Well, here's to us;_The World's Best Poetry, Volume 09: Of Tragedy: of Humour

Eh?

The _deuce_ you say!

Dead?--

That little cuss?

What makes you star,--

You over thar?

Can't a man drop

's glass in yer shop

But you must rar'?

It wouldn't take

_Derned_ much to break

You and your bar.

Dead!

Poor--little--Jim!

--Why, there was me,

Jones, and Bob Lee,

Harry and Ben,--

No-account men:

Then to take _him_!

Well, thar--Good-bye,--

No more, sir,--I--

Eh?

What's that you say?--

Why, dern it!--sho!--

No? Yes! By Jo!

Sold!

Sold! Why you limb,

You ornery,

Derned old

Long-leggèd Jim!

BRET HARTE.

BANTY TIM.

[Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the White Man's

Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois.]

I reckon I git your drift, gents--

You 'low the boy sha'n't stay;

This is a white man's country:

You're Dimocrats, you say:

And whereas, and seein', and wherefore,

The times bein' all out o' jint,

The nigger has got to mosey

From the limits o' Spunky P'int!

Let's reason the thing a minute;

I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat, too,

Though I laid my politics out o' the way

For to keep till the war was through.

But I come back here allowin'

To vote as I used to do,

Though it gravels me like the devil to train

Along o' sich fools as you.

Now dog my cats if I kin see

In all the light of the day,

What you've got to do with the question

Ef Tim shall go or stay.

And furder than that I give notice,

Ef one of you tetches the boy,

He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime

Than he'll find in Illanoy.

Why, blame your hearts, jist hear me!

You know that ungodly day

When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped

And torn and tattered we lay.

When the rest retreated, I stayed behind,

Fur reasons sufficient to me,--

With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,

I sprawled on that cursed glacee.

Lord! how the hot sun went for us,

And broiled and blistered and burned!

How the rebel bullets whizzed round us

When a cuss in his death-grip turned!

Till along toward dusk I seen a thing

I couldn't believe for a spell:

That nigger--that Tim--was a-crawlin' to me

Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!

The rebels seen him as quick as me,

And the bullets buzzed like bees;

But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,

Though a shot brought him once to his knees;

But he staggered up, and packed me off,

With a dozen stumbles and falls,

Till safe in our lines he drapped us both,

His black hide riddled with balls.

So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer,

And here stays Banty Tim:

He trumped Death's ace for me that day,

And I 'm not goin' back on him!

You may rezoloot till the cows come home,

But ef one of you tetches the boy,

He 'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,

Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!

JOHN HAY.

DOW'S FLAT.

1856.

Dow's flat. That's its name.

And I reckon that you

Are a stranger? The same?

Well, I thought it was true,

For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot

the place at first view.

It was called after Dow,--

Which the same was an ass;

And as to the how

Thet the thing kem to pass,--

Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye

down here in the grass.

You see this yer Dow

Hed the worst kind of luck;

He slipped up somehow

On each thing thet he struck.

Why, ef he'd straddled thet fence-rail the derned

thing 'ed get up and buck.

He mined on the bar

Till he couldn't pay rates;

He was smashed by a car

When he tunnelled with Bates;

And right on top of his trouble kem his wife and

five kids from the States.

It was rough,--mighty rough;

But the boys they stood by,

And they brought him the stuff

For a house, on the sly;

And the old woman,--well, she did washing, and

took on when no one was nigh.

But this yer luck of Dow's

Was so powerful mean

That the spring near his house

Dried right up on the green;

And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary

a drop to be seen.

Then the bar petered out,

And the boys wouldn't stay;

And the chills got about,

And his wife fell away;

But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual

ridikilous way.

One day,--it was June,--

And a year ago, jest,--

This Dow kem at noon

To his work like the rest,

With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a

derringer hid in his breast.

He goes to the well,

And he stands on the brink,

And stops for a spell

Jest to listen and think:

For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir!) you

see, kinder made the cuss blink.

His two ragged gals

In the gulch were at play,

And a gownd that was Sal's

Kinder flapped on a bay:

Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,--

as I've heer'd the folks say.

And--that's a peart hoss

Thet you've got--ain't it now?

What might be her cost?

Eh? Oh!--Well then, Dow--

Let's see,--well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his,

sir, that day, anyhow.

For a blow of his pick

Sorter caved in the side,

And he looked and turned sick,

Then he trembled and cried.

For you see the dern cuss had struck--"Water?"

--beg your parding, young man, there you lied!

It was _gold_,--in the quartz,

And it ran all alike;

And I reckon five oughts

Was the worth of that strike;

And that house with coopilow's his'n,--which

the same isn't bad for a Pike.

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat;

And the thing of it is

That he kinder got that

Through sheer contrairiness:

For 't was =water= the derned cuss was seekin', and

his luck made him certain to miss.

Thet's so. Thar's your way

To the left of yon tree;

But--a--look h'yur, say,

Won't you come up to tea?

No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and

ask after Dow,--and thet's _me_.

