received the Dutchman's "shmall pox" amidst the laughter and shouts of
the occupants of the old stage-coach. The driver joined in, although
he had not the least idea of what they were laughing at, and as the
vehicle rolled away, he added not a little to the mirth by saying, in
a triumphant tone of voice, "I vas pound ter gif der old vomans der
shmall pox, vether she vould dake it or not!"
ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus McClan
Was the son of an elderly laboring man.
You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p'r'aps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.
From the bonnie blue Forth to the beastly Deeside,
Round by Dingwell and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,
There wasn't a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus McClan.
No other could wake such detestable groans
With reed and with chaunter, with bag and with drones.
All day and all night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighboring maidens would gather around
To list to his pipes and to gaze in his een,
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
All loved their McClan, save a Sassenach brute
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot.
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way;
Though his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.
Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense
To make him a Scotchman in every sense;
But this is a matter, you'll readily own,
That isn't a question of tailors alone.
A Sassenach chief may be bonnily built;
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;
Stick a skean in his hose--wear an acre of stripes--
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.
Clonglocketty's pipings all night and all day
Quite frenzied poor Pattison Corby Torbay.
The girls were amused at his singular spleen,
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
"Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad,
With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.
If you really must play on that horrid affair,
My goodness, play something resembling an air."
Boiled over the blood of Macphairson McClan--
The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;
For all were enraged at the insult, I ween,
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
"Let's show," said McClan," to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.
Let's see," said McClan, as he thoughtfully sat,
"'_In my Cottage_' is easy,--I'll practise at that."
He blew at his "Cottage," and he blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You'd hardly believe it) McClan, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.
It was wild--it was fitful--as wild as the breeze:
It wandered about into several keys.
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.
The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;
He shrieked in his agony, bellowed and pranced.
And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene,
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound.
An air fra' the bagpipes--beat that if you can!
Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus McClan!"
The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,
And maidens came flocking to sit on the green,
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He'd stand it no longer--he drew his claymore,
And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)
Divided Clonglocketty close to the waist.
Oh, loud were the wailings for Angus McClan!
Oh, deep was the grief for that excellent man!
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene,
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
It sorrowed poor Pattison Corby Torbay
To find them "take on" in this serious way.
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words:--
"O maidens!" said Pattison, touching his hat,
"Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;
Observe, I'm a very superior man,
A much better fellow than Angus McClan."
They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears,"
And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,
A pleasanter gentleman never was seen--
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
W. S. GILBERT.
A DUTCH SERMON.
Mine friends, ven first you come here, you was poor; and now, friends,
you is prout; and you's gotten on your unicorns, ant dem vits you like
a dongs upon a hog's pack. Now, mine friends, let me dell you dis: a
man is a man if he's no pigger as my dumb. Ven Tavid vent out to fight
mit Goliah, he dook noting vid him but one sling. Now don't mistake
me, mine friends: it vas not a rum sling; no, nor a gin sling; no,
nor a mint vater sling; no: it was a sling made mit an hickory stick.
Now, ven Goliah sees Tavid coming, "You little dampt scoundrel, does
you comes to vight me? I vill give you to de birds of de fielt, and de
peasts of de air!" Tavid says, "Goliah, Goliah, de race is not always
mit de shwift, nor ish de battle mit de strong; and a man is a man if
he's no pigger ash my dumb." So Tavid he fixes a shtone in his sling,
and he drows it at Goliah, and knocks him rite in de vorehead; and
den Tavid takes Goliah's swort, and cuts off his head; and den all de
pretty cals comes out and strewed flowers in his way, and sung, "Saul
is a creat man, vor he has kilt his tousands; put Tavid is creater as
he, vor he has kilt Goliah." Now, mine friends, when you coes out to
vight mit te rebels, remember vat I dell you,--dat a man is a man if
he's no pigger as my dumb.
SHACOB'S LAMENT.
Oxcoose me if I shed some tears,
Und wipe my nose avay;
Und if a lump vos in my troat,
It comes up dere to shtay.
