</span><br /> +And then again, a better way—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">You understand; fetch on the wine!</span><br /> +<br /> +Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How often have I cast for you,</span><br /> +How often sadly seen you scud<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where weeds and water-lilies grew!</span><br /> +How often have you filched my bait,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How often snapped my treacherous line!</span><br /> +Yet here I have you on this plate,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You <i>shall</i> swim twice, and <i>now</i> in <i>wine</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +And, harkee, garçon! let the blood<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,—</span><br /> +Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This piscatorial pride should swim;</span><br /> +So, were he living, he would say<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He gladly died for me and mine,</span><br /> +And, as it were his native spray,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He'd lash the sauce—what, ho! the wine!</span><br /> +<br /> +I would it were ordained for me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To share your fate, O finny friend!</span><br /> +I surely were not loath to be<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reserved for such a noble end;</span><br /> +For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last reels in his ruthless line,</span><br /> +What were my ecstasy to swim<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!</span><br /> +<br /> +Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,</span><br /> +Come hither every year and bring<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The boons provocative of mirth;</span><br /> +And should your stock of bass run low,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">However much I might repine,</span><br /> +I think I might survive the blow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If plied with wine and still more wine!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> +<h2>NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THE mill goes toiling slowly around<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With steady and solemn creak,</span><br /> +And my little one hears in the kindly sound<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The voice of the old mill speak;</span><br /> +While round and round those big white wings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grimly and ghostlike creep,</span><br /> +My little one hears that the old mill sings,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"</span><br /> +<br /> +The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And over his pot of beer</span><br /> +The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lustily maketh cheer;</span><br /> +He mocks at the winds that caper along<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the far-off, clamorous deep,</span><br /> +But we—we love their lullaby-song<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Groans of the stony mart;</span><br /> +To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hitched to our new milk-cart!</span><br /> +And you shall help me blanket the kine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And fold the gentle sheep,</span><br /> +And set the herring a-soak in brine,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now, little tulip, sleep!</span><br /> +<br /> +A Dream-One comes to button the eyes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That wearily droop and blink,</span><br /> +While the old mill buffets the frowning skies,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And scolds at the stars that wink;</span><br /> +Over your face the misty wings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep,</span><br /> +And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE ONION TART.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +OF tarts there be a thousand kinds,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So versatile the art,</span><br /> +And, as we all have different minds,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Each has his favorite tart;</span><br /> +But those which most delight the rest<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Methinks should suit me not:</span><br /> +The onion tart doth please me best,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +<br /> +Where but in Deutschland can be found<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This boon of which I sing?</span><br /> +Who but a Teuton could compound<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This <i>sui generis</i> thing?</span><br /> +None with the German frau can vie<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In arts cuisine, I wot,</span><br /> +Whose <i>summum bonum</i> breeds the sigh,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"</span><br /> +<br /> +You slice the fruit upon the dough,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And season to the taste,</span><br /> +Then in an oven (not too slow)<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The viand should be placed;</span><br /> +And when 'tis done, upon a plate<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You serve it piping hot.</span><br /> +Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +<br /> +It sweeps upon the sight and smell<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In overwhelming tide,</span><br /> +And then the sense of taste as well<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Betimes is gratified:</span><br /> +Three noble senses drowned in bliss!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I prithee tell me, what</span><br /> +Is there beside compares with this?<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +<br /> +For if the fruit be proper young,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if the crust be good,</span><br /> +How shall they melt upon the tongue<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into a savory flood!</span><br /> +How seek the Mecca down below,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And linger round that spot,</span><br /> +Entailing weeks and months of woe,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +<br /> +If Nature gives men appetites<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For things that won't digest,</span><br /> +Why, let <i>them</i> eat whatso delights,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let <i>her</i> stand the rest;</span><br /> +And though the sin involve the cost<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Carlsbad, like as not</span><br /> +'Tis better to have loved and lost,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +<br /> +Beyond the vast, the billowy tide,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where my compatriots dwell,</span><br /> +All kinds of victuals have I tried,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All kinds of drinks, as well;</span><br /> +But nothing known to Yankee art<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Appears to reach <i>the spot</i></span><br /> +Like this Teutonic onion tart,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +<br /> +So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As full as I can hold,</span><br /> +And for complete reform inside<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plank down my horde of gold,</span><br /> +Remorse shall not consume my heart,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor sorrow vex my lot,</span><br /> +For I have eaten onion tart,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> +<h2>GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye,<br /> +And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny:<br /> +The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright,<br /> +The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,—all give me keen delight;<br /> +And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen<br /> +A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town.<br /> +'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,—<br /> +Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,—<br /> +And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen,<br /> +And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown;<br /> +For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town."<br /> +The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess<br /> +When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress:<br /> +To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end<br /> +(The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!);<br /> +And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise,<br /> +Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes;<br /> +For grandma knew a thing or two,—by which remark I mean<br /> +That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle<br /> +With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile.<br /> +It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found.<br /> +How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen!<br /> +And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +But there <i>were</i> those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect gown;<br /> +For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town:<br /> +The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!"<br /> +The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split;<br /> +Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, <i>she</i> turned a bilious green,<br /> +When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign.<br /> +Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town,<br /> +And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown;<br /> +But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!"<br /> +Yet evermore my grandma wore <i>his</i> favorite bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,—<br /> +Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs!<br /> +Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing,<br /> +And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous thing.<br /> +'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine.<br /> +<br /> +Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,—<br /> +The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart.<br /> +This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair,<br /> +Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear.<br /> +Yet wear it, <i>do</i>; perchance when you and I are off the scene,<br /> +Our boy shall sing <i>this</i> comely thing as <i>I</i> the bombazine.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> +<h2>RARE ROAST BEEF.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir<br /> +Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair;<br /> +When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head,<br /> +Filling <i>bon vivants</i> and epicures with certain nameless dread;<br /> +When <i>any</i> ill of body or of intellect abounds,<br /> +Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,—<br /> +In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief<br /> +That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef.<br /> +<br /> +And even when the body's in the very prime of health,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth,<br /> +And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more,<br /> +And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,—<br /> +Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side,<br /> +And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied,<br /> +Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief,<br /> +And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef.<br /> +<br /> +Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,—<br /> +'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest;<br /> +Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour<br /> +Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more;<br /> +The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour,<br /> +And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf<br /> +Of that glorious <i>summum bonum</i>, rare roast beef.<br /> +<br /> +Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife,<br /> +How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life!<br /> +Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,—<br /> +Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab?<br /> +Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam,<br /> +A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream!<br /> +Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief!<br /> +Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef.<br /> +<br /> +Most every kind and rôle of modern victuals have I tried,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried,<br /> +Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese,<br /> +Your patties <i>à la</i> Turkey and your doughnuts <i>à la</i> grease;<br /> +I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls,<br /> +And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls;<br /> +But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief<br /> +And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef.<br /> +<br /> +I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood,<br /> +Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood;<br /> +And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (<i>feste Burg</i>) and host;<br /> +For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath,<br /> +Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path.<br /> +So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef<br /> +When I soever set me down to rare roast beef.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p> +<h2>GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +I WAS just a little thing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When a fairy came and kissed me;</span><br /> +Floating in upon the light<br /> +Of a haunted summer night,<br /> +Lo! the fairies came to sing<br /> +Pretty slumber songs, and bring<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Certain boons that else had missed me.</span><br /> +From a dream I turned to see<br /> +What those strangers brought for me,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When that fairy up and kissed me,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!</span><br /> +<br /> +Simmerdew was there, but she<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Did not like me altogether;</span><br /> +Daisybright and Turtledove,<br /> +Pilfercurds and Honeylove,<br /> +Thistleblow and Amberglee<br /> +On that gleaming, ghostly sea<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Floated from the misty heather,</span><br /> +And around my trundle-bed<br /> +Frisked and looked and whispering said,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Solemn-like and all together:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"<i>You</i> shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Ganderfeather kissed me then,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!</span><br /> +No attenuate sprite was he,<br /> +But as buxom as could be;<br /> +Kissed me twice and once again,<br /> +And the others shouted when<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On my cheek uprose a berry</span><br /> +Somewhat like a mole, mayhap,<br /> +But the kiss-mark of that chap<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ganderfeather, passing merry,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Humorsome but kindly, very!</span><br /> +<br /> +I was just a tiny thing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the prankish Ganderfeather</span><br /> +Brought this curious gift to me<br /> +With his fairy kisses three;<br /> +Yet with honest pride I sing<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>That same gift he chose to bring<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of yonder haunted heather;</span><br /> +Other charms and friendships fly,—<br /> +Constant friends this mole and I,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who have been so long together!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thank you, little Ganderfeather!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> +<h2>OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THERE are no days like the good old days,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The days when we were youthful!</span><br /> +When humankind were pure of mind,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And speech and deeds were truthful;</span><br /> +Before a love for sordid gold<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Became man's ruling passion,</span><br /> +And before each dame and maid became<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Slave to the tyrant fashion!</span><br /> +<br /> +There are no girls like the good old girls,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Against the world I'd stake 'em!</span><br /> +As buxom and smart and clean of heart<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the Lord knew how to make 'em!</span><br /> +They were rich in spirit and common-sense,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And piety all supportin';</span><br /> +They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And they made such likely courtin'!</span><br /> +<br /> +There are no boys like the good old boys,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When <i>we</i> were boys together!</span><br /> +When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That dimpled the laughing heather;</span><br /> +When the pewee sung to the summer dawn<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the bee in the billowy clover,</span><br /> +Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Echoed his night song over.</span><br /> +<br /> +There is no love like the good old love,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The love that mother gave us!</span><br /> +We are old, old men, yet we pine again<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For that precious grace,—God save us!</span><br /> +So we dream and dream of the good old times,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder,</span><br /> +As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of heaven away off yonder.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> +<h2>OUR WHIPPINGS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times<br /> +Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,—<br /> +The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys<br /> +As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise!<br /> +Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show<br /> +The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago;<br /> +What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,—oh, my!<br /> +<br /> +The way that we played hookey those many years ago,<br /> +We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know!<br /> +The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,—<br /> +Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold!<br /> +How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his<br /> +He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"!<br /> +It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,—<br /> +Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though!<br /> +<br /> +We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days,<br /> +And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze;<br /> +How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand;<br /> +And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed,<br /> +Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red.<br /> +Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert<br /> +The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!<br /> +<br /> +For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild<br /> +That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child;<br /> +And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she<br /> +Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we:<br /> +But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,—<br /> +Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made <i>her</i> cry!<br /> +Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!<br /> +<br /> +In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four,<br /> +But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!<br /> +Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone:<br /> +"I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!"<br /> +Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,—<br /> +What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview!<br /> +Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert,<br /> +With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!<br /> +<br /> +The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest<br /> +Is often loath to realize that all is for the best;<br /> +Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>The bufferings of childhood,—as we do here to-night.<br /> +The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways<br /> +That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days<br /> +Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,—<br /> +So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p> +<h2>BION'S SONG OF EROS.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +EROS is the god of love;<br /> +He and I are hand-in-glove.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All the gentle, gracious Muses</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Follow Eros where he leads,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And they bless the bard who chooses</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To proclaim love's famous deeds;</span><br /> +Him they serve in rapturous glee,—<br /> +That is why they're good to me.<br /> +<br /> +Sometimes I have gone astray<br /> +From love's sunny, flowery way:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How I floundered, how I stuttered!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And, deprived of ways and means,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What egregious rot I uttered,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Such as suits the magazines!</span><br /> +I was rescued only when<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>Eros called me back again.<br /> +<br /> +Gods forefend that I should shun<br /> +That benignant Mother's son!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Why, the poet who refuses</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To emblazon love's delights</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gets the mitten from the Muses,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then what balderdash he writes!</span><br /> +I love Love; which being so,<br /> +See how smooth my verses flow!<br /> +<br /> +Gentle Eros, lead the way,—<br /> +I will follow while I may:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be thy path by hill or hollow,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I will follow fast and free;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when I'm too old to follow,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I will sit and sing of thee,—</span><br /> +Potent still in intellect,<br /> +Sit, and sing, and retrospect.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> +<h2>MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget;<br /> +And the time I remember's the evening I met<br /> +A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown<br /> +Who made my acquaintance while painting the town:<br /> +A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then<br /> +Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.<br /> +<br /> +There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South,<br /> +And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth;<br /> +He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard,<br /> +But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard:<br /> +I felt that he honored and flattered me when<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.<br /> +<br /> +I wonder that never again since that night<br /> +A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight;<br /> +I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill<br /> +That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill:<br /> +I wonder and pine; for—I say it again—<br /> +Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.<br /> +<br /> +I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud;<br /> +But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud;<br /> +To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day,<br /> +With wheat going up, and the devil to pay,<br /> +These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen:<br /> +"Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten."<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> +<h2>POET AND KING.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +THOUGH I am king, I have no throne<br /> +Save this rough wooden siege alone;<br /> +I have no empire, yet my sway<br /> +Extends a myriad leagues away;<br /> +No servile vassal bends his knee<br /> +In grovelling reverence to me,<br /> +Yet at my word all hearts beat high,<br /> +And there is fire in every eye,<br /> +And love and gratitude they bring<br /> +As tribute unto me, a king.<br /> +<br /> +The folk that throng the busy street<br /> +Know not it is a king they meet;<br /> +And I am glad there is not seen<br /> +The monarch in my face and mien.<br /> +I should not choose to be the cause<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>Of fawning or of coarse applause:<br /> +I am content to know the arts<br /> +Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts;<br /> +For when unto their hearts I sing,<br /> +I am a king, I am a king!<br /> +<br /> +My sceptre,—see, it is a pen!<br /> +Wherewith I rule these hearts of men.<br /> +Sometime it pleaseth to beguile<br /> +Its monarch fancy with a smile;<br /> +Sometime it is athirst for tears:<br /> +And so adown the laurelled years<br /> +I walk, the noblest lord on earth,<br /> +Dispensing sympathy and mirth.<br /> +Aha! it is a magic thing<br /> +That makes me what I am,—a king!<br /> +<br /> +Let empires crumble as they may,<br /> +Proudly I hold imperial sway;<br /> +The sunshine and the rain of years<br /> +Are human smiles and human tears<br /> +That come or vanish at my call,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>I am the monarch of them all!<br /> +Mindful alone of this am I:<br /> +The songs I sing shall never die;<br /> +Not even envious Death can wring<br /> +His glory from so great a king.<br /> +<br /> +Come, brother, be a king with me,<br /> +And rule mankind eternally;<br /> +Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong,<br /> +Defend the truth, combat the wrong!<br /> +You'll find no sceptre like the pen<br /> +To hold and sway the hearts of men;<br /> +Its edicts flow in blood and tears<br /> +That will outwash the flood of years:<br /> +So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing!<br /> +And be with me a king, a king!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> +<h2>LYDIA DICK.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +WHEN I was a boy at college,<br /> +Filling up with classic knowledge,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Frequently I wondered why</span><br /> +Old Professor Demas Bentley<br /> +Used to praise so eloquently<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Opera Horatii."</span><br /> +<br /> +Toiling on a season longer<br /> +Till my reasoning powers got stronger,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As my observation grew,</span><br /> +I became convinced that mellow,<br /> +Massic-loving poet fellow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Horace, knew a thing or two.</span><br /> +<br /> +Yes, we sophomores figured duly<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>That, if we appraised him truly,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Horace must have been a brick;</span><br /> +And no wonder that with ranting<br /> +Rhymes he went a-gallivanting<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!</span><br /> +<br /> +For that pink of female gender<br /> +Tall and shapely was, and slender,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plump of neck and bust and arms;</span><br /> +While the raiment that invested<br /> +Her so jealously suggested<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Certain more potential charms.</span><br /> +<br /> +Those dark eyes of hers that fired him,<br /> +Those sweet accents that inspired him,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And her crown of glorious hair,—</span><br /> +These things baffle my description:<br /> +I should have a fit conniption<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If I tried; so I forbear.</span><br /> +<br /> +Maybe Lydia had her betters;<br /> +Anyway, this man of letters<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Took that charmer as his pick.</span><br /> +Glad—yes, glad I am to know it!<br /> +I, a <i>fin de siècle</i> poet,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sympathize with Lydia Dick!</span><br /> +<br /> +Often in my arbor shady<br /> +I fall thinking of that lady,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the pranks she used to play;</span><br /> +And I'm cheered,—for all we sages<br /> +Joy when from those distant ages<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lydia dances down our way.</span><br /> +<br /> +Otherwise some folks might wonder,<br /> +With good reason, why in thunder<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Learned professors, dry and prim,</span><br /> +Find such solace in the giddy<br /> +Pranks that Horace played with Liddy<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or that Liddy played on him.</span><br /> +<br /> +Still this world of ours rejoices<br /> +In those ancient singing voices,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And our hearts beat high and quick,</span><br /> +To the cadence of old Tiber<br /> +Murmuring praise of roistering Liber<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of charming Lydia Dick.</span><br /> +<br /> +Still Digentia, downward flowing,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>Prattleth to the roses blowing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the dark, deserted grot.</span><br /> +Still Soracte, looming lonely,<br /> +Watcheth for the coming only<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of a ghost that cometh not.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> +<h2>LIZZIE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +I WONDER ef all wimmin air<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like Lizzie is when we go out</span><br /> +To theaters an' concerts where<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is things the papers talk about.</span><br /> +Do other wimmin fret an' stew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like they wuz bein' crucified,—</span><br /> +Frettin' a show or concert through,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With wonderin' ef the baby cried?</span><br /> +<br /> +Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To see that everything is right;</span><br /> +Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite.</span><br /> +Yet what am I to answer when<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She kind uv fidgets at my side,</span><br /> +An' asks me every now an' then,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I wonder ef the baby cried"?</span><br /> +<br /> +Seems like she seen two little eyes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile;</span><br /> +Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Uv one she thinks uv all the while;</span><br /> +An' so she's sorry that she come.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An' though she allus tries to hide</span><br /> +The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Than wonder ef the baby cried.</span><br /> +<br /> +Yes, wimmin folks is all alike—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest;</span><br /> +There never wuz a little tyke,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But that his mother loved him best.</span><br /> +And nex' to bein' what I be—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The husband uv my gentle bride—</span><br /> +I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> +<h2>LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +AFTER dear old grandma died,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hunting through an oaken chest</span><br /> +In the attic, we espied<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What repaid our childish quest:</span><br /> +'Twas a homely little slate,<br /> +Seemingly of ancient date.<br /> +<br /> +On its quaint and battered face<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was the picture of a cart</span><br /> +Drawn with all that awkward grace<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which betokens childish art.</span><br /> +But what meant this legend, pray:<br /> +"Homer drew this yesterday"?<br /> +<br /> +Mother recollected then<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What the years were fain to hide:</span><br /> +She was but a baby when<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Little Homer lived and died.</span><br /> +Forty years, so mother said,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>Little Homer had been dead.<br /> +<br /> +This one secret through those years<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandma kept from all apart,</span><br /> +Hallowed by her lonely tears<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the breaking of her heart;</span><br /> +While each year that sped away<br /> +Seemed to her but yesterday.<br /> +<br /> +So the homely little slate<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grandma's baby's fingers pressed,</span><br /> +To a memory consecrate,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lieth in the oaken chest,</span><br /> +Where, unwilling we should know,<br /> +Grandma put it years ago.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p> +<h2>ALWAYS RIGHT.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +DON'T take on so, Hiram,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But do what you're told to do;</span><br /> +It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A heap sight more than you.</span><br /> +I'll allow that sometimes <i>her</i> way<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Don't seem the wisest, quite;</span><br /> +But the <i>easiest</i> way,<br /> +When she's had her say,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is to reckon yer mother is right.</span><br /> +<br /> +Courted her ten long winters,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Saw her to singin'-school;</span><br /> +When she went down one spell to town,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I cried like a durned ol' fool;</span><br /> +Got mad at the boys for callin'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When I sparked her Sunday night:</span><br /> +But she said she knew<br /> +A thing or two,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right.</span><br /> +<br /> +I courted till I wuz aging,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And she wuz past her prime,—</span><br /> +I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When I popped f'r the hundredth time.</span><br /> +Said she'd never have took me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If I hadn't stuck so tight;</span><br /> +Opined that we<br /> +Could never agree,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I reckon yer mother wuz right!</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> +<h2>"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!"</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +WHERE my true love abideth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I make my way to-night;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lo! waiting, she</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Espieth me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And calleth in delight:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"I see his steed anear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come trotting with my dear,—</span><br /> +Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Trot thou my lover here!"</span><br /> +<br /> +Aloose I cast the bridle,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ply the whip and spur;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And gayly I</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Speed this reply,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While faring on to her:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Oh, true love, fear thou not!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I seek our trysting spot;</span><br /> +And double feed be yours, my steed,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">If you more swiftly trot."</span><br /> +<br /> +I vault from out the saddle,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And make my good steed fast;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then to my breast</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My love is pressed,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At last, true heart, at last!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The garden drowsing lies,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The stars fold down their eyes,—</span><br /> +In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor stamp in restless wise!</span><br /> +<br /> +O passing sweet communion<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of young hearts, warm and true!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To thee belongs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The old, old songs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love finds forever new.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We sing those songs, and then</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cometh the moment when</span><br /> +It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Trot, trot me home again!"</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> +<h2>PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago,<br /> +Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro;<br /> +And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore,<br /> +With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,—<br /> +A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read<br /> +The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said:<br /> +"The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog."<br /> +<br /> +McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name<br /> +Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame.<br /> +A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,—<br /> +Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup!<br /> +The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green<br /> +Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen;<br /> +And my proud name was heralded,—oh that I'd gone incog.<br /> +When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog!<br /> +<br /> +Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town?<br /> +Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down!<br /> +The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead,<br /> +And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest<br /> +The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast;<br /> +For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog<br /> +When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog.<br /> +<br /> +They never came at all,—aha! I knew it all the time,—<br /> +They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime.<br /> +Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first!<br /> +Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst!<br /> +But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night,<br /> +When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's blight,—<br /> +When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog!<br /> +<br /> +Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro,<br /> +Ejaculating platitudes that were quite <i>mal à propos</i>;<br /> +And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot<br /> +Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot.<br /> +I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt,<br /> +If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front;<br /> +But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log<br /> +When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog.<br /> +<br /> +We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,—<br /> +For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track?<br /> +"Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!"<br /> +Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties<br /> +'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies;<br /> +But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,—<br /> +'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog.<br /> +<br /> +So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,—<br /> +And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same.<br /> +Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies!<br /> +The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies.<br /> +So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware!<br /> +Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare;<br /> +Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog,<br /> +But never go to Providence to try it on a dog.<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> +<h2>GETTIN' ON.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +WHEN I wuz somewhat younger,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I wuz reckoned purty gay;</span><br /> +I had my fling at everything<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In a rollickin', coltish way.</span><br /> +But times have strangely altered<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since sixty years ago—</span><br /> +This age of steam an' things don't seem<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like the age I used to know.</span><br /> +Your modern innovations<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Don't suit me, I confess,</span><br /> +As did the ways of the good ol' days,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I'm gettin' on, I guess.</span><br /> +<br /> +I set on the piazza,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An' hitch round with the sun;</span><br /> +Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waitin' till school is done.</span><br /> +An' then I tell the children<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The things I done in youth,—</span><br /> +An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I stick to the honest truth,—</span><br /> +But the looks of them 'at listen<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seem sometimes to express</span><br /> +The remote idee that I'm gone—you see?—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An' I <i>am</i> gettin' on, I guess.</span><br /> +<br /> +I get up in the mornin',<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An', nothin' else to do,</span><br /> +Before the rest are up an' dressed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I read the papers through.</span><br /> +I hang round with the women<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All day an' hear 'em talk;</span><br /> +An' while they sew or knit I show<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The baby how to walk.</span><br /> +An', somehow, I feel sorry<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When they put away his dress</span><br /> +An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'm gettin' on, I guess.</span><br /> +<br /> +Sometimes, with twilight round me,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I see, or seem to see,</span><br /> +A distant shore where friends of yore<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Linger an' watch for me.</span><br /> +Sometimes I've heered 'em callin'<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So tender-like 'nd low</span><br /> +That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or an echo of long ago;</span><br /> +An' sometimes on my forehead<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There falls a soft caress,</span><br /> +Or the touch of a hand,—you understand,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'm gettin' on, I guess.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SCHNELLEST ZUG.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way,<br /> +Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day;<br /> +You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night<br /> +Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight;<br /> +From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,—of that I'll not complain,—<br /> +But from Hanover to Magdeburg—confound that schnellest train!<br /> +<br /> +The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster yet,—<br /> +In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go,<br /> +While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow;<br /> +And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain<br /> +That one <i>can't</i> know what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest train!<br /> +<br /> +Fool that I was! I should have walked,—I had no time to waste;<br /> +The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,—<br /> +The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart,<br /> +And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art,<br /> +The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,—<br /> +These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train.<br /> +<br /> +The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer);<br /> +I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops<br /> +Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops,<br /> +Whilst <i>I</i> crouched in a corner, a monument to woe,<br /> +And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow!<br /> +And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that train,—<br /> +The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain,<br /> +Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts<br /> +Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts!<br /> +The husbands strut in soldier garb,—indeed <i>they</i> were too vain<br /> +To let creation see <i>them</i> work from that creeping schnellest train!<br /> +<br /> +I found the German language all too feeble to convey<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day;<br /> +I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint<br /> +Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print,<br /> +But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brain<br /> +While snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train.<br /> +<br /> +The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro,<br /> +The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O.,<br /> +The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things,<br /> +The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings,<br /> +The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake!<br /> +My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime,<br /> +Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time;<br /> +From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mile<br /> +By "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while;<br /> +Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain,<br /> +But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest train!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> +<h2>BETHLEHEM-TOWN.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +AS I was going to Bethlehem-town,<br /> +Upon the earth I cast me down<br /> +All underneath a little tree<br /> +That whispered in this wise to me:<br /> +"Oh, I shall stand on Calvary<br /> +And bear what burthen saveth thee!"<br /> +<br /> +As up I fared to Bethlehem-town,<br /> +I met a shepherd coming down,<br /> +And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight<br /> +Hath spread before mine eyes this night,—<br /> +An angel host most fair to see,<br /> +That sung full sweetly of a tree<br /> +That shall uplift on Calvary<br /> +What burthen saveth you and me!"<br /> +<br /> +And as I gat to Bethlehem-town,<br /> +Lo! wise men came that bore a crown.<br /> +"Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>A King shall wear this diadem?"<br /> +"Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He<br /> +That shall be lifted on the tree<br /> +And freely shed on Calvary<br /> +What blood redeemeth us and thee!"<br /> +<br /> +Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town<br /> +The wise men came and brought the crown;<br /> +And while the infant smiling slept,<br /> +Upon their knees they fell and wept;<br /> +But, with her babe upon her knee,<br /> +Naught recked that Mother of the tree,<br /> +That should uplift on Calvary<br /> +What burthen saveth all and me.<br /> +<br /> +Again I walk in Bethlehem-town<br /> +And think on Him that wears the crown.<br /> +I may not kiss His feet again,<br /> +Nor worship Him as did I then;<br /> +My King hath died upon the tree,<br /> +And hath outpoured on Calvary<br /> +What blood redeemeth you and me!<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +DEAREST, how hard it is to say<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That all is for the best,</span><br /> +Since, sometimes, in a grievous way<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">God's will is manifest.</span><br /> +<br /> +See with what hearty, noisy glee<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our little ones to-night</span><br /> +Dance round and round our Christmas-tree<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With pretty toys bedight.</span><br /> +<br /> +Dearest, one voice they may not hear,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One face they may not see,—</span><br /> +Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cometh to you and me?</span><br /> +<br /> +Cometh before our misty eyes<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That other little face;</span><br /> +And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">That love in the old embrace.</span><br /> +<br /> +Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bringing His peace to men;</span><br /> +And He bringeth to you and to me the light<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the old, old years again:</span><br /> +<br /> +Bringeth the peace of long ago<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When a wee one clasped your knee</span><br /> +And lisped of the morrow,—dear one, you know,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And here come back is he!</span><br /> +<br /> +Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That all is for the best,</span><br /> +For, often in a grievous way,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">God's will is manifest.</span><br /> +<br /> +But in the grace of this holy night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That bringeth us back our child,</span><br /> +Let us see that the ways of God are right,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so be reconciled.</span><br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE.</h2> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth,<br /> +And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And my career</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">From year to year</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Was full of cheer</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 13em;">And things,</span><br /> +Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings;<br /> +But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene!<br /> +Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene:<br /> +Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte.<br /> +In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me,<br /> +She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,—<br /> +Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to t'other,<br /> +The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother.<br /> +Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth<br /> +Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth.<br /> +If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart,<br /> +What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte?<br /> +<br /> +In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth,<br /> +But now you see<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Revealed in me</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 9em;">The gloomiest bard on earth.</span><br /> +I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life,<br /> +But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife.<br /> +Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate,<br /> +One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate:<br /> +This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart<br /> +Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, Delsarte.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Where'er she goes,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">She loves to pose,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">In classic attitudes,</span><br /> +And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">And she, my child,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Who all so wild,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">So helpless and so sweet,</span><br /> +That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands,<br /> +Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands.<br /> +Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start,<br /> +And I utter one word—it is commonly heard—derogatory to Delsarte.<br /> +<br /> +In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man;<br /> +Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began;<br /> +But now these wise<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Folks criticise</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">My figure and my face,</span><br /> +And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass.<br /> +Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek<br /> +Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,—<br /> +With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte.<br /> +<br /> +Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before,<br /> +When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more.<br /> +Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight;<br /> +The old-time bard<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Of pork and lard</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">Is plainly out of sight.</span><br /> +All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop,<br /> +While Lachesis brews<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">For the poor old Muse</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">A portion of scalding soup.</span><br /> +Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart:<br /> +"He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter learned Delsarte."<br /> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> +<h2>BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT.</h2> + + +<div class='poem'><div class='cap'> +Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,—<br /> +These three bloomed in a garden spot;<br /> +And once, all merry with song and play,<br /> +A little one heard three voices say:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Shine or shadow, summer or spring,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O thou child with the tangled hair</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And laughing eyes, we three shall bring</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Each an offering, passing fair!"</span><br /> +The little one did not understand;<br /> +But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.<br /> +<br /> +Buttercup gambolled all day long,<br /> +Sharing the little one's mirth and song;<br /> +Then, stealing along on misty gleams,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Playing and dreaming, that was all,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Till once the sleeper would not awake;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kissing the little face under the pall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">We thought of the words the third flower spake,</span><br /> +And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot,<br /> +The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.<br /> +<br /> +Buttercup shareth the joy of day,<br /> +Glinting with gold the hours of play;<br /> +Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose,<br /> +When the hands would fold and the eyes would close.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And after it all,—the play and the sleep</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of a little life,—what cometh then?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A wee flower bringeth God's peace again:</span><br /> +Each one serveth its tender lot,—<br /> +Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.<br /> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class='tnote'>Transcriber's Note: <a href="#Page_ix">Page ix</a>, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick)</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 31874-h.htm or 31874-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/8/7/31874/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + +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. 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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: Second Book of Verse + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: April 3, 2010 [EBook #31874] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + + + + + + + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + + + + +BY EUGENE FIELD + + + Second Book of Tales. + Songs and Other Verse. + The Holy Cross and Other Tales. + The House. + The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. + A Little Book Of Profitable Tales. + A Little Book of Western Verse. + Second Book of Verse. + Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25 + A Little Book of Profitable Tales. + Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. + Echoes from the Sabine Farm. + 4to, $2.00 + With Trumpet and Drum. + 16mo, $1.00. + Love Songs of Childhood. + 16mo, $1.00. + + + + +Second + +BOOK OF VERSE + +BY + +EUGENE FIELD + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + 1896 + + + + + _Copyright, 1892_, + + BY JULIA SUTHERLAND FIELD. + + + _A little bit of a woman came + Athwart my path one day; + So tiny was she that she seemed to be + A pixy strayed from the misty sea, + Or a wandering greenwood fay._ + + _"Oho, you little elf!" I cried, + "And what are you doing here? + So tiny as you will never do + For the brutal rush and hullaballoo + Of this practical world, I fear."_ + + _"Voice have I, good sir," said she.-- + "'Tis soft as an Angel's sigh, + But to fancy a word of yours were heard + In all the din of this world's absurd!" + Smiling, I made reply._ + + _"Hands have I, good sir" she quoth.-- + "Marry, and that have you! + But amid the strife and the tumult rife + In all the struggle and battle for life, + What can those wee hands do?"_ + + _"Eyes have I, good sir," she said.-- + "Sooth, you have," quoth I, + "And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow, + And they betimes shall dim with woe, + As the hard, hard years go by!"_ + + _That little bit of a woman cast + Her two eyes full on me, + And they smote me sore to my inmost core, + And they hold me slaved forevermore,-- + Yet would I not be free!_ + + _That little bit of a woman's hands + Reached up into my breast + And rent apart my scoffing heart,-- + And they buffet it still with such sweet art + As cannot be expressed._ + + _That little bit of a woman's voice + Hath grown most wondrous dear; + Above the blare of all elsewhere + (An inspiration that mocks at care) + It riseth full and clear._ + + _Dear one, I bless the subtle power + That makes me wholly thine; + And I'm proud to say that I bless the day + When a little woman wrought her way + Into this life of mine!_ + + + + +The Verse in this Second Book. + + + PAGE + + FATHER'S WAY 1 + + TO MY MOTHER 5 + + KOeRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER 7 + + GOSLING STEW 9 + + CATULLUS TO LESBIA 12 + + JOHN SMITH 13 + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE 22 + + THE SINGING IN GOD'S-ACRE 25 + + DEAR OLD LONDON 28 + + CORSICAN LULLABY (Folk-Song) 33 + + THE CLINK OF THE ICE 35 + + BELLS OF NOTRE DAME 39 + + LOVER'S LANE, ST. JO 41 + + CRUMPETS AND TEA 44 + + AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS 47 + + INTRY-MINTRY 48 + + MODJESKY AS CAMEEL 51 + + TELLING THE BEES 60 + + THE TEA-GOWN 62 + + DOCTORS 64 + + BARBARA 69 + + THE CAFE MOLINEAU 72 + + HOLLY AND IVY 75 + + THE BOLTONS, 22 77 + + DIBDIN'S GHOST 83 + + THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 87 + + THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD 91 + + AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 96 + + PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 103 + + ASHES ON THE SLIDE 106 + + THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS 110 + + CHRISTMAS EVE 113 + + CARLSBAD 115 + + THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 120 + + RED 122 + + JEWISH LULLABY 124 + + AT CHEYENNE 126 + + THE NAUGHTY DOLL 128 + + THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 131 + + TEENY-WEENY 134 + + TELKA 137 + + PLAINT OF A MISSOURI 'COON 146 + + ARMENIAN LULLABY 151 + + THE PARTRIDGE 153 + + CORINTHIAN HALL 156 + + THE RED, RED WEST 162 + + THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE 165 + + IPSWICH 167 + + BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS 170 + + FIDUCIT (from the German) 175 + + THE "ST. JO GAZETTE" 177 + + IN AMSTERDAM 183 + + TO THE PASSING SAINT 186 + + THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 188 + + NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT (Slumber Song) 191 + + THE ONION TART 193 + + GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE 197 + + RARE ROAST BEEF 203 + + GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT 208 + + OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE 211 + + OUR WHIPPINGS 213 + + BION'S SONG OF EROS 218 + + MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 220 + + POET AND KING 222 + + LYDIA DICK 225 + + LIZZIE 229 + + LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE 231 + + ALWAYS RIGHT 233 + + "TROT, MY GOOD STEED" (Volkslied) 235 + + PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG 237 + + GETTIN' ON 242 + + THE SCHNELLEST ZUG 245 + + BETHLEHEM-TOWN 250 + + THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 252 + + DOINGS OF DELSARTE 254 + + BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 259 + + + + +Second Book of Verse. + + + + +FATHER'S WAY. + + + MY father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,-- + Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. + He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,-- + I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; + But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue, + He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,-- + +[Illustration: Music] + + Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, + Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know; + He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way + But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay." + And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth + There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth. + + When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down + To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. + A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, + And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake! + But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, + Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low. + + And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West, + Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. + She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say + It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away; + But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, + Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers. + + When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, + He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; + And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so, + How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe! + You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,-- + He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it. + + I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,-- + To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men. + Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, + And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! + Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, + When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know! + + + + +TO MY MOTHER. + + + HOW fair you are, my mother! + Ah, though 't is many a year + Since you were here, + Still do I see your beauteous face, + And with the glow + Of your dark eyes cometh a grace + Of long ago. + So gentle, too, my mother! + Just as of old, upon my brow, + Like benedictions now, + Falleth your dear hand's touch; + And still, as then, + A voice that glads me over-much + Cometh again, + My fair and gentle mother! + + How you have loved me, mother, + I have not power to tell, + Knowing full well + That even in the rest above + It is your will + To watch and guard me with your love, + Loving me still. + And, as of old, my mother, + I am content to be a child, + By mother's love beguiled + From all these other charms; + So to the last + Within thy dear, protecting arms + Hold thou me fast, + My guardian angel, mother! + + + + +KOeRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER. + + + FATHER, I cry to Thee! + Round me the billows of battle are pouring, + Round me the thunders of battle are roaring; + Father on high, hear Thou my cry,-- + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + + Father, oh, lead Thou me! + Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious,-- + See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious; + Point Thou the way, lead where it may,-- + God, I acknowledge Thee! + + God, I acknowledge Thee! + As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me, + So, when the horrors of war would confound me, + Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near,-- + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + + Father, oh, bless Thou me! + Living or dying, waking or sleeping, + Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping: + Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me! + Father, I worship Thee! + + Father, I worship Thee! + Not for the love of the riches that perish, + But for the freedom and justice we cherish, + Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all-- + God, I submit to Thee! + + God, I submit to Thee! + Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me, + Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me, + Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee,-- + Father, I cry to Thee! + + + + +GOSLING STEW. + + + IN Oberhausen, on a time, + I fared as might a king; + And now I feel the muse sublime + Inspire me to embalm in rhyme + That succulent and sapid thing + Behight of gentile and of Jew + A gosling stew! + + The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best,-- + Soup, cutlet, salad, roast,-- + And I partook with hearty zest, + And fervently anon I blessed + That generous and benignant host, + When suddenly dawned on my view + A gosling stew! + + I sniffed it coming on apace, + And as its odors filled + The curious little dining-place, + I felt a glow suffuse my face, + I felt my very marrow thrilled + With rapture altogether new,-- + 'Twas gosling stew! + + These callow birds had never played + In yonder village pond; + Had never through the gateway strayed, + And plaintive spissant music made + Upon the grassy green beyond: + Cooped up, they simply ate and grew + For gosling stew! + + My doctor said I mustn't eat + High food and seasoned game; + But surely gosling is a meat + With tender nourishment replete. + Leastwise I gayly ate this same; + I braved dyspepsy--wouldn't you + For gosling stew? + + I've feasted where the possums grow, + Roast turkey have I tried, + The joys of canvasbacks I know, + And frequently I've eaten crow + In bleak and chill Novembertide; + I'd barter all that native crew + For gosling stew! + + And when from Rhineland I adjourn + To seek my Yankee shore, + Back shall my memory often turn, + And fiercely shall my palate burn + For sweets I'll taste, alas! no more,-- + Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew + A gosling stew! + + Vain are these keen regrets of mine, + And vain the song I sing; + Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine + To Oberhausen auf der Rhine, + Where fared I like a very king: + And here's a last and fond adieu + To gosling stew! + + + + +CATULLUS TO LESBIA. + + + COME, my Lesbia, no repining; + Let us love while yet we may! + Suns go on forever shining; + But when we have had our day, + Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us, + And no morrow's dawn awake us. + + Come, in yonder nook reclining, + Where the honeysuckle climbs, + Let us mock at Fate's designing, + Let us kiss a thousand times! + And if they shall prove too few, dear, + When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear! + + And should any chance to see us, + Goodness! how they'll agonize! + How they'll wish that they could be us, + Kissing in such liberal wise! + Never mind their envious whining; + Come, my Lesbia, no repining! + + + + +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 hand-clasp 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 telltale dialect, that instantly I may + Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A." + + It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell ago + Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd _bona-fide_ schoolma'ams grow; + Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills, + And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd 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, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know + In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow; + Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn + Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters 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 the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night, + Whar blooms the furtive possum,--pride an' glory of the South! + And anty 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,-- + H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "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 '69 + In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine? + Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side, + And talked 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 mountains 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-singin' 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, + His 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." + + + + +ST. MARTIN'S LANE. + + + ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill, + And trends a devious way; + I walk therein amid the din + Of busy London day: + I walk where wealth and squalor meet, + And think upon a time + When others trod this saintly sod, + And heard St. Martin's chime. + + But when those solemn bells invoke + The midnight's slumbrous grace, + The ghosts of men come back again + To haunt that curious place: + The ghosts of sages, poets, wits, + Come back in goodly train; + And all night long, with mirth and song, + They walk St. Martin's Lane. + + There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray, + Maginn and Thomas Moore, + And here and there and everywhere + Fraserians by the score; + And one wee ghost that climbs the hill + Is welcomed with a shout,-- + No king could be revered as he,-- + The _padre_, Father Prout! + + They banter up and down the street, + And clamor at the door + Of yonder inn, which once has been + The scene of mirth galore: + 'Tis now a lonely, musty shell, + Deserted, like to fall; + And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks, + And iterates their call. + + Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host, + From Pluto's misty shore; + Renew to-night the keen delight + Of by-gone years once more; + Brew for this merry, motley horde, + And serve the steaming cheer; + And grant that I may lurk hard by, + To see the mirth, and hear. + + Ah, me! I dream what things may seem + To others childish vain, + And yet at night 'tis my delight + To walk St. Martin's Lane; + For, in the light of other days, + I walk with those I love, + And all the time St. Martin's chime + Makes piteous moan above. + + + + +THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE. + + + OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, + Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. + Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low, + As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd guardeth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight, + And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; + And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong + The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + He that guardeth His flock the best + Hath folded them to His loving breast; + So sleep ye now, and take your rest,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song, + And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along; + So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify, + God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,-- + + "Sleep, oh, sleep! + The Shepherd loveth His sheep. + Fast speedeth the night away, + Soon cometh the glorious day; + Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,-- + Sleep, oh, sleep!" + + + + +DEAR OLD LONDON. + + + WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89, + I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,-- + "A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to look + Upon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book! + A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,-- + The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be; + And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89! + + Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day, + A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,-- + A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago, + Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know). + A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,-- + That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob; + But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine, + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore, + And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store. + Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command, + But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand. + Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,-- + It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot; + Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline? + For I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap + That Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap; + And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass, + And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass! + And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates, + The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates! + Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,-- + The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the + eye,-- + The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime, + The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time, + The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play, + And other costly relics of malodorous decay,-- + Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine + When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. + + When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward, + Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record; + Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue, + Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung; + But in plain Anglo-Saxon--that he may know who seeks + What agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks-- + Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line: + "Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89." + + + + +CORSICAN LULLABY. + + + BAMBINO in his cradle slept; + And by his side his grandam grim + Bent down and smiled upon the child, + And sung this lullaby to him,-- + This "ninna and anninia": + + "When thou art older, thou shalt mind + To traverse countries far and wide, + And thou shalt go where roses blow + And balmy waters singing glide-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, + A famous jacket edged in red, + And, more than that, a peaked hat, + All decked in gold, upon thy head-- + Ah! ninna and anninia! + + "Then shalt thou carry gun and knife. + Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; + Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, + A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "No woman yet of our proud race + Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; + The brazen churl that eyed a girl + Bought her the ring or paid his head-- + So ninna and anninia! + + "But once came spies (I know the thieves!) + And brought disaster to our race; + God heard us when our fifteen men + Were hanged within the market-place-- + But ninna and anninia! + + "Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- + Right worthy fellows all, and strong; + Live thou and be for them and me + Avenger of that deadly wrong-- + So ninna and anninia!" + + + + +THE CLINK OF THE ICE. + + + NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone + Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known. + When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head + Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; + When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, + And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a + buffalo hide,-- + How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall + At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall! + + Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name, + That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame? + Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire, + That presently by combustion setteth us all afire? + Or is it the cheery magnum?--nay, I'll not chide the cup + That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up: + Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,-- + Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for + all. + + I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame, + And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same; + And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire + To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire; + I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and + screamed,-- + In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human + dreamed: + But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink + When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink. + + Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup? + Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up! + See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove + To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen + stove! + The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and + through: + An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.! + And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret + That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat. + + May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drink + That happens along at five A. M. with its rapturous clinkety-clink! + I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat + But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote; + So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem + For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five A. M., + But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall + Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall. + + + + +THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME. + + + WHAT though the radiant thoroughfare + Teems with a noisy throng? + What though men bandy everywhere + The ribald jest and song? + Over the din of oaths and cries + Broodeth a wondrous calm, + And mid that solemn stillness rise + The bells of Notre Dame. + + "Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, + "Thy weak and erring child; + And thou, O gentle Mother, pray + That God be reconciled; + And on mankind, O Christ, our King, + Pour out Thy gracious balm,"-- + 'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing, + Those bells of Notre Dame. + + And so, methinks, God, bending down + To ken the things of earth, + Heeds not the mockery of the town + Or cries of ribald mirth; + For ever soundeth in His ears + A penitential psalm,-- + 'T is thy angelic voice He hears, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice + May still forever be + An intercession to rejoice + Benign divinity; + And that thy tuneful grace may fall + Like dew, a quickening balm, + Upon the arid hearts of all, + O bells of Notre Dame! + + + + +LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO. + + + SAINT JO, Buchanan County, + Is leagues and leagues away; + And I sit in the gloom of this rented room, + And pine to be there to-day. + Yes, with London fog around me + And the bustling to and fro, + I am fretting to be across the sea + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + I would have a brown-eyed maiden + Go driving once again; + And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along, + That I sung to that maiden then: + I purposely say, "as we _snailed_ along," + For a proper horse goes slow + In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles, + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + From her boudoir in the alders + Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush, + And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way, + To the noisy cricket, "Hush!" + To think that the curious creature + Should crane her neck to know + The various things one says and sings + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + But the maples they should shield us + From the gossips of the place; + Nor should the sun, except by pun, + Profane the maiden's face; + And the girl should do the driving, + For a fellow can't, you know, + Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectful + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Ah! sweet the hours of springtime, + When the heart inclines to woo, + And it's deemed all right for the callow wight + To do what he wants to do; + But cruel the age of winter, + When the way of the world says no + To the hoary men who would woo again + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! + + In the Union Bank of London + Are forty pounds or more, + Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end, + In an antiquarian store; + But I'd give it all, and gladly, + If for an hour or so + I could feel the grace of a distant place,-- + Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + Let us sit awhile, beloved, + And dream of the good old days,-- + Of the kindly shade which the maples made + Round the stanch but squeaky chaise; + With your head upon my shoulder, + And my arm about you so, + Though exiles, we shall seem to be + In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. + + + + +CRUMPETS AND TEA. + + + THERE are happenings in life that are destined to rise + Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes; + And the passage of years shall not dim in the least + The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,-- + The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,-- + My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, + And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. + + There are cynics who say with invidious zest + That a crumpet's a thing that will never digest; + But I happen to _know_ that a crumpet is prime + For digestion, if only you give it its time. + Or if, by a chance, it should _not_ quite agree, + Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee + For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea? + + To toast crumpets quite _a la mode_, I require + A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; + And when they are browned, without further ado, + I put on the butter, that soaks through and through. + And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, + Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three; + And so we sit down to our crumpets--and tea. + + A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,-- + Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit + Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, + Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. + (It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, + That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we + Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) + + The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak + Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; + Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell + Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell; + Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, + And purchase for sixpence enough for us three, + Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. + + But soon--ah! too soon--I must bid a farewell + To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, + Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore + That's filled me with colic and--yearnings for more! + Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea + Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh + And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea. + + Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes + That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise. + My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change, + Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range; + But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be + In London again with Teresa and Leigh, + Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea! + + + + +AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS. + + + THROUGH all my life the poor shall find + In me a constant friend; + And on the meek of every kind + My mercy shall attend. + + The dumb shall never call on me + In vain for kindly aid; + And in my hands the blind shall see + A bounteous alms displayed. + + In all their walks the lame shall know + And feel my goodness near; + And on the deaf will I bestow + My gentlest words of cheer. + + 'Tis by such pious works as these, + Which I delight to do, + That men their fellow-creatures please, + And please their Maker too. + + + + +INTRY-MINTRY. + + + WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Once as these children were hard at play, + An old man, hoary and tottering, came + And watched them playing their pretty game. + He seemed to wonder, while standing there, + What the meaning thereof could be. + Aha, but the old man yearned to share + Of the little children's innocent glee, + As they circled around with laugh and shout, + And told this rhyme at counting out: + "Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest." + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,-- + Ah, the mirth of that summer day! + 'Twas Father Time who had come to share + The innocent joy of those children there. + He learned betimes the game they played, + And into their sport with them went he,-- + How _could_ the children have been afraid, + Since little they recked who he might be? + They laughed to hear old Father Time + Mumbling that curious nonsense rhyme + Of intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, + Apple-seed and apple-thorn, + Wire, brier, limber, lock, + Twelve geese in a flock; + Some flew east, some flew west, + Some flew over the cuckoo's nest. + + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, + And joy of summer,--where are they? + The grim old man still standeth near, + Crooning the song of a far-off year; + And into the winter I come alone, + Cheered by that mournful requiem, + Soothed by the dolorous monotone + That shall count me off as it counted them,-- + The solemn voice of old Father Time, + Chanting the homely nursery rhyme + He learned of the children a summer morn, + When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn," + Life was full of the dulcet cheer + That bringeth the grace of heaven anear: + The sound of the little ones hard at play,-- + Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. + + + + +MODJESKY AS CAMEEL. + + + AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand, + Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land; + And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81, + Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun, + We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth, + And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health. + You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago; + (An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!) + Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal + Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel. + + Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go + To call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show. + "The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen, + And I reckon there is more for _me_ in some other kind uv queen." + "Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find + A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind? + You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more, + An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score, + Only to come down here among us _tong_ an' say you feel + You'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!" + + But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play, + With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both de_kolly_tay. + A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' + wealthy,-- + She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy. + She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind, + And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind + Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break, + And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake. + "Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor, + And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more. + + At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game, + And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same. + I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,-- + Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!" + He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen, + And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men; + Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer, + An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear; + And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel, + An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel. + + A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three, + And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see. + He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lick + Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick + To clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said. + He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red, + But good to helpless folks and weak,--a brave and manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + "Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow, + But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow; + So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,-- + Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,-- + I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night + To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white, + Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true, + Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you, + Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts, + Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no _onter acts_." + + I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout + That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect, + Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,-- + A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I come + Out West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum), + Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to sway + The popular opinion in a most persuasive way. + "Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more, + Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door. + + First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to go + And see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low; + An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock, + An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block; + John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write, + And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight; + Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too; + And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do. + Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then; + Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again. + + I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in, + A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!" + I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,-- + They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break! + An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base, + I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face. + I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong + In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long. + I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,-- + And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day! + + I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again. + She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then. + An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill be + About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,-- + A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel; + He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal; + Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heart + A cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart; + So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along, + But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. + + + + +TELLING THE BEES. + + + OUT of the house where the slumberer lay + Grandfather came one summer day, + And under the pleasant orchard trees + He spake this wise to the murmuring bees: + "The clover-bloom that kissed her feet + And the posie-bed where she used to play + Have honey store, but none so sweet + As ere our little one went away. + O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low; + For she is gone who loved you so." + + A wonder fell on the listening bees + Under those pleasant orchard trees, + And in their toil that summer day + Ever their murmuring seemed to say: + "Child, O child, the grass is cool, + And the posies are waking to hear the song + Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, + Waiting for one that tarrieth long." + 'Twas so they called to the little one then, + As if to call her back again. + + O gentle bees, I have come to say + That grandfather fell asleep to-day, + And we know by the smile on grandfather's face + He has found his dear one's biding-place. + So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low, + As over the honey-fields you sweep,-- + To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow + Sing of grandfather fast asleep; + And ever beneath these orchard trees + Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees. + + + + +THE TEA-GOWN. + + + MY lady has a tea-gown + That is wondrous fair to see,-- + It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, + As a tea-gown ought to be; + And I thought she must be jesting + Last night at supper when + She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, + And had cost but two pounds ten. + + Had she told me fifty shillings, + I might (and wouldn't you?) + Have referred to that dress in a way folks express + By an eloquent dash or two; + But the guileful little creature + Knew well her tactics when + She casually said that that dream in red + Had cost but two pounds ten. + + Yet our home is all the brighter + For that dainty, sensient thing, + That floats away where it properly may, + And clings where it ought to cling; + And I count myself the luckiest + Of all us married men + That I have a wife whose joy in life + Is a gown at two pounds ten. + + It isn't the gown compels me + Condone this venial sin; + It's the pretty face above the lace, + And the gentle heart within. + And with her arms about me + I say, and say again, + "'Twas wondrous cheap,"--and I think a heap + Of that gown at two pounds ten! + + + + +DOCTORS. + + + 'Tis quite the thing to say and sing + Gross libels on the doctor,-- + To picture him an ogre grim + Or humbug-pill concocter; + Yet it's in quite another light + My friendly pen would show him, + Glad that it may with verse repay + Some part of what I owe him. + + When one's all right, he's prone to spite + The doctor's peaceful mission; + But when he's sick, it's loud and quick + He bawls for a physician. + With other things, the doctor brings + Sweet babes, our hearts to soften: + Though I have four, I pine for more,-- + Good doctor, pray come often! + + What though he sees death and disease + Run riot all around him? + Patient and true, and valorous too, + Such have I always found him. + Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes; + And when skill's unavailing, + And death is near, his words of cheer + Support our courage failing. + + In ancient days they used to praise + The godlike art of healing,-- + An art that then engaged all men + Possessed of sense and feeling. + Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be + Famed for a quack elixir; + And Digby sold, as we are told, + A charm for folk lovesick, sir. + + Napoleon knew a thing or two, + And clearly _he_ was partial + To doctors, for in time of war + He chose one for a marshal. + In our great cause a doctor was + The first to pass death's portal, + And Warren's name at once became + A beacon and immortal. + + A heap, indeed, of what we read + By doctors is provided; + For to those groves Apollo loves + Their leaning is decided. + Deny who may that Rabelais + Is first in wit and learning, + And yet all smile and marvel while + His brilliant leaves they're turning. + + How Lever's pen has charmed all men! + How touching Rab's short story! + And I will stake my all that Drake + Is still the schoolboy's glory. + A doctor-man it was began + Great Britain's great museum,-- + The treasures there are all so rare + It drives me wild to see 'em! + + There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are + Big monuments to learning. + To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) + We all are fondly turning. + Tomes might be writ of that keen wit + Which Abernethy's famed for; + With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills + Most doctors now get blamed for. + + In modern times the noble rhymes + Of Holmes, a great physician, + Have solace brought and wisdom taught + To hearts of all condition. + The sailor, bound for Puget Sound, + Finds pleasure still unfailing, + If he but troll the barcarole + Old Osborne wrote on Whaling. + + If there were need, I could proceed + _Ad naus._ with this prescription, + But, _inter nos_, a larger dose + Might give you fits conniption; + Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend + I'd hold before these others, + For he and I in years gone by + Have chummed around like brothers. + + Together we have sung in glee + The songs old Horace made for + Our genial craft, together quaffed + What bowls that doctor paid for! + I love the rest, but love him best; + And, were not times so pressing, + I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend? + Well, then, here goes my blessing. + + + + +BARBARA. + + + BLITHE was the youth that summer day, + As he smote at the ribs of earth, + And he plied his pick with a merry click, + And he whistled anon in mirth; + And the constant thought of his dear one's face + Seemed to illumine that ghostly place. + + The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy, + And she moved, and closed on his head: + With no one nigh and with never a cry + The beautiful boy lay dead; + And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair + Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair. + + Fifty years is a mighty space + In the human toil for bread; + But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath, + A dream that is quickly sped,-- + Fifty years, and the fair lad lay + Just as he fell that summer day. + + At last came others in quest of gold, + And hewed in that mountain place; + And deep in the ground one time they found + The boy with the smiling face: + All uncorrupt by the pitiless air, + He lay, with his crown of golden hair. + + They bore him up to the sun again, + And laid him beside the brook, + And the folk came down from the busy town + To wonder and prate and look; + And so, to a world that knew him not, + The boy came back to the old-time spot. + + Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,-- + Wrinkled and bowed was she,-- + And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh, + "At last he is come to me!" + And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, + And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair. + + "Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one! + And better it is 'tis so, + Else thou mightst see how harsh with me + Dealt Life thou couldst not know: + Kindlier Death has kept _thee_ fair; + The sorrow of Life hath been _my_ share." + + Barbara bowed her aged face, + And fell on the breast of her dead; + And the golden hair of her dear one there + Caressed her snow-white head. + Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain; + But sweeter the Death that joined those twain. + + + + +THE CAFE MOLINEAU. + + + THE Cafe Molineau is where + A dainty little minx + Serves God and man as best she can + By serving meats and drinks. + Oh, such an air the creature has, + And such a pretty face! + I took delight that autumn night + In hanging round the place. + + I know but very little French + (I have not long been here); + But when she spoke, her meaning broke + Full sweetly on my ear. + Then, too, she seemed to understand + Whatever I'd to say, + Though most I knew was "oony poo," + "Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." + + The female wit is always quick, + And of all womankind + 'Tis here in France that you, perchance, + The keenest wits shall find; + And here you'll find that subtle gift, + That rare, distinctive touch, + Combined with grace of form and face, + That glads men overmuch. + + "Our girls at home," I mused aloud, + "Lack either that or this; + They don't combine the arts divine + As does the Gallic miss. + Far be it from me to malign + Our belles across the sea, + And yet I'll swear none can compare + With this ideal She." + + And then I praised her dainty foot + In very awful French, + And parleyvood in guileful mood + Until the saucy wench + Tossed back her haughty auburn head, + And froze me with disdain: + "There are on me no flies," said she, + "For I come from Bangor, Maine!" + + + + +HOLLY AND IVY. + + + HOLLY standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Evermore at ye door + Standeth Ivy, shivering sore + In ye night wind bleak and drear; + And, as weary hours go by, + Doth ye one to other cry. + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "What is that within you see? + To and fro doth ye glow + Of ye yule-log flickering go; + Would its warmth did cherish me! + Where thou bidest is it warm; + I am shaken of ye storm." + + "Sister Ivy," Holly quoth, + "Brightly burns the yule-log here, + And love brings beauteous things, + While a guardian angel sings + To the babes that slumber near; + But, O Ivy! tell me now, + What without there seest thou?" + + "Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, + "With fair music comes ye Morn, + And afar burns ye Star + Where ye wondering shepherds are, + And the Shepherd King is born: + 'Peace on earth, good-will to men,' + Angels cry, and cry again." + + Holly standeth in ye house + When that Noel draweth near; + Clambering o'er yonder door, + Ivy standeth evermore; + And to them that rightly hear + Each one speaketh of ye love + That outpoureth from Above. + + + + +THE BOLTONS, 22. + + + WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog + Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; + When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, + Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; + When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, + Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,-- + When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, + and more, + To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore, + There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do: + Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22. + + The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend + My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend. + One sees _chefs d'oeuvre_ of masters in profusion on the walls, + And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls; + There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please, + And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease: + But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,-- + The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace; + Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through, + It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22. + + My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor; + And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore. + The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare + On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,-- + A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device + To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice, + A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite + Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light; + But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do + For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22. + + Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit, + And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit; + And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse) + Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse. + And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars, + He smokes his modest pipe, and I--I smoke his choice cigars! + For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,-- + The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size; + And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,--and so will you, + If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22. + + But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived: + 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived. + A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then + A cordial invitation to us both to come again. + So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog, + On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,-- + The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace, + Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place; + And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew + In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22. + + God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife; + May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life; + And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within, + Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been. + So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup; + Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up, + That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine, + Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine: + "May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew + Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!" + + + + +DIBDIN'S GHOST. + + + DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read + The tomes you so despise, + A spectre rose beside the bed, + And spake in this true wise: + "From Canaan's beatific coast + I've come to visit thee, + For I am 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. + + + + +THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN. + + + THE Hawthorne children, seven in all, + Are famous friends of mine; + And with what pleasure I recall + How, years ago, one gloomy fall + I took a tedious railway line, + And journeyed by slow stages down + Unto that soporiferous town + (Albeit one worth seeing) + Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, + And Beatrix and Gwendolen, + And she that was the baby then,-- + These famous seven, as aforesaid, + Lived, moved, and had their being. + + The Hawthorne children gave me such + A welcome by the sea + That the eight of us were soon in touch, + And, though their mother marvelled much, + Happy as larks were we. + Egad, I was a boy again + With Henry, John, and Gwendolen; + And oh the funny capers + I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! + And oh the pranks we children played; + And oh the deafening noise we made-- + 'Twould shock my family if they read + About it in the papers! + + The Hawthorne children all were smart: + The girls, as I recall, + Had comprehended every art + Appealing to the head and heart; + The boys were gifted, all. + 'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how + To hitch a horse and milk a cow + And cook the best of suppers; + With Beatrix upon the sands + I sprinted daily, and was beat; + 'Twas Henry trained me to the feat + Of walking round upon my hands + Instead of on my uppers. + + The Hawthorne children liked me best + Of evenings, after tea, + For then, by general request, + I spun them yarns about the West,-- + Yarns all involving Me! + I represented how I'd slain + The bison on his native plain; + And divers tales of wonder + I told of how I'd fought and bled + In Indian scrimmages galore, + Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more," + And packed her darlings off to bed, + To dream of blood and thunder. + + They must have changed a deal since then; + The misses, tall and fair, + And those three handsome, lusty men,-- + Would they be girls and boys again, + Were I to happen there, + Down in that spot beside the sea + Where we made such tumultuous glee + That dull autumnal weather? + Ah, me! the years go swiftly by; + And yet how fondly I recall + The week when we were children all, + Dear Hawthorne children, you and I, + Just eight of us together! + + + + +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 revelled 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 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, pygmy 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 never more 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 telltale day,-- + Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths 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! + + + + +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 of + 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 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! nevermore 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 already is nigh,--the shadows creep over the heather, + And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the + breezes. + + + + +PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE. + + + ALL day long they come and go,-- + Pittypat and Tippytoe; + Footprints up and down the hall, + Playthings scattered on the floor, + Finger-marks along the wall, + Tell-tale streaks upon the door,-- + By these presents you shall know + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + How they riot at their play! + And, a dozen times a day, + In they troop, demanding bread,-- + Only buttered bread will do, + And that butter must be spread + Inches thick with sugar too! + Never yet have I said, "No, + Pittypat and Tippytoe!" + + Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, + Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; + For--I much regret to say-- + Tippytoe and Pittypat + Sometimes interrupt their play + With an internecine spat; + Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + Oh, the thousand worrying things + Every day recurrent brings! + Hands to scrub and hair to brush, + Search for playthings gone amiss, + Many a murmuring to hush, + Many a little bump to kiss; + Life's indeed a fleeting show, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + And when day is at an end, + There are little duds to mend; + Little frocks are strangely torn, + Little shoes great holes reveal, + Little hose, but one day worn, + Rudely yawn at toe or heel! + Who but you could work such woe, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + But when comes this thought to me, + "Some there are that childless be," + Stealing to their little beds, + With a love I cannot speak, + Tenderly I stroke their heads, + Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. + God help those who do not know + A Pittypat or Tippytoe! + + On the floor, along the hall, + Rudely traced upon the wall, + There are proofs in every kind + Of the havoc they have wrought; + And upon my heart you'd find + Just such trademarks, if you sought. + Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe! + + + + +ASHES ON THE SLIDE. + + + WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago. + How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow! + Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright, + Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight + As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill + Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still. + + Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed! + Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed! + And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then + We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again; + But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside + When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide! + + The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums, + And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs, + And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew + The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue! + The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide; + And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!" + + Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy + Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ + To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite + In interfering with the play wherein we found delight; + And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride: + "Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!" + + But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest, + His money well invested in farm mortgages out West; + Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife + That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life; + That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide + Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide! + + And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now. + Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou! + Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; + The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; + And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, + He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide! + + + + +THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS. + + + "CUPID!" Venus went a-crying; + "Cupid, whither dost thou stray? + Tell me, people, hither hieing, + Have you seen my runaway? + Speak,--my kiss shall be your pay! + Yes, and sweets more gratifying, + If you bring him back to-day. + + "Cupid," Venus went a-calling, + "Is a rosy little youth, + But his beauty is inthralling. + He will speak you fair, in sooth, + Wheedle you with glib untruth,-- + Honey-like his words; but galling + Are his deeds, and full of ruth! + + "Cupid's hair is curling yellow, + And he hath a saucy face; + With his chubby hands the fellow + Shooteth into farthest space, + Heedless of all time and place; + King and squire and punchinello + He delighteth to abase! + + "Nude and winged the prankish blade is, + And he speedeth everywhere, + Vexing gentlemen and ladies, + Callow youths and damsels fair + Whom he catcheth unaware,-- + Venturing even into Hades, + He hath sown his torments there! + + "For that bow, that bow and quiver,-- + Oh, they are a cruel twain! + Thinking of them makes me shiver. + Oft, with all his might and main, + Cupid sends those darts profane + Whizzing through my heart and liver, + Setting fire to every vein! + + "And the torch he carries blazing,-- + Truly 'tis a tiny one; + Yet, that tiny torch upraising, + Cupid scarifies the sun! + Ah, good people, there is none + Knows what mischief most amazing + Cupid's evil torch hath done! + + "Show no mercy when you find him! + Spite of every specious plea + And of all his whimpering, bind him! + Full of flatteries is he; + Armed with treachery, _cap-a-pie_, + He'll play 'possum; never mind him,-- + March him straightway back to me! + + "Bow and arrows and sweet kisses + He will offer you, no doubt; + But beware those proffered blisses,-- + They are venomous throughout! + Seize and bind him fast about; + Mind you,--most important this is: + Bind him, bring him, but--watch out!" + + + + +CHRISTMAS EVE. + + + OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + The evening shades are falling,-- + Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear + The voice of the Master calling? + + Deep lies the snow upon the earth, + But all the sky is ringing + With joyous song, and all night long + The stars shall dance, with singing. + + Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + And close thine eyes in dreaming, + And angels fair shall lead thee where + The singing stars are beaming. + + A shepherd calls his little lambs, + And he longeth to caress them; + He bids them rest upon his breast, + That his tender love may bless them. + + So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, + Whilst evening shades are falling, + And above the song of the heavenly throng + Thou shalt hear the Master calling. + + + + +CARLSBAD. + + + DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, + Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; + To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,-- + You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! + The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; + The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; + And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,-- + All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know. + + The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,--that's what the guide-books say; + We did not think so at that time, nor think _I_ so to-day! + The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views, + But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues. + With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen, + We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between; + And constantly we made our moan,--ah, none so drear as we, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane, + And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain; + And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force, + Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse. + Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink, + Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink; + Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! + + And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie, + But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry; + Then, too, that water twice a day,--one swallow was enough + To take one's appetite away,--the tepid, awful stuff! + Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I'd little else to do + Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you. + The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me, + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date! + When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate. + The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away, + And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,-- + To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale, + To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale! + And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then, + With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again! + + And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes, + I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies; + I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar,-- + To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more; + And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours, + For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures! + So I am happy to have known that time across the sea + When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. + + + + +THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE. + + + HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? + 'Tis a marvel of great renown! + It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; + The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet + (As those who have tasted it say) + That good little children have only to eat + Of that fruit to be happy next day. + + When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time + To capture the fruit which I sing; + The tree is so tall that no person could climb + To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! + But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, + And a gingerbread dog prowls below; + And this is the way you contrive to get at + Those sugar-plums tempting you so: + + You say but the word to that gingerbread dog, + And he barks with such terrible zest + That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, + As her swelling proportions attest. + And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around + From _this_ leafy limb unto _that_, + And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground,-- + Hurrah for that chocolate cat! + + There are marshmallows, gum-drops, and peppermint canes, + With stripings of scarlet or gold, + And you carry away of the treasure that rains + As much as your apron can hold! + So come, little child, cuddle closer to me + In your dainty white nightcap and gown, + And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree + In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. + + + + +RED. + + + ANY color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best, + Though I will allow there is much to be said + For yellow and green and the rest; + But the feeble tints which some affect + In the things they make or buy + Have never--I say it with all respect-- + Appealed to my critical eye. + + There's that in red that warmeth the blood, + And quickeneth a man within, + And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud + The germs of original sin; + So, though I'm properly born and bred, + I'll own, with a certain zest, + That any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits me best. + + For where is a color that can compare + With the blush of a buxom lass; + Or where such warmth as of the hair + Of the genuine white horse class? + And, lo! reflected within this cup + Of cheery Bordeaux I see + What inspiration girdeth me up,-- + Yes, red is the color for me! + + Through acres and acres of art I've strayed + In Italy, Germany, France; + On many a picture a master has made + I've squandered a passing glance: + Marines I hate, madonnas and + Those Dutch freaks I detest; + But the peerless daubs of my native land,-- + They're red, and I like them best. + + 'Tis little I care how folk deride,-- + I'm backed by the West, at least; + And we are free to say that we can't abide + The tastes that obtain down East; + And we're mighty proud to have it said + That here in the versatile West + Most any color, so long as it's red, + Is the color that suits us best. + + + + +JEWISH LULLABY. + + + MY harp is on the willow-tree, + Else would I sing, O love, to thee + A song of long ago,-- + Perchance the song that Miriam sung + Ere yet Judaea's heart was wrung + By centuries of woe. + + The shadow of those centuries lies + Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes; + But, hush! and close them now, + And in the dreams that thou shalt dream + The light of other days shall seem + To glorify thy brow. + + I ate my crust in tears to-day, + As, scourged, I went upon my way, + And yet my darling smiled,-- + Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed; + My anguish curdled not the draught, + 'Twas sweet with love, my child. + + Our harp is on the willow-tree: + I have no song to sing to thee, + As shadows round us roll; + But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hear + Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer + Judaea's fainting soul. + + + + +AT CHEYENNE. + + + YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west, + With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; + The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat, + His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet, + His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, + And he nourished a handful of aces on kings. + + The fair Mariana sate watching a star, + When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar! + Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, + And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!" + Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, + And modestly asked if he mightn't step in. + + With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, + The fair Mariana replied that he might; + So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, + Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar. + Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, + He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same. + + + + +THE NAUGHTY DOLL. + + + MY dolly is a dreadful care,-- + Her name is Miss Amandy; + I dress her up and curl her hair, + And feed her taffy candy. + Yet, heedless of the pleading voice + Of her devoted mother, + She will not wed her mother's choice, + But says she'll wed another. + + I'd have her wed the china vase,-- + There is no Dresden rarer; + You might go searching every place + And never find a fairer. + He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- + Of that there's no denying; + Yet when I speak of him, forsooth! + Amandy falls to crying. + + She loves the drum,--that's very plain,-- + And scorns the vase so clever, + And, weeping, vows she will remain + A spinster doll forever! + The protestations of the drum + I am convinced are hollow; + When once distressing times should come + How soon would ruin follow! + + Yet all in vain the Dresden boy + From yonder mantel woos her; + A mania for that vulgar toy, + The noisy drum, imbues her. + In vain I wheel her to and fro, + And reason with her mildly: + Her waxen tears in torrents flow, + Her sawdust heart beats wildly. + + I'm sure that when I'm big and tall, + And wear long trailing dresses, + I sha'n't encourage beaux at all + Till mamma acquiesces; + Our choice will be a suitor then + As pretty as this vase is,-- + Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men + With whiskers on their faces! + + + + +THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE. + + + UPON an average, twice a week, + When anguish clouds my brow, + My good physician friend I seek + To know "what ails me now." + He taps me on the back and chest, + And scans my tongue for bile, + And lays an ear against my breast + And listens there awhile; + Then is he ready to admit + That all he can observe + Is something wrong inside, to wit: + My pneumogastric nerve! + + Now, when these Latin names within + Dyspeptic hulks like mine + Go wrong, a fellow should begin + To draw what's called the line. + It seems, however, that this same, + Which in my hulk abounds, + Is not, despite its awful name, + So fatal as it sounds; + Yet of all torments known to me, + I'll say without reserve, + There is no torment like to thee, + Thou pneumogastric nerve! + + This subtle, envious nerve appears + To be a patient foe,-- + It waited nearly forty years + Its chance to lay me low; + Then, like some blithering blast of hell, + It struck this guileless bard, + And in that evil hour I fell + Prodigious far and hard. + Alas! what things I dearly love-- + Pies, puddings, and preserves-- + Are sure to rouse the vengeance of + All pneumogastric nerves! + + Oh that I could remodel man! + I'd end these cruel pains + By hitting on a different plan + From that which now obtains. + The stomach, greatly amplified, + Anon should occupy + The all of that domain inside + Where heart and lungs now lie. + But, first of all, I should depose + That diabolic curve + And author of my thousand woes, + The pneumogastric nerve! + + + + +TEENY-WEENY. + + + EVERY evening, after tea, + Teeny-Weeny comes to me, + And, astride my willing knee, + Plies his lash and rides away; + Though that palfrey, all too spare, + Finds his burden hard to bear, + Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,-- + He commands, and I obey! + + First it's trot; and gallop then,-- + Now it's back to trot again; + Teeny-Weeny likes it when + He is riding fierce and fast! + Then his dark eyes brighter grow + And his cheeks are all aglow,-- + "More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!" + Till the horse breaks down at last! + + Oh, the strange and lovely sights + Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, + As he makes those famous flights + On that wondrous horse of his! + Oftentimes, before he knows, + Wearylike his eyelids close, + And, still smiling, off he goes + Where the land of By-low is. + + There he sees the folk of fay + Hard at ring-a-rosie play, + And he hears those fairies say, + "Come, let's chase him to and fro!" + But, with a defiant shout, + Teeny puts that host to rout,-- + Of this tale I make no doubt,-- + Every night he tells it so! + + So I feel a tender pride + In my boy who dares to ride + (That fierce horse of his astride) + Off into those misty lands; + And as on my breast he lies, + Dreaming in that wondrous wise, + I caress his folded eyes,-- + Pat his little dimpled hands. + + On a time he went away, + Just a little while to stay, + And I'm not ashamed to say + I was very lonely then; + Life without him was so sad, + You can fancy I was glad + And made merry when I had + Teeny-Weeny back again! + + So of evenings, after tea, + When he toddles up to me + And goes tugging at my knee, + You should hear his palfrey neigh! + You should see him prance and shy, + When, with an exulting cry, + Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, + Plies his lash and rides away! + + + + +TELKA. + + + THROUGH those golden summer days + Our twin flocks were wont to graze + On the hillside, which the sun + Rested lovingly upon,-- + Telka's flock and mine; and we + Sung our songs in rapturous glee, + Idling in the pleasant shade + Which the solemn Yew-tree made, + While the Brook anear us played, + And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew + In the shadow of the Yew. + + Telka loved me passing well; + How I loved her none can tell! + How I love her none may know,-- + Oh that man love woman so! + When she was not at my side, + Loud my heart in anguish cried, + And my lips, till she replied. + Yet they think to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Still I wend my lonely way, + "Telka," evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the weary years go by. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And the glory of her hair + Was such glory as the sun + With his blessing casts upon + Yonder lonely mountain height, + Lifting up to bid good-night + To her sovereign in the west, + Sinking wearily to rest, + Drowsing in that golden sea + Where the realms of Dreamland be. + + So our love to fulness grew, + Whilst beneath the solemn Yew + Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, + As it were some fancied sight + Blanched it with a dread affright. + + Telka, she was passing fair; + And our peace was perfect there + Till, enchanted by her smile, + Lurked the South Wind there awhile, + Underneath that hillside tree + Where with singing idled we, + And I heard the South Wind say + Flattering words to her that day + Of a city far away. + But the Yew-tree crouched as though + It were like to whisper No + To the words the South Wind said + As he smoothed my Telka's head. + And the Brook, all pleading, cried + To the dear one at my side: + "Linger always where I am; + Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! + Wander not where shadows deep + On the treacherous quicksands sleep, + And the haunted waters leap; + Be thou ware the waves that flow + Toward the prison pool below, + Where, beguiled from yonder sky, + Captive moonbeams shivering lie, + And at dawn of morrow die." + So the Brook to Telka cried, + But my Telka naught replied; + And, as in a strange affright, + Paled the Rose a ghostlier white. + + When anon the North Wind came,-- + Rudely blustering Telka's name, + And he kissed the leaves that grew + Round about the trembling Yew,-- + Kissed and romped till, blushing red, + All one day in terror fled, + And the white Rose hung her head; + Coming to our trysting spot, + Long I called; she answered not. + "Telka!" pleadingly I cried + Up and down the mountain-side + Where we twain were wont to bide. + + There were those who thought that I + Could be silenced with a lie, + And they told me Telka's name + Should be spoken now with shame: + "She is lost to us and thee,"-- + That is what they said to me. + + "Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. + "On this hilltop shall I cry, + So that she may hear and then + Find her way to me again. + The South Wind spoke a lie that day; + All deceived, she lost her way + Yonder where the shadows sleep + 'Mongst the haunted waves that leap + Over treacherous quicksands deep, + And where captive moonbeams lie + Doomed at morrow's dawn to die + She is lost, and that is all; + I will search for her, and call." + + Summer comes and winter goes, + Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; + All the others are anear,-- + Only Telka is not here! + Gone the peace and love I knew + Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; + And the Rose, that mocks me so, + I had crushed it long ago + But that Telka loved it then, + And shall soothe its terror when + She comes back to me again. + Call I, seek I everywhere + For my Telka, passing fair. + It is, oh, so many a year + I have called! She does not hear, + Yet nor feared nor worn am I; + For I know that if I cry + She shall sometime hear my call. + She is lost, and that is all,-- + She is lost in some far spot; + I have searched, and found it not. + Could she hear me calling, then + Would she come to me again; + For she loved me passing well,-- + How I love her none can tell! + That is why these years I've cried + "Telka!" on this mountain-side. + "Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; + Answer me the woods and sky, + And the lonely years go by. + + On an evening dark and chill + Came a shadow up the hill,-- + Came a spectre, grim and white + As a ghost that walks the night, + Grim and bowed, and with the cry + Of a wretch about to die,-- + Came and fell and cried to me: + "It is Telka come!" said she. + So she fell and so she cried + On that lonely mountain-side + Where was Telka wont to bide. + + "Who hath bribed those lips to lie? + Telka's face was fair," quoth I; + "Thine is furrowed with despair. + There is winter in thy hair; + But upon her beauteous head + Was there summer glory shed,-- + Such a glory as the sun, + When his daily course is run, + Smiles upon this mountain height + As he kisses it good-night. + There was music in her tone, + Misery in thy voice alone. + They have bid thee lie to me. + Let me pass! Thou art not she! + Let my sorrow sacred be + Underneath this trysting tree!" + + So in wrath I went my way, + And they came another day,-- + Came another day, and said: + "Hush thy cry, for she is dead, + Yonder on the mountain-side + She is buried where she died, + Where you twain were wont to bide, + Where she came and fell and cried + Pardon that thy wrath denied; + And above her bosom grows + As in mockery the Rose: + It was white; but now 'tis red, + And in shame it bows its head + Over sinful Telka dead." + + So they thought to silence me,-- + As if love could silenced be! + Fool were I, and fools were they! + Scornfully I went my way, + And upon the mountain-side + "Telka!" evermore I cried. + "Telka!" evermore I cry; + Answer me the woods and sky: + So the lonely years go by. + + She is lost, and that is all; + Sometime she shall hear my call, + Hear my pleading call, and then + Find her way to me again. + + + + +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 Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. + I, too, am 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 am 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 round 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 wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight. + We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know + That ary 'coon can best 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 accustomed 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 still might swing at home from tree to tree, + The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, 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 Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; + My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, 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 Chauncey 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. + + + + +ARMENIAN LULLABY. + + + IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, + My mulberry one, my golden son, + The rose shall sing thee lullabies, + My pretty cosset lambkin! + And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, + With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- + A silver boat in a golden sea,-- + My velvet love, my nestling dove, + My own pomegranate-blossom! + + The stork shall guard thee passing well + All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, + And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, + My gentle rain-of-springtime; + And for thy slumber-play shall twine + The diamond stars with an emerald vine, + To trail in the waves of ruby wine, + My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, + My cooing little turtle! + + And when the morn wakes up to see + My apple-bright, my soul's delight, + The partridge shall come calling thee, + My jar of milk-and-honey! + Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies + In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, + If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, + You wakeful one, you naughty son, + You chirping little sparrow! + + + + +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 beak, + 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 thee most blest of all, + And pretty, pretty, + The birds come with thee at thy call; + In flocks they come, and round thee play, + And this is what they seem to say,-- + They say and sing, each feathered thing, + "Ah, pretty, pretty! + Ah, dear little partridge!" + + + + +CORINTHIAN HALL. + + + CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace; + But once was a time when Corinthian Hall + Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, + With its carpeted stairs, + And its new yellow chairs, + And its stunning _ensemble_ of citified airs. + Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best + Of Thespian temples extant in the West. + + It was new, and was ours,--that was ages ago, + Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,-- + It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers + Our rivals had launched at our city for years. + Corinthian Hall! + Why, it discounted all + Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall + The night of the opening; from near and afar + Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar. + + Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again + Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; + For actors were actors, and each one knew how + To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow. + He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; + And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare. + Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,--in fact, never could + When liquor was handy and walking was good. + + And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall + The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall! + Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime; + And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; + And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare + With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; + While in passionate roles it was patent to us + That the great John A. Stevens was _ne ultra plus_. + + And was there demand for the tribute of tears, + We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, + And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow + That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now. + What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, + Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say! + And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette" + Opined that the sun of our drama had set. + + Corinthian Hall was devoted to song + When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, + Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, + Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; + But the one special card + That hit us all hard + Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; + And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; + And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years! + + The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, + And our critics accorded them columns of praise; + They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings, + And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; + They gave a parade, and sweet music they made + Every evening in front of the house where they played. + 'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog + For Primrose and West in their great statue clog. + + Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain + That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; + Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth + That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: + While in roles that were thrillin', involving much killin', + Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; + Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,--they all + Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall. + + But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell + On the spot I revere and remember so well, + Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, + And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; + So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold + Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, + And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, + Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall. + + When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, + And the music goes floating on billows of light, + Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man, + And I pine to be back where my mission began, + And I'm fain to recall + Reminiscences all + That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,-- + To hear and to see what delighted me then, + And to revel in raptures of boyhood again. + + Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, + Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace, + There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, + Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, + Would surrender what gold + He's amassed to behold + A tithe of the wonderful doings of old, + A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall + Our _creme de la creme_ in Corinthian Hall. + + + + +THE RED, RED WEST. + + + I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, + Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so + smart; + And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show + That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go. + + I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, + And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; + I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green, + And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen. + + The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal + Dutch, + The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised + overmuch, + The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,-- + All, _ad infin._, have I taken in a hundred thousand times. + + Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught + Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is + fraught; + For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker + grows, + And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes. + + Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, + And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; + It answers every purpose that this is manifest: + The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West. + + Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, + No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; + But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, + Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still! + + + + +THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE. + + + FROM out Cologne there came three kings + To worship Jesus Christ, their King. + To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, + And many a beauteous golden thing; + They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, + And in that manger set them down. + + Then spake the first king, and he said: + "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! + I bring this crown to Bethlehem town + For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; + So give a heavenly crown to me + When I shall come at last to Thee!" + + The second, then. "I bring Thee here + This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; + "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one + There is not in the world beside; + So in the day of doom requite + Me with a heavenly robe of white!" + + The third king gave his gift, and quoth: + "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, + And with these twain would I most fain + Anoint the body of my King; + So may their incense sometime rise + To plead for me in yonder skies!" + + Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, + That gave their gifts, and went their way; + And now kneel I in prayer hard by + The cradle of the Child to-day; + Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring + As offering unto Christ, my King. + + Yet have I brought a gift the Child + May not despise, however small; + For here I lay my heart to-day, + And it is full of love to all. + Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, + My only tribute, Christ, my King! + + + + +IPSWICH. + + + IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, + And the voice that comes from the yonder sea + Sings to the quaint old mansions there + Of "the time, the time that used to be;" + And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, + And they seem to say in an undertone, + With half a sigh and with half a moan: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich witches weave at night + Their magic, spells with impish glee; + They shriek and laugh in their demon flight + From the old Main House to the frightened sea. + And ghosts of eld come out to weep + Over the town that is fast asleep; + And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill + Over against the calling sea; + And through the nights so deep and chill + Watcheth a maiden constantly,-- + Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear + Over the roar of the waves anear + The pitiful cry of a far-off year: + "It was, but it never again will be." + + In Ipswich once a witch I knew,-- + An artless Saxon witch was she; + By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, + Sweet was the spell she cast on me. + Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, + And the heart that is old and battered and chill + Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill + What was, but never again can be. + + Dear Anna, I would not conjure down + The ghost that cometh to solace me; + I love to think of old Ipswich town, + Where somewhat better than friends were we; + For with every thought of the dear old place + Cometh again the tender grace + Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, + As it was, and is, and ever shall be. + + + + +BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS. + + + BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; + I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; + Clothes would never seem to set so nice on _me_ as _him_,-- + Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,-- + But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; + And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,-- + Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire! + She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,-- + Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird; + Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er, + A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place, + When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,-- + _She_ sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat; + Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, + One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"! + But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that; + On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face + When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, + Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when + We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days, + And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise. + Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again! + For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace + When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. + + The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, + Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me. + Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, + Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer + When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D! + The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race + 'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass. + + Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54, + And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more; + Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell, + And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell + That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store; + And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace + Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. + + As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, + I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me; + And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day, + I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away. + Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be; + "Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, + "When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass." + + + + +FIDUCIT. + + + THREE comrades on the German Rhine, + Defying care and weather, + Together quaffed the mellow wine, + And sung their songs together. + What recked they of the griefs of life, + With wine and song to cheer them? + Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, + It would not come anear them. + + Anon one comrade passed away, + And presently another, + And yet unto the tryst each day + Repaired the lonely brother; + And still, as gayly as of old, + That third one, hero-hearted, + Filled to the brim each cup of gold, + And called to the departed,-- + + "O comrades mine! I see ye not, + Nor hear your kindly greeting, + Yet in this old, familiar spot + Be still our loving meeting! + Here have I filled each bouting-cup + With juices red and cheery; + I pray ye drink the portion up, + And as of old make merry!" + + And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, + All in the haunted gloaming, + He saw two ghostly figures rise, + And quaff the beakers foaming; + He heard two spirit voices call, + "Fiducit, jovial brother!" + And so forever from that hall + Went they with one another. + + + + +THE "ST. JO GAZETTE." + + + WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette," + I was upon familiar terms with every one I met; + For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time, + Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,-- + Before I found in verses + Those soothing, gracious mercies, + Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is. + A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat, + And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + The labors of the day began at half-past eight A.M., + For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them; + And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire + By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire, + With my daily commentary + On affairs of farm and dairy, + The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,-- + Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due, + Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous; + Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case, + And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space; + Of fevers, fractures, humors, + Contusions, fits, and tumors, + Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors; + From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,-- + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,-- + Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race; + And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink, + And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink. + Those drinks at the Pacific, + When days were sudorific, + Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;" + And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow, + To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go. + The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough + For local application in lieu of better stuff; + And when the ducks were flying, + Or the fishing well worth trying-- + Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at + lying! + And I--I printed all their yarns, though not without regret, + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young, + Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;" + Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call + On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all. + Lon Tullar used to pony + Up descriptions that were tony + Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione; + For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett" + When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue; + And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,-- + The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read, + And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed. + Oh, but it takes agility, + Combined with versatility, + To run a country daily with appropriate ability! + There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet, + Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent + Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent + If so, I don't remember; this only do I know,-- + My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo. + The years that speed so fleetly + Have blotted out completely + All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly; + The friendships of that time,--ah, me! they are as precious yet + As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette." + + + + +IN AMSTERDAM. + + + MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got + A majazin in Kalverstraat, + Where one may buy for sordid gold + Wares quaint and curious, new and old. + Here are antiquities galore,-- + The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore, + Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks, + Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks, + And all those joys I might rehearse + That please the eye, but wreck the purse. + + I most admired an ancient bed, + With ornate carvings at its head,-- + A massive frame of dingy oak, + Whose curious size and mould bespoke + Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried. + "Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied; + And then the honest Dutchman said + A king once owned that glorious bed,-- + King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame, + Had owned and slept within the same! + + Then long I stood and mutely gazed, + By reminiscent splendors dazed, + And I had bought it right away, + Had I the wherewithal to pay. + But, lacking of the needed pelf, + I thus discoursed within myself: + "O happy Holland! where's the bliss + That can approximate to this + Possession of the rare antique + Which maniacs hanker for and seek? + _My_ native land is full of stuff + That's good, but is not old enough. + Alas! it has no oaken beds + Wherein have slumbered royal heads, + No relic on whose face we see + The proof of grand antiquity." + + Thus reasoned I a goodly spell + Until, perchance, my vision fell + Upon a trademark at the head + Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,-- + A rampant wolverine, and round + This strange device these words I found: + "Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay, + Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A." + + At present I'm not saying much + About the simple, guileless Dutch; + And as it were a loathsome spot + I keep away from Kalverstraat, + Determined when I want a bed + In which hath slept a royal head + I'll patronize no middleman, + But deal direct with Michigan. + + + + +TO THE PASSING SAINT. + + + AS to-night you came your way, + Bearing earthward heavenly joy, + Tell me, O dear saint, I pray, + Did you see my little boy? + + By some fairer voice beguiled, + Once he wandered from my sight; + He is such a little child, + He should have my love this night. + + It has been so many a year,-- + Oh, so many a year since then! + Yet he was so very dear, + Surely he will come again. + + If upon your way you see + One whose beauty is divine, + Will you send him back to me? + He is lost, and he is mine. + + Tell him that his little chair + Nestles where the sunbeams meet, + That the shoes he used to wear + Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet. + + Tell him of each pretty toy + That was wont to share his glee; + Maybe that will bring my boy + Back to them and back to me. + + O dear saint, as on you go + Through the glad and sparkling frost, + Bid those bells ring high and low + For a little child that's lost! + + O dear saint, that blessest men + With the grace of Christmas joy, + Soothe this heart with love again,-- + Give me back my little boy! + + + + +THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. + + + OF all the gracious gifts of Spring, + Is there another can 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 again, 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 water-lilies grew! + How often have you filched my bait, + How often 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 spilled for him,-- + Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood + This piscatorial pride should swim; + So, were he living, he would say + He gladly died for me and mine, + And, as it were his native spray, + He'd lash the sauce--what, ho! the wine! + + I would it were ordained for me + To share your fate, O 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 ecstasy 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! + + + + +NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT. + + + THE mill goes toiling slowly around + With steady and solemn creak, + And my little one hears in the kindly sound + The voice of the old mill speak; + While round and round those big white wings + Grimly and ghostlike creep, + My little one hears that the old mill sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, + And over his pot of beer + The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, + Lustily maketh cheer; + He mocks at the winds that caper along + From the far-off, clamorous deep, + But we--we love their lullaby-song + Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound, + Groans of the stony mart; + To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around, + Hitched to our new milk-cart! + And you shall help me blanket the kine, + And fold the gentle sheep, + And set the herring a-soak in brine,-- + But now, little tulip, sleep! + + A Dream-One comes to button the eyes + That wearily droop and blink, + While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, + And scolds at the stars that wink; + Over your face the misty wings + Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, + And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings, + "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" + + + + +THE ONION TART. + + + OF tarts there be a thousand kinds, + So versatile the art, + And, as we all have different minds, + Each has his favorite tart; + But those which most delight the rest + Methinks should suit me not: + The onion tart doth please me best,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Where but in Deutschland can be found + This boon of which I sing? + Who but a Teuton could compound + This _sui generis_ thing? + None with the German frau can vie + In arts cuisine, I wot, + Whose _summum bonum_ breeds the sigh, + "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!" + + You slice the fruit upon the dough, + And season to the taste, + Then in an oven (not too slow) + The viand should be placed; + And when 'tis done, upon a plate + You serve it piping hot. + Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + It sweeps upon the sight and smell + In overwhelming tide, + And then the sense of taste as well + Betimes is gratified: + Three noble senses drowned in bliss! + I prithee tell me, what + Is there beside compares with this? + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + For if the fruit be proper young, + And if the crust be good, + How shall they melt upon the tongue + Into a savory flood! + How seek the Mecca down below, + And linger round that spot, + Entailing weeks and months of woe,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + If Nature gives men appetites + For things that won't digest, + Why, let _them_ eat whatso delights, + And let _her_ stand the rest; + And though the sin involve the cost + Of Carlsbad, like as not + 'Tis better to have loved and lost,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, + Where my compatriots dwell, + All kinds of victuals have I tried, + All kinds of drinks, as well; + But nothing known to Yankee art + Appears to reach _the spot_ + Like this Teutonic onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide + As full as I can hold, + And for complete reform inside + Plank down my horde of gold, + Remorse shall not consume my heart, + Nor sorrow vex my lot, + For I have eaten onion tart,-- + Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! + + + + +GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE. + + + IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, + And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny: + The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, + The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,--all give me keen delight; + And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen + A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine. + + Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown + Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town. + 'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,-- + Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,-- + And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, + And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine. + + Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown; + For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town." + The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess + When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress: + To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between, + Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine. + + With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end + (The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!); + And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise, + Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes; + For grandma knew a thing or two,--by which remark I mean + That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine. + + I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle + With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile. + It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round, + That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found. + How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen! + And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine. + + But there _were_ those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect + gown; + For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town: + The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!" + The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split; + Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, _she_ turned a bilious green, + When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine. + + But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,-- + The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign. + Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, + And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown; + But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!" + Yet evermore my grandma wore _his_ favorite bombazine. + + And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,-- + Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs! + Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing, + And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous + thing. + 'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene; + And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine. + + Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,-- + The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart. + This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair, + Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear. + Yet wear it, _do_; perchance when you and I are off the scene, + Our boy shall sing _this_ comely thing as _I_ the bombazine. + + + + +RARE ROAST BEEF. + + + WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir + Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair; + When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head, + Filling _bon vivants_ and epicures with certain nameless dread; + When _any_ ill of body or of intellect abounds, + Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,-- + In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief + That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef. + + And even when the body's in the very prime of health, + When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth, + And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more, + And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,-- + Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side, + And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied, + Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief, + And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef. + + Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,-- + 'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest; + Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour + Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more; + The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour; + Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour, + And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf + Of that glorious _summum bonum_, rare roast beef. + + Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife, + How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life! + Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,-- + Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab? + Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam, + A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream! + Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief! + Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef. + + Most every kind and role of modern victuals have I tried, + Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried, + Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese, + Your patties _a la_ Turkey and your doughnuts _a la_ grease; + I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls, + And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls; + But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief + And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef. + + I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood, + Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood; + And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast, + Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (_feste Burg_) and host; + For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath, + Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path. + So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef + When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. + + + + +GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT. + + + I WAS just a little thing + When a fairy came and kissed me; + Floating in upon the light + Of a haunted summer night, + Lo! the fairies came to sing + Pretty slumber songs, and bring + Certain boons that else had missed me. + From a dream I turned to see + What those strangers brought for me, + When that fairy up and kissed me,-- + Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me! + + Simmerdew was there, but she + Did not like me altogether; + Daisybright and Turtledove, + Pilfercurds and Honeylove, + Thistleblow and Amberglee + On that gleaming, ghostly sea + Floated from the misty heather, + And around my trundle-bed + Frisked and looked and whispering said, + Solemn-like and all together: + "_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!" + + Ganderfeather kissed me then,-- + Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! + No attenuate sprite was he, + But as buxom as could be; + Kissed me twice and once again, + And the others shouted when + On my cheek uprose a berry + Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, + But the kiss-mark of that chap + Ganderfeather, passing merry,-- + Humorsome but kindly, very! + + I was just a tiny thing + When the prankish Ganderfeather + Brought this curious gift to me + With his fairy kisses three; + Yet with honest pride I sing + That same gift he chose to bring + Out of yonder haunted heather; + Other charms and friendships fly,-- + Constant friends this mole and I, + Who have been so long together! + Thank you, little Ganderfeather! + + + + +OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE. + + + THERE are no days like the good old days,-- + The days when we were youthful! + When humankind were pure of mind, + And speech and deeds were truthful; + Before a love for sordid gold + Became man's ruling passion, + And before each dame and maid became + Slave to the tyrant fashion! + + There are no girls like the good old girls,-- + Against the world I'd stake 'em! + As buxom and smart and clean of heart + As the Lord knew how to make 'em! + They were rich in spirit and common-sense, + And piety all supportin'; + They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, + And they made such likely courtin'! + + There are no boys like the good old boys,-- + When _we_ were boys together! + When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet + That dimpled the laughing heather; + When the pewee sung to the summer dawn + Of the bee in the billowy clover, + Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will + Echoed his night song over. + + There is no love like the good old love,-- + The love that mother gave us! + We are old, old men, yet we pine again + For that precious grace,--God save us! + So we dream and dream of the good old times, + And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, + As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams + Of heaven away off yonder. + + + + +OUR WHIPPINGS. + + + COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys + As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise! + Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show + The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; + What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,-- + Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,--oh, my! + + The way that we played hookey those many years ago, + We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know! + The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,-- + Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold! + How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his + He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"! + It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,-- + Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though! + + We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, + And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; + How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,-- + But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand; + And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed, + Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red. + Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert + The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt! + + For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild + That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; + And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she + Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: + But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- + Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry! + Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, + For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did! + + In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, + But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! + Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: + "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" + Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,-- + What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! + Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, + With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt! + + The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest + Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; + Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight + The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night. + The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways + That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days + Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- + So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times. + + + + +BION'S SONG OF EROS. + + + EROS is the god of love; + He and I are hand-in-glove. + All the gentle, gracious Muses + Follow Eros where he leads, + And they bless the bard who chooses + To proclaim love's famous deeds; + Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- + That is why they're good to me. + + Sometimes I have gone astray + From love's sunny, flowery way: + How I floundered, how I stuttered! + And, deprived of ways and means, + What egregious rot I uttered,-- + Such as suits the magazines! + I was rescued only when + Eros called me back again. + + Gods forefend that I should shun + That benignant Mother's son! + Why, the poet who refuses + To emblazon love's delights + Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- + Then what balderdash he writes! + I love Love; which being so, + See how smooth my verses flow! + + Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- + I will follow while I may: + Be thy path by hill or hollow, + I will follow fast and free; + And when I'm too old to follow, + I will sit and sing of thee,-- + Potent still in intellect, + Sit, and sing, and retrospect. + + + + +MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE. + + + THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget; + And the time I remember's the evening I met + A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown + Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: + A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, + And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; + He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, + But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: + I felt that he honored and flattered me when + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I wonder that never again since that night + A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; + I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill + That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: + I wonder and pine; for--I say it again-- + Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. + + I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; + But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud; + To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day, + With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, + These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: + "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." + + + + +POET AND KING. + + + THOUGH I am king, I have no throne + Save this rough wooden siege alone; + I have no empire, yet my sway + Extends a myriad leagues away; + No servile vassal bends his knee + In grovelling reverence to me, + Yet at my word all hearts beat high, + And there is fire in every eye, + And love and gratitude they bring + As tribute unto me, a king. + + The folk that throng the busy street + Know not it is a king they meet; + And I am glad there is not seen + The monarch in my face and mien. + I should not choose to be the cause + Of fawning or of coarse applause: + I am content to know the arts + Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; + For when unto their hearts I sing, + I am a king, I am a king! + + My sceptre,--see, it is a pen! + Wherewith I rule these hearts of men. + Sometime it pleaseth to beguile + Its monarch fancy with a smile; + Sometime it is athirst for tears: + And so adown the laurelled years + I walk, the noblest lord on earth, + Dispensing sympathy and mirth. + Aha! it is a magic thing + That makes me what I am,--a king! + + Let empires crumble as they may, + Proudly I hold imperial sway; + The sunshine and the rain of years + Are human smiles and human tears + That come or vanish at my call,-- + I am the monarch of them all! + Mindful alone of this am I: + The songs I sing shall never die; + Not even envious Death can wring + His glory from so great a king. + + Come, brother, be a king with me, + And rule mankind eternally; + Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, + Defend the truth, combat the wrong! + You'll find no sceptre like the pen + To hold and sway the hearts of men; + Its edicts flow in blood and tears + That will outwash the flood of years: + So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing! + And be with me a king, a king! + + + + +LYDIA DICK. + + + WHEN I was a boy at college, + Filling up with classic knowledge, + Frequently I wondered why + Old Professor Demas Bentley + Used to praise so eloquently + "Opera Horatii." + + Toiling on a season longer + Till my reasoning powers 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 hers 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. + + Maybe 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. + + + + +LIZZIE. + + + I WONDER ef all wimmin air + Like Lizzie is when we go out + To theaters an' concerts where + Is things the papers talk about. + Do other wimmin fret an' stew + Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- + Frettin' a show or concert through, + With wonderin' ef the baby cried? + + Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there + To see that everything is right; + Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care + Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. + Yet what am I to answer when + She kind uv fidgets at my side, + An' asks me every now an' then, + "I wonder ef the baby cried"? + + Seems like she seen two little eyes + A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; + Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries + Uv one she thinks uv all the while; + An' so she's sorry that she come. + An' though she allus tries to hide + The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum + Than wonder ef the baby cried. + + Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- + By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; + There never wuz a little tyke, + But that his mother loved him best. + And nex' to bein' what I be-- + The husband uv my gentle bride-- + I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, + With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. + + + + +LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE. + + + AFTER dear old grandma died, + Hunting through an oaken chest + In the attic, we espied + What repaid our childish quest: + 'Twas a homely little slate, + Seemingly of ancient date. + + On its quaint and battered face + Was the picture of a cart + Drawn with all that awkward grace + Which betokens childish art. + But what meant this legend, pray: + "Homer drew this yesterday"? + + Mother recollected then + What the years were fain to hide: + She was but a baby when + Little Homer lived and died. + Forty years, so mother said, + Little Homer had been dead. + + This one secret through those years + Grandma kept from all apart, + Hallowed by her lonely tears + And the breaking of her heart; + While each year that sped away + Seemed to her but yesterday. + + So the homely little slate + Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, + To a memory consecrate, + Lieth in the oaken chest, + Where, unwilling we should know, + Grandma put it years ago. + + + + +ALWAYS RIGHT. + + + DON'T take on so, Hiram, + But do what you're told to do; + It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows + A heap sight more than you. + I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way + Don't seem the wisest, quite; + But the _easiest_ way, + When she's had her say, + Is to reckon yer mother is right. + + Courted her ten long winters, + Saw her to singin'-school; + When she went down one spell to town, + I cried like a durned ol' fool; + Got mad at the boys for callin' + When I sparked her Sunday night: + But she said she knew + A thing or two,-- + An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right. + + I courted till I wuz aging, + And she wuz past her prime,-- + I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes + When I popped f'r the hundredth time. + Said she'd never have took me + If I hadn't stuck so tight; + Opined that we + Could never agree,-- + And I reckon yer mother wuz right! + + + + +"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!" + + + WHERE my true love abideth + I make my way to-night; + Lo! waiting, she + Espieth me, + And calleth in delight: + "I see his steed anear + Come trotting with my dear,-- + Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, + Trot thou my lover here!" + + Aloose I cast the bridle, + And ply the whip and spur; + And gayly I + Speed this reply, + While faring on to her: + "Oh, true love, fear thou not! + I seek our trysting spot; + And double feed be yours, my steed, + If you more swiftly trot." + + I vault from out the saddle, + And make my good steed fast; + Then to my breast + My love is pressed,-- + At last, true heart, at last! + The garden drowsing lies, + The stars fold down their eyes,-- + In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, + Nor stamp in restless wise! + + O passing sweet communion + Of young hearts, warm and true! + To thee belongs + The old, old songs + Love finds forever new. + We sing those songs, and then + Cometh the moment when + It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,-- + Trot, trot me home again!" + + + + +PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG. + + + WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago, + Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; + And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, + With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,-- + A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read + The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said: + "The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; + You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog." + + McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name + Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame. + A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,-- + Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup! + The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green + Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen; + And my proud name was heralded,--oh that I'd gone incog. + When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog! + + Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town? + Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down! + The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said + The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead, + And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest + The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast; + For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog + When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog. + + They never came at all,--aha! I knew it all the time,-- + They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime. + Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first! + Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst! + But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night, + When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's + blight,-- + When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog + For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog! + + Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro, + Ejaculating platitudes that were quite _mal a propos_; + And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot + Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot. + I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt, + If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front; + But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log + When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog. + + We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,-- + For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track? + "Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame, + What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!" + Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties + 'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies; + But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,-- + 'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog. + + So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,-- + And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same. + Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies! + The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies. + So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware! + Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare; + Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog, + But never go to Providence to try it on a dog. + + + + +GETTIN' ON. + + + WHEN I wuz somewhat younger, + I wuz reckoned purty gay; + I had my fling at everything + In a rollickin', coltish way. + But times have strangely altered + Since sixty years ago-- + This age of steam an' things don't seem + Like the age I used to know. + Your modern innovations + Don't suit me, I confess, + As did the ways of the good ol' days,-- + But I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + I set on the piazza, + An' hitch round with the sun; + Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, + Waitin' till school is done. + An' then I tell the children + The things I done in youth,-- + An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man, + I stick to the honest truth,-- + But the looks of them 'at listen + Seem sometimes to express + The remote idee that I'm gone--you see?-- + An' I _am_ gettin' on, I guess. + + I get up in the mornin', + An', nothin' else to do, + Before the rest are up an' dressed, + I read the papers through. + I hang round with the women + All day an' hear 'em talk; + An' while they sew or knit I show + The baby how to walk. + An', somehow, I feel sorry + When they put away his dress + An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + Sometimes, with twilight round me, + I see, or seem to see, + A distant shore where friends of yore + Linger an' watch for me. + Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' + So tender-like 'nd low + That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, + Or an echo of long ago; + An' sometimes on my forehead + There falls a soft caress, + Or the touch of a hand,--you understand,-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + + + +THE SCHNELLEST ZUG. + + + FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way, + Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day; + You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night + Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight; + From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,--of that I'll not complain,-- + But from Hanover to Magdeburg--confound that schnellest train! + + The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster + yet,-- + In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met! + Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go, + While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow; + And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain + That one _can't_ know what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest + train! + + Fool that I was! I should have walked,--I had no time to waste; + The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,-- + The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart, + And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art, + The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,-- + These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train. + + The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear + The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer); + I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops + Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops, + Whilst _I_ crouched in a corner, a monument to woe, + And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow! + And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that + train,-- + The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain, + Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts + Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts! + The husbands strut in soldier garb,--indeed _they_ were too vain + To let creation see _them_ work from that creeping schnellest train! + + I found the German language all too feeble to convey + The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day; + I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint + Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print, + But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brain + While snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train. + + The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro, + The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O., + The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things, + The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings, + The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,-- + All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake! + My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime, + Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time; + From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mile + By "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while; + Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain, + But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest + train! + + + + +BETHLEHEM-TOWN. + + + AS I was going to Bethlehem-town, + Upon the earth I cast me down + All underneath a little tree + That whispered in this wise to me: + "Oh, I shall stand on Calvary + And bear what burthen saveth thee!" + + As up I fared to Bethlehem-town, + I met a shepherd coming down, + And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight + Hath spread before mine eyes this night,-- + An angel host most fair to see, + That sung full sweetly of a tree + That shall uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth you and me!" + + And as I gat to Bethlehem-town, + Lo! wise men came that bore a crown. + "Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem + A King shall wear this diadem?" + "Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He + That shall be lifted on the tree + And freely shed on Calvary + What blood redeemeth us and thee!" + + Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town + The wise men came and brought the crown; + And while the infant smiling slept, + Upon their knees they fell and wept; + But, with her babe upon her knee, + Naught recked that Mother of the tree, + That should uplift on Calvary + What burthen saveth all and me. + + Again I walk in Bethlehem-town + And think on Him that wears the crown. + I may not kiss His feet again, + Nor worship Him as did I then; + My King hath died upon the tree, + And hath outpoured on Calvary + What blood redeemeth you and me! + + + + +THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME. + + + DEAREST, how hard it is to say + That all is for the best, + Since, sometimes, in a grievous way + God's will is manifest. + + See with what hearty, noisy glee + Our little ones to-night + Dance round and round our Christmas-tree + With pretty toys bedight. + + Dearest, one voice they may not hear, + One face they may not see,-- + Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer + Cometh to you and me? + + Cometh before our misty eyes + That other little face; + And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, + That love in the old embrace. + + Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, + Bringing His peace to men; + And He bringeth to you and to me the light + Of the old, old years again: + + Bringeth the peace of long ago + When a wee one clasped your knee + And lisped of the morrow,--dear one, you know,-- + And here come back is he! + + Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say + That all is for the best, + For, often in a grievous way, + God's will is manifest. + + But in the grace of this holy night + That bringeth us back our child, + Let us see that the ways of God are right, + And so be reconciled. + + + + +THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE. + + + IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth, + And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth; + And my career + From year to year + Was full of cheer + And things, + Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings; + But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene! + Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene: + Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart, + Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte. + In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me, + She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,-- + Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to + t'other, + The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother. + Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth + Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth. + If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart, + What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte? + + In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, + But now you see + Revealed in me + The gloomiest bard on earth. + I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, + But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife. + Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate, + One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: + This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart + Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, + Delsarte. + + Where'er she goes, + She loves to pose, + In classic attitudes, + And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; + And she, my child, + Who all so wild, + So helpless and so sweet, + That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, + Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, + Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. + Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, + And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte. + + In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; + Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; + But now these wise + Folks criticise + My figure and my face, + And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. + Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek + Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,-- + With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part + Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte. + + Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, + When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more. + Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; + The old-time bard + Of pork and lard + Is plainly out of sight. + All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, + While Lachesis brews + For the poor old Muse + A portion of scalding soup. + Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: + "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter + learned Delsarte." + + + + +BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT. + + + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- + These three bloomed in a garden spot; + And once, all merry with song and play, + A little one heard three voices say: + "Shine or shadow, summer or spring, + O thou child with the tangled hair + And laughing eyes, we three shall bring + Each an offering, passing fair!" + The little one did not understand; + But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. + + Buttercup gambolled all day long, + Sharing the little one's mirth and song; + Then, stealing along on misty gleams, + Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, + Playing and dreaming, that was all, + Till once the sleeper would not awake; + Kissing the little face under the pall, + We thought of the words the third flower spake, + And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot, + The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. + + Buttercup shareth the joy of day, + Glinting with gold the hours of play; + Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, + When the hands would fold and the eyes would close. + And after it all,--the play and the sleep + Of a little life,--what cometh then? + To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep, + A wee flower bringeth God's peace again: + Each one serveth its tender lot,-- + Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber's Notes: + +A midi file of the music on the first page is available in the HTML edition +of this text. + +Page ix, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Second Book of Verse, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND BOOK OF VERSE *** + +***** This file should be named 31874.txt or 31874.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/8/7/31874/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) Music by Linda Cantoni. + + +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. 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