BRET HARTE.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James:

I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;

And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man;

And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,

To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see,

Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society;

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,

From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;

And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;

He was a most sarcastic man this quiet Mr. Brown,

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent

To say another is an ass,--at least, to all intent;

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant

Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen;

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled upon the floor,

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For in less time than I write it, every member did engage

In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age;

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,

For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James,

And I've told in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

BRET HARTE.

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES.

POPULARLY KNOWN AS "THE HEATHEN CHINEE."

Which I wish to remark--

And my language is plain--

That for ways that are dark

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar:

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply;

But his smile it was pensive and childlike,

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

[Illustration: BRET HARTE.

_From a photogravure after the original portrait by J. Pettie._]

It was August the third,

And quite soft was the skies,

Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William

And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,

And Ah Sin took a hand:

It was euchre. The same

He did not understand,

But he smiled, as he sat by the table,

With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,

And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve,

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played

By that heathen Chinee,

And the points that he made,

Were quite frightful to see,--

Till at last he put down a right bower,

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me;

And he rose with a sigh,

And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"--

And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,

But the floor it was strewed,

Like the leaves on the strand,

With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding

In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,

He had twenty-four jacks,--

Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts.

And we found on his nails, which were taper,--

What is frequent in tapers,--that's wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,

That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,--

Which the same I am free to maintain.

BRET HARTE.

A PLANTATION DITTY.

De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top:

"Who--who--is--you-oo?"

En I say: "Good Lawd, hit's des po' me,

En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea;

I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be;

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"

De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree:

"Who--who--is--you-oo?"

En I say: "Good Lawd, ef you look you'll see

Hit ain't nobody but des po' me,

En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free;

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"

FRANK LEBBY STANTON.

DE FUST BANJO.

Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'.

Keep silence fur yo' betters!--don't you hear de banjo talkin'?

About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!--

About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':

"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn--

Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column--

An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches,

An' lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez.

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin';

An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin';

But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen:

An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es--

Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!

He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle--

An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon 's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby,

De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;

De people all wuz drowned out--'cep' Noah an' de critters,

An' men he'd hired to work de boat--an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin';

De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';

De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut

wid all de fussin',

You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,

Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket;

An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it,

An' soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin;

An' fitted in a proper neck--'t wuz berry long an' tap'rin';

He tuk some tin an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin';

De ha'rs so long an' thick an' strong,--des fit fur banjo-stringin';

Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces;

An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,--'t wuz

"Nebber min' de wedder,"--

She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder;

Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers;

An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time--it's mighty strange--der 's not

de slightes' showin'

Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin';

An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em--

Fur whar you finds de nigger--dar's de banjo an' an' de 'possum!

IRWIN RUSSELL.

PERILS OF THINKING.

A centipede was happy quite,

Until a frog in fun

Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"

This raised her mind to such a pitch,

She lay distracted in the ditch

Considering how to run.

ANONYMOUS.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR.

You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah!

Whar is you tryin' to go, sah?

I'd hab you fur to know, sah,

I's a-holdin' ob de lines.

You better stop dat prancin',

You's paw'ful fond ob dancin',

But I'll bet my yeah's advancin'

Dat I'll cure you ob yo' shines.

Look heah, mule! Better min' out;

Fus' t'ing you know you'll fin' out

How quick I'll wear dis line out

On your ugly, stubbo'n back.

You needn't try to steal up;

An' lif' dat precious heel up;

You's got to plough dis fiel' up,

You has, sah, fur a fac'.

Dar, _dat's_ de way to do it;

He's comin' right down to it;

Jes watch him ploughin' troo it!

Dis nigger ain't no fool.

Some folks dey would 'a' beat him;

Now, dat would only heat him--

I know just how to treat him:

You mus' _reason_ wid a mule.

He minds me like a nigger.

If he wuz only bigger

He'd fotch a mighty figger,

He would, I _tell_ you! Yes, sah!

See how he keeps a-clickin'!

He's as gentle as a chicken,

And nebber thinks o' kickin'--

_Whoa dar! Nebuchadnezzah!_

Is this heah me, or not me?

Or is de debbil got me?

Wuz dat a cannon shot me?

Hab I laid heah more 'n a week?

Dat mule do kick amazin'!

De beast was sp'iled in raisin';

But now I spect he's grazin'

On de oder side de creek.

IRWIN RUSSELL.

A LIFE'S LOVE.

I loved him in my dawning years--

Far years, divinely dim;

My blithest smiles, my saddest tears,

Were evermore for him.

My dreaming when the day began,

The latest thought I had,

Was still some little loving plan

To make my darling glad.

They deemed he lacked the conquering wiles,

That other children wear;

To me his face, in frowns or smiles,

Was never aught but fair.

They said that self was all his goal,

He knew no thought beyond;

To me, I know, no living soul

Was half so true and fond.

In love's eclipse, in friendship's dearth,

In grief and feud and bale,

My heart has learnt the sacred worth

Of one that cannot fail;

And come what must, and come what may.

Nor power, nor praise, nor pelf,

Shall lure my faith from thee to stray.

My sweet, my own--_Myself_.

ANONYMOUS.

DARWIN.