My sadness I shall now unfoldt;
Und if dot tale of woe
Don'd do some Dutchmans any good,
Den I don't pelief I know.
You see I fall myself in love;
Und effery night I goes
Across to Brooklyn by dot pridge,
All dressed in Sunday clothes.
A vidder vomans vos der brize,
Her husband he vos dead;
Und all alone in this colt vorldt,
Dot vidder vos, she said.
Her heart for love vos on der pine,
Und dot I like to see;
Und all der time I hoped dot heart
Vos on der pine for me.
I keeps a butcher shop, you know,
Und in a stocking stout,
I put avay my gold and bills,
Und no one gets him oudt.
If in der night some bank cashier
Goes skipping off mit cash,
I shleep so sound as nefer vos,
Vhile rich folks go to shmash.
I court dot vidder sixteen months,
Dot vidder she courts me;
Und vhen I says, "Vill you be mine?"
She says, "You bet I'll be!"
Ve vos engaged--oh, blessed fact!
I squeeze dot dimpled hand;
Her head upon my shoulder lays,
Shust like a bag of sand.
"Before der vedding day vos set,"
She vispers in mine ear,
"I like to say I haf to use
Some cash, my Jacob, dear.
"I owns dis house and two big farms,
Und ponds und railroad shtock;
Und up in Yonkers I bossess
A grand big peesness block.
"Der times vos dull, my butcher boy,
Der market vos no good;
Und if I sell"--I squeezed her handt
To show I understood.
Next day--oxcoose my briny tears--
Dot shtocking took a shrink;
I counted out twelf hundred in
Der cleanest kind o' chink.
Und later, by two days or more,
Dot vidder shlopes avay;
Und leaves a note behindt for me,
In vhich dot vidder say,--
"DEAR SHAKE:--
Der rose vas redt,
Der violet blue--
You see I've left,
Und you're left, too!"
MR. SCHMIDT'S MISTAKE.
I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot
peesnis; bud I ton't got mooch gapital to vork mit, so I finds id hard
vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like. Last veek I hear
aboud some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I
writes dot man if he vould gife me der refusal of dose goots for a
gouple a days. He gafe me der refusal; dot is, he sait I gouldn't haf
dem. But he sait he vould gall on me, und see mine sthore; and den if
mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings
togedder. Vell, I vas behint mine gounter yesderday, ven a shentleman
gomes in, und dakes me py der hant, und say, "Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve."
I say, "Yaw," und den I dinks to mineself, "Dis vas de man vot has
dose goots to sell, und I musd dry to make some goot imbression mit
him so ve gould do some peesnis."--"Dis vas goot schtore," he says,
looking aroundt; "bud you ton't got a pooty pig schstock already." I
vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 'bout a tousand tollars voort
off goots in der blace, so I says, "You ton't vould dink I hat more as
dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, aind id?" He says, "You
ton't tole me! Vos dot bossible?" I says, "Yaw." I meant dot id _vas
bossible_, dough id vasn't so; vor I vas like Shorge Vashingtons ven
he cut town der "olt elm" on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadget, und
gouldn't dell some lies aboudt id. "Vell," says der schentleman, "I
dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der
schtore;" und den he dakes a leedle book vrom his bocket oudt, und say,
"Vell, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars." I ask him vat he
means py "poots me town;" und den he says he vas von off der daxmen, or
assessors of broperty, und he tank me so kindly as nefer vos, because
he say I vos sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn't dry und sheat der
gofermants. I dells you vat it vos, I tidn't veel any more petter as a
hundord ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt off mine schtore, und der nexd
dime I makes free mit sdrangers, I vinds first deir peesnis oudt.
CHARLES F. ADAMS.
JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE.
John Davison and Tibbie, his wife,
Sat toasting their taes ae nicht,
When something startit in the fluir,
And blinkit by their sicht.
"Guidwife," quoth John, "did ye see that moose?
Whar sorra was the cat?"
"A moose?"--"Aye, a moose."--"Na, na, guidman:
It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat!"
"Ow, ow, guidwife! to think ye've been
Sae lang aboot the hoose,
An' no to ken a moose frae a rat!
Yon was'na a rat! 'twas a moose!"
"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman,--
An' what think ye o' that?
Sae haud your tongue, an' say nae mair,
I tell ye, it was a rat!"
"_Me_ haud my tongue for _you_, guidwife!
I'll be mester o' this hoose:
I saw't as plain as een could seet,
An' I tell ye, it was a moose!"
"If you're the mester o' the hoose,
It's I'm the mistress o't;
An' _I_ ken best what's in the hoose:
Sae I tell ye, it was a rat!"
"Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose,
An' ca' it what ye please."
So up she rose, and made the brose,
While John sat toasting his taes.
They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
And aye their lips played smack:
They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
Till their lugs began to crack.
"Sic fules we were to fa' oot, guidwife,
Aboot a moose."--"A what?
It's a lee ye tell; an' I say again
It was'na a moose; 'twas a rat!"
"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face?
My faith, but ye craw croose!
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't!
'Twas a moose!"--"'Twas a rat!"--"'Twas a moose!"
Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow.
"Ye dour auld doit, tak' that;
Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph,--
'Twas a rat!"--"'Twas a moose!"--"'Twas a rat!"
She sent the brose caup at his heels,
As he hirpled ben the hoose;
Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door,
And cried, "'Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!"
But when the carle was fast asleep,
She paid him back for that,
And roared into his sleepin' lug,
"'Twas a rat! 'twas a rat! 'twas a rat!"
The de'il be wi' me if I think
It was a beast ava!--
Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir,
She faund wee Johnnie's ba'!
ROBERT LEIGHTON.
FRITZ UND I.
Mynheer, blease helb a boor oldt man,
Vot gomes vrom Sharmany,
Mit Fritz, mine tog und only freund,
To geep me gompany.
I haf no gelt to puy mine pread,
No blace to lay me down,
For ve vas vanderers, Fritz und I,
Und strangers in der down.
Some beoples gife us dings to eadt,
Und some dey kicks us oudt,
Und say, "You ton't got peesnis here,
To sdroll der schtreets aboudt!"
Vot's dat you say? You puy mine tog
To gife me pread to eadt?
I vas so boor as nefer vas,
But I vas no "tead peat."
Vot! sell mine tog, mine leetle tog,
Dot vollows me aboudt,
Und vags his dail, like anydings,
Yene'er I dakes him oudt!
Schust look at him, und see him schump!
He likes me pooty vell;
Und dere vas somedings 'bout dat tog,
Mynheer, I vouldn't sell.
"Der collar?" Nein, 'tvas somedings else
Vrom vich I gould not bart;
Und if dot ding vas dook avay,
I dinks it prakes mine heart.
"Vot vas it, den, aboudt dat tog,"
You ashk, "dat's not vor sale?"
I dells you vat it ish, mine freund:
Tish der vag off dat tog's dail!
CHARLES F. ADAMS.
A TUSSLE WITH IMMIGRANTS.
The Ethnological Society of North America wished me to photograph types
of immigrants arriving from Europe, at New York.
Castle Garden is where all steerage passengers land; and I was allowed
every facility by the authorities.
I began with an Italian, swarthy, under-sized, dressed in velveteen,
and scented with garlic. As I placed him in front of the camera, he
said:--
"Ah been here before. Ah no greenhorn. Ah know the ropes a. You take a
pictura don't cost you a centa; you don't pay me a dolla; ah make ah
face a so you don't getta the pictura. You don't picka me up a sardine.
I sale the banana lass year in New York."
A Frenchman was the next subject. Tall, meagre, polite, and talkative.
"Sare," he remarked, "ze photographie ees not to me for ze first
taime. Ze art of all kind faind himself at home in ma countrie--_la
belle France_. I also am artist. I make ze wall papaire to beautify ze
house. I am artist in ze pastepot, and ze scissaires. To faind already
a brothaire artist makes me to weep. Excuse me zat I weep. I remove to
you ze hat; I salute ze veritable artist." Then this artist tried to
kiss me, and because I repulsed him stood in gloomy majesty while I
photographed him.
Following my French friend, a Scotchman was brought. He wished me to
take pictures of his entire family--eleven in all--and when informed
that only types, not families, were required, he broke forth:--
"I'm no able exactly to see why types should be needed, and no
families. A type is guid eneugh thing gin ye'll want to prent a
paper, but a lairge family o' braw lads an' bonnie lasses gangs a
lang distance in a new land, an' I'm free to say my ain family is the
lairgest ye'll see frae the ship."
Even the stolid immigrants had to smile when the next subject was
brought. He was a young German, tight-sleeved, long-skirted, smiling,
and chatty.
"Vell! Py jimmeny! you took my picture mid a box! How you done it I
gifs oop! Und you told me ov I move I spoil him alretty. Den I don'd
move. Ov a flea pites me, I don'd move,--ov you don'd stand me too
long. Ov a man gifs me a glass of peer, I don'd move. Ov I got hungry,
I don'd go to dinner all der vile. I shoost stand here like I vas a
dellygraff bole! Don'd it?"
I finished the morning's work with a splendid specimen of a young
Irishman, who had, I suspect, been injudiciously "treated" by his
friends.
As I placed him before the camera, he said:--
"Av' it's taking aim ye are, don't say I thrimbled. God knows I'm
willin' an' proud to die for ould Oireland! Foire! ye base murdherer,
to desthroy me the day I kem ashore!"
Matters were explained, and he apologized.
"Why didn't ye say ye wouldn't shoot? How would I know ye didn't have
dynamite in yer box? Av its only the picthure av me mug you want, take
it an' welkim. I'm no pig to be wantin' to kape a threasure hid from
the wurruld."
In departing I explained to the group that I would present each one
with a copy of his picture if their addresses were furnished, and a
Babel of words followed me.
"Ah don't want a picture a. Ah want a dolla!"
"Sare, I am _comble de l'honneur_. I zank you, sare!"
"I'm vara muckle ableeged till ye. I'll tak' a dozen on the same
tairms."
"Ov I don'd send you dot address, never mind; you send me dot bicture,
ennyhow!"
"Faith! Amerika's a darlin' counthry! The best word I got at home was,
Leve the way, ye vagabone! Here it is, Misther O'Ryan, will it plaze ye
have yer picther taken, an' where'll we send it for ye?"
PHILIP DOUGLASS.
A DOKETOR'S DRUBBLES.
I youst to bin a doketor vonce,
Vat koored all kints ov gases;
Und in my bragtis I have met
A goot mainy _deaferent_ fases.
Vor dwendy milse round vere I leved,
De beeple vas gwite seekly;
Boud vonce a veek I galled arount,
Und zo I vound um veekly.
Soam vas seek mit vone decease,
Und soam dey had anoder,
Und soam you vooden't doght vood leve
Vrom one ent do de oder.
Bud pooty soon I vound dot oud
My bocket book was dhry,
Und also my oxpensays
Vas runing oval high.
So I vent oud gollecting;
Bud aifery vere I vent,
My batients vas oxhorseted,--
Dey vas not vort a cendt.
Und I vent und seed vone men,
He vas briefing hees preath lasht;
I doght de gwicker I got dot,
De sooner it vas kashed.
So I showed de men hees node,
Und I dold heem do pay;
Hees dime vas shoost up,
Dot vos hees lasht tay.
Hees hands vas in each bocked,
Und dots vy I doght so sdrange;
He died--und hees lasht vords vas,
"I don'd veel ainy shange."
Und vone sed do me, "Doketor,
Howefer can I pay?
You know dot I'm not aple--
I'm _vailing_ afery tay."
Und anoder vailer dold me,
"Shoost valk you ride avay;
You got dot oll vat's due you
Ven comes de shoodgment-tay."
I eshked vone men vor hees sheck,
Id vas yoost pefore hees deadth;
But I vound he hadn't no dime,
He vas drawing hees lasht breadth.
Und I found _dish vash_ de drubble--
Een my kase ainy vay--
De beeple vot I doketored
Heddent _cents_ enoff to bay.
You'f hurt dot goot old sayink,
Verein dot goot pook says--
I dink id combs out desewise--
"Soam rools ken vork bote vays."
Und so it ess mit de doketor;
Of he eshkt a man to bay,
Und he tails him, "I ken't do id,"
Hees shoor to die dot day.
I vent beck to my offus,
Veeling dired dru und dru;
Und togedder mit dese drubble
I vash med and shleeby doo.
I lade down on de sofy,
Und dried to haive a shnooze;
Bud een a doketors' offus,
Dot didn't vas no youse.
I hurt soam kolling, "Doketor!"
Und I run ub do my shbout,
Und dese vords vent his ears down:
"_Vat's de metter mit your mout?_"
Und den dot failer holleret,--
Hees woice vas shdrong und glear,
Und dese vords vent de shpout oop,--
"Dooce Dr. Sholtz leve hier?"
Und gwickly beck my an-swear
Dot shbout vas goin dro:
"Dr. Sholtz, dot vas my name, sir,
Vat vood you hev me doo?"
"Now let me eshk you doketor;
You shoore I'fe got dot righd?
Ish your name _Dr. Vriederick Sholtz_?"
Hee yelt mit oll hees mighd.
I doght dot men was crazy--
Oar meppy he vas dight.
I sed, "Yaas--'tvas Doketor Vriederick Sholtz,
Vat you vant dese dime off nighd?"
Und I vas zo oxtonished,
Bud de naixt dings vat I hear,
Ven dot failer dold me, "Doketor,
How long hev you leefed hier?"
Un den I vas oxcited,
I felt yooust like a row;
I sed, "I'fe leefed hier dwendy years:
Vat you vant, ainyhow?"
Dot men he vas a villane,
Und dot's yoost vat I kin brove;
He singed oud to me lowdly,
"Vat's de reason you dond moofe?"
I run down dru de shdairvay,
Und oud into de shdreed;
Bud I only hurt de bavemends
Klattering fashd agenshd hees feed.
I reely dink sooch ekshuns
Shoot not be oferlooked;
Of I kood kaitch dot failer--
Py cosh, hees coose vas kooked!
Now I vood say doo de doketors,
Yoost pefore id vas doo late,
Dond naifer loose your batients,
Und you'll suckseed fushtrate.
No metter vots de reason,
You naifer shood get vexed;
You may loose your bay in dese vorldt,
Bud you'll get id in de next.
GEORGE M. WARREN.
CHARLIE MACHREE.
Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree!
Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn,
Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in.
But the dark, rolling river, though deep as the sea,
I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me;
For stout is your back, and strong is your arm,
And the heart in your bosom is faithful and warm.
Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree!
I see him! I see him! He's plunged in the tide!
His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside.
Oh! the dark, rolling water shoots swift as the sea,
But blithe is the glance of his bonnie blue e'e;
His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough,--
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now?
Ho, ho! foaming river, ye may roar as ye go;
But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below.
Come over, come over the river to me,
My true-hearted laddie, _my_ Charlie Machree!
He's sinking! he's sinking! Oh, what shall I do!
Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes, and ye're through.
He's sinking, oh, Heaven! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear:
I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here!
He rises: I see him--five strokes, Charlie, mair--
He's shaking the wet from his bonnie brown hair;
He conquers the current, he gains on the sea.
Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree!
Come over the river, but once come to me,
And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree!
He's sinking! he's gone! O God! it is I,
It is I who have killed him! Help! help!--he must die.
Help! help! Ah! he rises! Strike out, and ye're free!
Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more, now, for me!
Now cling to the rock, now give me your hand,--
Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land!
Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep:
I canna speak to ye; I only can weep.
Ye've crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for me,
And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree!
WILLIAM J. HOPPIN.
A DUTCHMAN'S DOLLY VARDEN.