At Rye, Westchester County, a small town
Built near the Sound, but of a scant renown,
That always to its biggest size did run
At summer-time, beneath a blazing sun,
But rested as a _town_, as if to say,
"I'll pay no further taxes, come what may;"--
The ancient cobbler, JOHN, unknown to fame
(So many cobblers since have borne the name),
Owned the great belle of all that country place,
His daughter, with her tongue and lovely face,
Who took to soothing every kind of pain,
Tramped through the streets, dragging a muddy train.
With kerchief blowed her horn both, loud and long.
And talked incessantly of every wrong,
Kept her tongue wagging, until right was done.
Thus did the daughter of old cobbler John.
What mighty good this BERGH of that Burgh did.
While her tongue lasted, she had never hid:
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The fleshy tongue at length was worn away;
She mouthed it for a while, and people dreamed
Of golden days before this belle had screamed.
Loaded and beat their horses at their ease.
Drove thorn with, wounded backs and broken knees,
Turned turtles over, and e'en tortured clams.
Murdered trichinæ, when they boiled their hams.
Till one, a doctor, who was passing by,
Struck by the horrors going on in Rye,
Cut from a calf, that yet was very young.
And kindly gave unto the belle, a tongue.
By chance it happened that in Rye town dwelt.
A German grocer (and his wife, a Celt),
Who loved his lager and his pretzels too
(His wife was partial to the morning dew).
But, when we fell into these troublous times,
He cared for nothing but to save his dimes.
He had a donkey, that would sometimes go.
Just as the donkey chanc'd to feel, you know,
Which he would ride, whenever his brigade
Was ordered to the streets for a parade;
But as the times got hard, he'd loudly swear
The oats that donkey ate he could not spare.
At length he said: "I'll turn him out, py Gott!"
Looked at his wife and to her said, "Vy not?
Let him go eat upon the public ways,
I want him only for the training days."
So the poor donkey had to feed on thistles.
Until his hair became like unto bristles.
One afternoon, when everybody slept
Except the belle, out from her house she crept,
And met the donkey, walking on the way;
He smelt the calf and thought to have some play.
Kicked up his heels, a grating bray did utter.
And laid the belle a-rolling in the gutter.
She raised a mighty shout, she raised a squeal.
And loudly her persistent tongue did peal,
And this did seem the burden of her song:
"Some chap hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!
"Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd"
Of vagabonds and urchins, shouting loud,
Gathered around the poor, bedraggled squealer,
Until at length there came a stout Rye peeler;
Who forthwith told the belle her cries to cease.
And took her to a Justice of the Peace.
The Justice heard the story of the belle,
And looking wise and grave, he said: "'Tis well;
Bring me the old Dutchman." The grocer brought,
Shaking with fear, then stood before the Court.
And then' the Justice to recite began
The charter of the Cruelty to An-
Imals Society, and then he said:
"Pride rideth on a donkey, as I've read,
Until it gets a fall, and then it loses
Its dignity and blubbers o'er its bruises.
These are newspaper proverbs, but I fear
You don't love proverbs, as you do your beer.
Just take that donkey and give him an oat,
And don't show up until you've brushed his coat."
The grocer left disgusted, took the brute;
And all the people then at him did hoot.
The cobbler heard and almost split his knee
[He took it for the lapstone in his glee],
"Church bells," quoth he, "but ring us to the mass.
My belle hath gone and saved a starving ass;
And this shall make, when put in jingling rhyme,
The Belle of Rye all famous for all time."
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