There was an ape in the days that were earlier;

Centuries passed, and his hair grew curlier;

Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist,

Then he was a Man and a Positivist.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING.

WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALLER.

[Transcriber Note:

The words contained in braces "{}" have been struck through

by an imaginary editor, to be placed with the words written

immediately above. Strikethrough cannot be done in text

format, so this is a compromise in order to retain the

poet's intention. ]

Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go

logwood

While the {nectar} still reddens our cups as they flow?

decoction

Pour out the {rich juices} still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the {rubies} shall run.

half-ripened apples

The {purple-globed clusters} their life-dews have bled;

taste sugar of lead

How sweet is the {breath} of the {fragrance they shed}!

rank-poisons _wines_!!!

For summer's {last roses} lie hid in the {wines}

stable-boys smoking long-nines

That were garnered by {maidens who laughed through the vines}.

scowl howl scoff sneer

Then a {smile}, and a {glass}, and a {toast}, and a {cheer},

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer

For {all the good wine, and we 've some of it here}!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!

{Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!}

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

HOLLOW HOSPITALITY.

FROM "SATIRES," BOOK III. SAT. 3.

The courteous citizen bade me to his feast

With hollow words, and overly[7] request:

"Come, will ye dine with me this holiday?"

I yielded, though he hoped I would say nay:

For I had maidened it, as many use;

Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse.

"Alack, sir, I were loath--another day,--

I should but trouble you;--pardon me, if you may."

No pardon should I need; for, to depart

He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart.

Two words for money, Darbyshirian wise:

(That's one too many) is a naughty guise.

Who looks for double biddings to a feast,

May dine at home for an importune guest.

I went, then saw, and found the great expense;

The face and fashions of our citizens.

Oh, Cleopatrical! what wanteth there

For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheer?

Beef, that erst Hercules held for finest fare;

Pork, for the fat Boeotian, or the hare

For Martial; fish for the Venetian;

Goose-liver for the licorous Roman;

Th' Athenian's goat; quail, Iolaus' cheer;

The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deer;

Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Pluto's mouth,

And chestnuts fair for Amarillis' tooth.

Hadst thou such cheer? wert thou ever there before?

Never,--I thought so: nor come there no more.

Come there no more; for so meant all that cost:

Never hence take me for thy second host.

For whom he means to make an often guest,

One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.

DR. JOSEPH HALL.

[7] Superficial.

A RECIPE.

ROASTED SUCKING-PIG.

_Air._--"Scots wha hae."

Cooks who'd roast a sucking-pig,

Purchase one not over big;

Coarse ones are not worth a fig;

So a young one buy.

See that he is scalded well

(That is done by those who sell,

Therefore on that point to dwell

Were absurdity).

Sage and bread, mix just enough,

Salt and pepper _quantum suff._,

And the pig's interior stuff,

With the whole combined.

To a fire that 's rather high,

Lay it till completely dry;

Then to every part apply

Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o'er and o'er,

Till the pig will hold no more;

Then do nothing else before

'T is for serving fit.

Then scrape off the flour with care;

Then a buttered cloth prepare;

Rub it well; then cut--not tear--

Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains

With the gravy it contains;

While it on the spit remains,

Cut the pig in two.

Chop the sage and chop the bread

Fine as very finest shred;

O'er it melted butter spread,--

Stinginess won't do.

When it in the dish appears,

Garnish with the jaws and ears;

And when dinner-hour nears,

Ready let it be.

Who can offer such a dish

May dispense with fowl and fish;

And if he a guest should wish,

Let him send for me!

PUNCH'S _Poetical Cookery Book_.

A RECIPE FOR SALAD.

To make this condiment your poet begs

The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs;

Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,

Smoothness and softness to the salad give;

Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,

And, half suspected, animate the whole;

Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,

Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;

But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault

To add a double quantity of salt;

Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,

And twice with vinegar, procured from town;

And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss

A magic _soupçon_ of anchovy sauce.

O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat!

'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;

Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,

And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl;

Serenely full, the epicure would say,

"Fate cannot harm me,--I have dined to-day."

SYDNEY SMITH.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou who, when fears attack,

Bid'st them avaunt, and Black

Care, at the horseman's back

Perching, unseatest;

Sweet when the morn is gray;

Sweet, when they 've cleared away

Lunch; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old

For thee, though manifold

Stories, I know, are told,

Not to thy credit;

How one (or two at most)

Drops make a cat a ghost--

Useless, except to roast--

Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees

All grow by slow degrees

Brainless as chimpanzees,

Meagre as lizards;

Go mad, and beat their wives;

Plunge (after shocking lives)

Razors and carving-knives

Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six

Smokers who freely mix

Still with their neighbors;

Jones--(who, I 'm glad to say,

Asked leave of Mrs. J.)--

Daily absorbs a clay

After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose

Cooked by tobacco-juice;

Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken?

We're not as tabbies are:

Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here's to thee, Bacon!

CHARLES S. CALVERLEY.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse

Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind

(Still the phrase is wide or scant),

To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate;

For I hate, yet love, thee so,

That, whichever thing I show,

The plain truth will seem to be

A constrained hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed