"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet Close, or Mister Tupper,
Do you write the bon-ton mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"
But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honor;
And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.
"Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of you inform us;"
But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.
Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me;
And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me:
"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,"--
Which I know was very clever; but I didn't understand it.
Seven weary years I wandered--Patagonia, China, Norway,
Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.
There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle;
So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.
He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,
And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.
And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter
hearty--
He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.
And I said, "O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?
Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"
But he answered, "I'm so happy--no profession could be dearer--
If I am not humming 'Tra la la' I'm singing 'Tirer, lirer!'
"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies,
Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is:
"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers:
Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers--"
"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"
Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.
And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him,
And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"
And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,
"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a
shilling!"
But until I reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited,
And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated!
_W. S. Gilbert._
GENTLE ALICE BROWN
It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown.
Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;
Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;
But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.
As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,
A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;
She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,
That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,
She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten,
A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road
(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.)
But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise
To look at strange young sorters with expressive purpleeyes;
So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,
The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.
"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not?
To discover that I was a most disreputable lot!
Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"
The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"
"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,
I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad.
I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,
And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"
The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear--
And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear--
It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;
But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.
"Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind;
Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:
We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks--
Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six."
"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,
You do these little things for me so singularly cheap--
Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;
But oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!
"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,
I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies;
He passes by it every day as certain as can be--
I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!"
"For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word
This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.
Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand
To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!
"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!
They are the most remunerative customers I know;
For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors,
I never knew so criminal a family as yours!
"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood
Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;
And if you marry any one respectable at all,
Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"
The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,
And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown;
To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,
Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.
Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well,
He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;
I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,
And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.
"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two,
Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do--
A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall
When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."
He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;
He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware;
He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,
And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.
And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,
She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind,
Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand
On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
_W. S. Gilbert._
THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB
Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the Echoes of the Past,
For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!
Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls--
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.
Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter--I am shaky in my dates--
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
Oh, Allah be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!
Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.
And when (as snobs would say)
They had "put it all away,"
He requested them to tune up and begin.
Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before,--
The consequences true
Of that awful interview,
_For I listened at the keyhole in the door!_
They played him a sonata--let me see!
"_Medulla oblongata_"--key of G.
Then they began to sing
That extremely lovely thing,
"_Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp._"
He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
More beer, in little kegs,
Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.
Now follows the dim horror of my tale
And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,
For, even at this day,
Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!
The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel;
"Oh, Prince," he says, says he,
"_If a Prince indeed you be_,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!
"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:
No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,
As you fancy that we be;
For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck--this is Beth!"
Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"
Beth gave a fearful shriek--
But before he'd time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me full length upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.
Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will.
They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page.
_W. S. Gilbert._
SIR GUY THE CRUSADER
Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,
Amuscular knight,
Ever ready to fight,
A very determined invader,
And Dickey de Lion's delight.
Lenore was a Saracen maiden,
Brunette, statuesque,
The reverse of grotesque;
Her pa was a bagman from Aden,
Her mother she played in burlesque.
A _coryphée_, pretty and loyal,
In amber and red,
The ballet she led;
Her mother performed at the Royal,
Lenore at the Saracen's Head.
Of face and of figure majestic,
She dazzled the cits--
Ecstaticised pits;--
Her troubles were only domestic,
But drove her half out of her wits.
Her father incessantly lashed her,
On water and bread
She was grudgingly fed;
Whenever her father he thrashed her,
Her mother sat down on her head.
Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason,
For beauty so bright
Sent him mad with delight;
He purchased a stall for the season
And sat in it every night.
His views were exceedingly proper,
He wanted to wed,
So he called at her shed
And saw her progenitor whop her--
Her mother sit down on her head.
"So pretty," said he, "and so trusting!
You brute of a dad,
You unprincipled cad,
Your conduct is really disgusting,
Come, come, now admit it's too bad!
"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant--
Your daughter Lenore
I intensely adore,
And I cannot help feeling indignant,
A fact that I hinted before;
To see a fond father employing
A deuce of a knout
For to bang her about,
To a sensitive lover's annoying."
Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."
Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden
With a big spiky knob
Sit in peace on his cob,
While a beautiful Saracen maiden
Is whipped by a Saracen snob?
"To London I'll go from my charmer."
Which he did, with his loot
(Seven hats and a flute),
And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour
At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.
Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter;
Her pa, in a rage,
Died (don't know his age);
His daughter she married the prompter,
Grew bulky and quitted the stage.
_W. S. Gilbert._
KITTY WANTS TO WRITE
Kitty wants to write! Kitty intellectual!
What has been effectual to turn her stockings blue?
Kitty's seventh season has brought sufficient reason,
She has done 'most everything that there is left to do!
Half of them to laugh about and half of them to rue,--
Now we wait in terror for Kitty's wildest error.
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
Kitty wants to write! Débutante was Kitty,
Frivolous and witty as ever bud that blew.
Kitty lacked sobriety, yet she ran society,
A leader whom the chaperons indulged a year or two;
Corner-men, eligibles, dancing-dolls she knew,--
Kitty then was slighted, ne'er again invited;
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
Kitty wants to write! At the Social Settlement
Girls of Kitty's mettle meant a mission for a few;
Men to teach the classes, men to mould the masses,
Men to follow Kitty to adventures strange and new.
Some of her benevolence was hidden out of view!--
A patroness offended, Kitty's slumming ended.
What is there to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a mystic,
Deep from cabalistic lore many hints she drew!
Freaks of all description, Hindoo and Egyptian,
Prattled in her parlor--such a wild and hairy crew!
Many came for money, and one or two to woo--
Kitty's pet astrologer wanted to acknowledge her!
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a doctor;
Nothing ever shocked her, though they hazed a little, too!
Kitty learned of medicos how a heart unsteady goes,
Besides a score of secrets that are secrets still to you.
Kitty's course in medicine gave her many a clue--
Much of modern history now is less a mystery.
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
Kitty wants to write! Everybody's writing!
Won't it be exciting, the panic to ensue?
We who all have known her, think what we have shown her!
Read it in the magazines! Which half of _this_ is true?
Where did she get _that_ idea? Is it him, or who?--
Kitty's wretched enemies now will learn what venom is!
What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
_Gelett Burgess._
DIGHTON IS ENGAGED!
Dighton is engaged! Think of it and tremble!
Two-and-twenty ladies who have known him must dissemble;
Two-and-twenty ladies in a panic must repeat,
"Dighton is a gentleman; will Dighton be discreet?"
All the merry maidens who have known him at his best
Wonder what the girl is like, and if he has confessed.
Dighton the philanderer, will he prove a slanderer?
A man gets confidential ere the honeymoon has sped--
Dighton was a rover then, Dighton lived in clover then;
Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!
Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Corinna!
Watch and see his fiancée smile on you at dinner!
Watch and hear his fiancée whisper, "_That's_ the one?"
Try and raise a blush for what you said was "only fun."
Long have you been wedded; have you then forgot?
If you have, I'll venture that a certain man has not!
Dighton had a way with him; did you ever play with him?
Now that dream is over and the episode is dead.
Dighton never harried you after Charlie married you;
Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!
Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Bettina!
Did you ever love him when the sport was rather keener?
Did you ever kiss him as you sat upon the stairs?
Did you ever tell him of your former love affairs?
Think of it uneasily and wonder if his wife
Soon will know the amatory secrets of your life!
Dighton was impressible, you were quite accessible--
The bachelor who marries late is apt to lose his head.
Dighton wouldn't hurt you; does it disconcert you?
Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!
Dighton is engaged! Tremble, Mrs. Alice!
When he comes no longer will you bear the lady malice?
Now he comes to dinner, and he smokes cigars with Clint,
But he never makes a blunder and he never drops a hint;
He's a universal uncle, with a welcome everywhere,
He adopts his sweetheart's children and he lets 'em pull his hair.
Dighton has a memory bright and sharp as emery,
He _could_ tell them fairy stories that would make you rather red!
Dighton can be trusted, though; Dighton's readjusted, though!
Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!
_Gelett Burgess._
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES
TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870
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 will 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.
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 a 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 labour--"
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 packs--
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._
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 it is not a proper plan
For any scientific man 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 up on 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._
"JIM"
Say there! P'r'aps
Some on you chaps
Might know Jim Wild!
Well,--no offence:
Thar ain't no sense
In gittin' riled!
Jim was my chum
Up on the Bar:
That's why I come
Down from up yar,
Lookin' for Jim.
Thank ye, sir! _you_
Ain't of that crew,--
Blest if you are!
Money?--Not much;
That ain't my kind:
I ain't no such.
Rum?--I don't mind,
Seein' it's you.
Well, this yer Jim,
Did you know him?--
Jess 'bout your size;
Same kind of eyes;--
Well, that is strange:
Why, it's two year
Since he came here,
Sick, for a change.
Well, here's to us:
Eh?
The h----, you say!
Dead?
That little cuss?
What makes you star,--
You over thar?
Can't a man drop
's glass 'n yer shop
But you must rar'?
It wouldn't take
D---- much to break
You and your bar.
Dead!
Poor--little--Jim!
--Why, thar 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-legged Jim!
_Bret Harte._
WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON
They called him Bill, the hired man,
But she, her name was Mary Jane,
The Squire's daughter; and to reign
The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan
Her little game. How lovers rash
Got mittens at the spelling school!
How many a mute, inglorious fool
Wrote rhymes and sighed and died--mustache!
This hired man had loved her long,
Had loved her best and first and last,
Her very garments as she passed
For him had symphony and song.
So when one day with sudden frown
She called him "Bill," he raised his head,
He caught her eye and, faltering, said,
"I love you; and my name is Brown."
She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept;
You would have thought the house on fire.
She told her sire, the portly squire,
Then smelt her smelling-salts, and slept.
Poor William did what could be done;
He swung a pistol on each hip,
He gathered up a great ox-whip,
And drove toward the setting sun.
He crossed the great back-bone of earth,
He saw the snowy mountains rolled
Like mighty billows; saw the gold
Of awful sunsets; felt the birth
Of sudden dawn that burst the night
Like resurrection; saw the face
Of God and named it boundless space
Ringed round with room and shoreless light.
Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs,
They sought for bigger game; somehow
They seemed to see above her brow
The forky sign of turkey tracks.
The teter-board of life goes up,
The teter-board of life goes down,
The sweetest face must learn to frown;
The biggest dog has been a pup.
O maidens! pluck not at the air;
The sweetest flowers I have found
Grow rather close unto the ground,
And highest places are most bare.
Why, you had better win the grace
Of our poor cussed Af-ri-can,
Than win the eyes of every man
In love alone with his own face.
At last she nursed her true desire.
She sighed, she wept for William Brown,
She watched the splendid sun go down
Like some great sailing ship on fire,
Then rose and checked her trunk right on;
And in the cars she lunched and lunched,
And had her ticket punched and punched,
Until she came to Oregon.
She reached the limit of the lines,
She wore blue specs upon her nose,
Wore rather short and manly clothes,
And so set out to reach the mines.
Her pocket held a parasol
Her right hand held a Testament,
And thus equipped right on she went,
Went water-proof and water-fall.
She saw a miner gazing down,
Slow stirring something with a spoon;
"O, tell me true and tell me soon,
What has become of William Brown?"
He looked askance beneath her specs,
Then stirred his cocktail round and round.
Then raised his head and sighed profound,
And said, "He's handed in his checks."
Then care fed on her damaged cheek,
And she grew faint, did Mary Jane,
And smelt her smelling-salts in vain,
She wandered, weary, worn, and weak.
At last, upon a hill alone.
She came, and there she sat her down;
For on that hill there stood a stone,
And, lo! that stone read, "William Brown."
"O William Brown! O William Brown!
And here you rest at last," she said,
"With this lone stone above your head,
And forty miles from any town!
I will plant cypress trees, I will,
And I will build a fence around,
And I will fertilise the ground
With tears enough to turn a mill."
She went and got a hired man,
She brought him forty miles from town,
And in the tall grass squatted down
And bade him build as she should plan.
But cruel cow-boys with their bands
They saw, and hurriedly they ran
And told a bearded cattle man
Somebody builded on his lands.
He took his rifle from the rack,
He girt himself in battle pelt,
He stuck two pistols in his belt,
And, mounting on his horse's back,
He plunged ahead. But when they showed
A woman fair, about his eyes
He pulled his hat, and he likewise
Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.
At last he gat him down and spake:
"O lady dear, what do you here?"
"I build a tomb unto my dear,
I plant sweet flowers for his sake."
The bearded man threw his two hands
Above his head, then brought them down
And cried, "Oh, I am William Brown,
And this the corner-stone of my lands!"
_Joaquin Miller._
LITTLE BREECHES
I don't go much on religion,
I never ain't had no show;
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On a handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets
And free-will and that sort of thing--
But I be'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along--
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong--
Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight--
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started--
I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie!
Went team, Little Breeches, and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie!
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
And sarched for 'em far and near.
At last we struck hosses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat, but of little Gabe
No hide nor hair was found.
And hero all hope soured on me
Of my fellow-critter's aid;
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.
* * * * *
By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night;
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;
And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,
"I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that's what's the matter of me."
How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm:
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And fotching him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.
_John Hay._
THE ENCHANTED SHIRT
The King was sick. His cheek was red,
And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with a kingly zest,
And peacefully snored at night.
But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
And doctors came by the score.
They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,
And sent to the schools for more.
At last two famous doctors came,
And one was as poor as a rat,--
He had passed his life in studious toil,
And never found time to grow fat.
The other had never looked in a book;
His patients gave him no trouble:
If they recovered, they paid him well;
If they died, their heirs paid double.
Together they looked at the royal tongue,
As the King on his couch reclined;
In succession they thumped his august chest,
But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut."
"Hang him up," roared the King in a gale--
In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
The other leech grew a shade pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran--
_The King will be well, if he sleeps one night
In the Shirt of a Happy Man_.
* * * * *
Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,
And fast their horses ran,
And many they saw, and to many they spoke,
But they found no Happy Man.
They found poor men who would fain be rich,
And rich who thought they were poor;
And men who twisted their waist in stays,
And women that shorthose wore.
They saw two men by the roadside sit,
And both bemoaned their lot;
For one had buried his wife, he said,
And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate,
A beggar lay whistling there;
He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled,
On the grass in the soft June air.
The weary couriers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay;
And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend!
You seem to be happy to-day."
"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,
And his voice rang free and glad;
"An idle man has so much to do
That he never has time to be sad."
"This is our man," the courier said;
"Our luck has lead us aright.
I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For the loan of your shirt to-night."
The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
And laughed till his face was black;
"I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun,
"But I haven't a shirt to my back."
* * * * *
Each day to the King the reports came in
Of his unsuccessful spies,
And the sad panorama of human woes
Passed daily under his eyes.
And he grew ashamed of his useless life,
And his maladies hatched in gloom;
He opened his windows and let the air
Of the free heaven into his room.
And out he went in the world, and toiled
In his own appointed way;
And the people blessed him, the land was glad,
And the King was well and gay.
_John Hay._
JIM BLUDSO
Wal, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Because he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three years
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks,
The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren't no saint--them engineers
Is all pretty much alike--
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,
And another one here in Pike.
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward man in a row--
But he never flunked, and he never lied;
I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had--
To treat his engines well;
Never be passed on the river;
To mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,
A thousand times he swore,
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats have their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last.
The Movastar was a better boat,
But the Belle she wouldn't be passed;
And so come tearin' along that night,--
The oldest craft on the line,
With a nigger squat on her safety valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made
To that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar,
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore."
Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And know he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,--
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren't no saint--but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim,
'Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing--
And went for it thar and then:
And Christ ain't a going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
_John Hay._
WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE"
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below;
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
De Captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck, too--
He call de crew from up de hole
He call de cook also.
De cook she's name was Rosie,
She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes'
De sout' win' she blow, too,
W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"
Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark, lak' one black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
Wen de Captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Goa Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early,
'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four--
De Captinne, scow, an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore;
For he win' she blow lak' hurricane
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now, all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm,
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm;
De win' can blow lak' hurricane,
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre,
So long you stay on shore.
_William Henry Drummond._
THE ALARMED SKIPPER
"IT WAS AN ANCIENT MARINER"
Many a long, long year ago,
Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though "lying low,"
How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell,
And then, by sounding through the night,
Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,
They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,
Could tell, by _tasting_, just the spot,
And so below he'd "dowse the glim"--
After, of course, his "something hot."
Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,
This ancient skipper might be found;
No matter how his craft would rock,
He slept--for skippers' naps are sound!
The watch on deck would now and then
Run down and wake him, with the lead;
He'd up, and taste, and tell the men
How many miles they went ahead.
One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch,
A curious wag--the peddler's son--
And so he mused (the wanton wretch),
"To-night I'll have a grain of fun.
"We're all a set of stupid fools
To think the skipper knows by _tasting_
What ground he's on--Nantucket schools
Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"
And so he took the well-greased lead
And rubbed it o'er a box of earth
That stood on deck--a parsnip-bed--
And then he sought the skipper's berth.
"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste."
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,
Then ope'd his eyes in wondrous haste,
And then upon the floor he sprung!
The skipper stormed and tore his hair,
Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,
"_Nantucket's sunk, and here we are
Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!_"
_James Thomas Fields._
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN
By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat.
On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.
The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat;
And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.
The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat;
And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat.
His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat;
So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat.
Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman sat;
So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig, and
hat.
His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his fat;
And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat.
_George Canning._
SAYING NOT MEANING
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,
When opening his toothpick-case, one said,
"It was not until lately that I knew
That _anchovies_ on _terrâ firmâ_ grew."
"Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they _grow_, indeed,
Like other fish, but not upon the land;
You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,
Or in the Strand!"
"Why, sir," returned the irritated other,
"My brother,
When at Calcutta
Beheld them _bonâ fide_ growing;
He wouldn't utter
A lie for love or money, sir; so in
This matter you are thoroughly mistaken."
"Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit
To the assertion--none e'er saw or read it;
Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."
"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are
Perverse--in short--"
"Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar,
And then his port--
"If you will say impossibles are true,
You may affirm just anything you please--
That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,
And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!
Only you must not _force_ me to believe
What's propagated merely to deceive."
"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool,"
Return'd the bragger.
Language like this no man can suffer cool:
It made the listener stagger;
So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,
"The traveler _lied_
Who had the impudence to tell it you;"
"Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face
That anchovies _don't_ grow like cloves and mace?"
"I _do_!"
Disputants often after hot debates
Leave the contention as they found it--bone,
And take to duelling or thumping _têtes_;
Thinking by strength of artery to atone
For strength of argument; and he who winces
From force of words, with force of arms convinces!
With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,
Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,
Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading
(Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show
It might be better they shook hands--but no;
When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right,
Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight!
And they _did_ fight: from six full measured paces
The unbeliever pulled his trigger first;
And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces,
The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst,
Ran up, and with a _duelistic_ fear
(His ire evanishing like morning vapors),
Found him possess'd of one remaining ear,
Who in a manner sudden and uncouth,
Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth;
For while the surgeon was applying lint,
He, wriggling, cried--"The deuce is in't--
Sir, I _meant_--|CAPERS|!"
_William Basil Wake._
HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dey had biano-blayin':
I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,
Her name was Madilda Yane.
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,
Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
Und ven dey looket indo mine,
Dey shplit mine heart in two.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty:
I vent dere, you'll pe pound.
I valtzet mit Madilda Yane
Und vent shpinnen round und round.
De pootiest Fräulein in de house,
She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp
She make de vindows sound.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty:
I dells you it cost him dear.
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
Of foost-rate Lager Beer,
Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in
De Deutschers gifes a cheer.
I dinks dat so vine a barty
Nefer coom to a het dis year.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dere all vas Souse und Brouse;
Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany
Did make demselfs to house.
Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost,
De Bratwurst und Braten fine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty.
We all cot troonk ash bigs.
I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier,
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs.
Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane
Und she shlog me on de kop,
Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks
Dill be coonshtable made oos shtop.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty--
Where ish dat barty now!
Where ish de lofely golden cloud
Dat float on de moundain's prow?
Where ish de himmelstrablende Stern--
De shtar of de shpirit's light?
All goned afay mit de Lager Beer--
Afay in de Ewigkeit!
_Charles Godfrey Leland._
BALLAD BY HANS BREITMANN
Der noble Ritter Hugo
Von Schwillensaufenstein
Rode out mit shpeer and helmet,
Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.
Und oop dere rose a meermaid,
Fot hadn't got nodings on,
Und she say, "Oh, Ritter Hugo,
Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?"
And he says, "I ride in de creenwood,
Mit helmet und mit shpeer,
Till I cooms into em Gasthaus,
Und dere I trinks some beer."
Und den outshpoke the maiden
Vot hadn't got nodings on:
"I ton't tink mooch of beoplesh
Dat goes mit demselfs alone.
"You'd petter coom down in de wasser,
Vhere deres heaps of dings to see,
Und hafe a shplendid tinner
Und drafel along mit me.
"Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin',
Und you catches dem efery von:"--
So sang dis wasser maiden,
Vot hadn't got nodings on.
"Dere ish drunks all full mit money
In ships dat vent down of old;
Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!
To shimmerin' crowns of gold.
"Shoost look at these shpoons and vatches!
Shoost see dese diamant rings!
Coom down and fill your pockets,
And I'll giss you like efery dings.
"Vot you vanst mit your schnapps and lager?
Come down into der Rhine!
Der ish pottles de Kaiser Charlemagne
Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!"
_Dat_ fetched him--she shtood all shpell-pound;
She pooled his coat-tails down;
She drawed him oonder der wasser,
De maiden mit nodings on.
_Charles Godfrey Leland._
GRAMPY SINGS A SONG
Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis,
Hush up your teasin' and listen to this:
'Tain't much of a jingle, 'tain't much of a tune,
But it's spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon.
The thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made
Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.
He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose;
When the 'larm rung he'd start, sis, a-sheddin' his clothes,
--Slung cote and slung wes'cote and kicked off his shoes,
A-runnin' like fun, for he'd no time to lose.
And he'd howl down the ro'd in a big cloud of dust,
For he made it his brag he was allus there fust.
--Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout,
And he never shut up till the fire was out.
And he'd knock out the winders and save all the doors,
And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the floors,
For he allus allowed 'twas a tarnation sin
To 'low 'em to burn, for you'd want 'em agin.
He gen'rally stirred up the most of his touse
In hustling to save the outside of the house.
And after he'd wrassled and hollered and pried,
He'd let up and tackle the stuff 'twas inside.
To see him you'd think he was daft as a loon,
But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.
Row diddy-iddy, my little sis,
Now see what ye think of a doin' like this:
The time of the fire at Jenkins' old place
It got a big start--was a desprit case;
The fambly they didn't know which way to turn.
And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn.
But Chester Cahoon--oh, that Chester Cahoon,
He sailed to the roof like a reg'lar balloon;
Donno how he done it, but done it he did,
--Went down through the scuttle and shet down the lid.
And five minutes later that critter he came
To the second floor winder surrounded by flame.
He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed,
And balanced a bureau right square on his head.
His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff,
China and glass; as if that warn't enough,
He'd rolls of big quilts round his neck like a wreath,
And carried Mis' Jenkins' old aunt with his teeth.
You're right--gospel right, little sis,--didn't seem
The critter'd git down, but he called for the stream,
And when it come strong and big round as my wrist;
He stuck out his legs, sis, and give 'em a twist;
And he hooked round the water jes' if 'twas a rope,
And down he come easin' himself on the slope,
--So almighty spry that he made that 'ere stream
As fit for his pupp'us' as if 'twas a beam.
Oh, the thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made
Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.
_Holman F. Day._
THE FIRST BANJO
Go 'way, fiddle; folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'--
Keep silence fur yo' betters!--don't you heah 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 de steamah _Natchez_.
Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin';
An' all de wicked neighbours 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 drownded 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' round' an' cussin'.
Now, Ham, he only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and 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--'twas berry long and 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'r's so long an' thick an' strong,--des fit fur banjo-stringin';
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces;
An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,--'twus "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--dere'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' de 'possum!
_Irwin Russell._
THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET
Basking in peace in the warm spring sun,
South Hill smiled upon Burlington.
The breath of May! and the day was fair,
And the bright motes danced in the balmy air.
And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze
Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple-trees.
His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned,
As he stood with a carriage whip in his hand.
And he laughed as he doffed his bobtail coat,
And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.
And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop,
And said she'd tell him when to stop.
So he pounded away till the dinner-bell
Gave him a little breathing spell.
But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one,
And she said the carpet wasn't done.
But he lovingly put in his biggest licks,
And he pounded like mad till the clock struck six.
And she said, in a dubious sort of way,
That she guessed he could finish it up next day.
Then all that day, and the next day, too,
That fuzz from the dirtless carpet flew.
And she'd give it a look at eventide,
And say, "Now beat on the other side."
And the new days came as the old days went,
And the landlord came for his regular rent.
And the neighbors laughed at the tireless broom,
And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom.
Till at last, one cheerless winter day,
He kicked at the carpet and slid away.
Over the fence and down the street,
Speeding away with footsteps fleet.
And never again the morning sun
Smiled on him beating his carpet-drum.
And South Hill often said with a yawn,
"Where's the carpet-martyr gone?"
Years twice twenty had come and passed
And the carpet swayed in the autumn blast.
For never yet, since that bright spring-time,
Had it ever been taken down from the line.
Over the fence a gray-haired man
Cautiously clim, clome, clem, clum, clamb.
He found him a stick in the old woodpile,
And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile,
A flush passed over his face forlorn
As he gazed at the carpet, tattered and torn.
And he hit it a most resounding thwack,
Till the startled air gave his echoes back.
And out of the window a white face leaned,
And a palsied hand the pale face screened.
She knew his face; she gasped, and sighed,
"A little more on the other side."
Right down on the ground his stick he throwed,
And he shivered and said, "Well, I am blowed!"
And he turned away, with a heart full sore,
And he never was seen not more, not more.
_Robert J. Burdette._
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK
"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
The warranted genuine Snarks.
"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
With a flavor of Will-o'-the-wisp.
"Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
That it carries too far when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
And dines on the following day.
* * * * *
"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
Which it constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes--
A sentiment open to doubt.
"The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
To describe each particular batch;
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
From those that have whiskers, and scratch.
"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
Yet I feel it my duty to say
Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm,
For the Baker had fainted away.
They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe.
In an antediluvian tone.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
"Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste,
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark,
We have hardly a minute to waste!"
"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
"And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
To help you in hunting the Snark.
"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked, when I bade him farewell--"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle," the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.
"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,
"'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right;
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens
And it's handy for striking a light.
"'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap--
"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away
And never be met with again!'
"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
When I think of my uncle's last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
Brimming over with quivering curds!
"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
And I use it for striking a light:
"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away--
And the notion I cannot endure!"
_Lewis Carroll._
THE OLD MAN AND JIM
Old man never had much to say--
'Ceptin' to Jim,--
And Jim was the wildest boy he had--
And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life,--and first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The Old man backin' him, fer three months.--
And all 'at I heerd the Old man say
Was, jes' as we turned to start away,--
"Well; good-bye, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
'Peard-like, he was more satisfied
Jes' _lookin'_ at Jim,
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?--
'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!
And over and over I mind the day
The Old man come and stood round in the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim--
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say,--
"Well; good-bye, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Never was nothin' about the farm
Disting'ished Jim;--
Neighbours all ust to wonder why
The Old man 'peared wrapped up in him:
But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back,
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black,
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad--
'At he had led, with a bullet clean
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,--
The Old man wound up a letter to him
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said,--"Tell Jim
Good-bye;
And take keer of hisse'f."
Jim come back jes' long enough
To take the whim
'At he'd like to go back in the cavelry--
And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!--
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.
And the Old man give him a colt he'd raised
And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,
And laid around fer a week er so,
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade--
Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the Old man say,--
"Well; good-bye, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Tuk the papers, the Old man did,
A-watchin' fer Jim--
Fully believin' he'd make his mark
_Some_ way--jes' wrapped up in him!--
And many a time the word 'u'd come
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum--
At Petersburg, fer instance, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,
And socked it home to the boys in grey,
As they skooted fer timber, and on and on--
Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone,
And the Old man's words in his mind all day,--
"Well; good-bye, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Think of a private, now, perhaps,
We'll say like Jim,
'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps--
And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him--with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the Old man, bendin' over him--
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years--
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His father's, the old voice in his ears,--
"Well; good-bye, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
_James Whitcomb Riley._
A SAILOR'S YARN
_This is the tale that was told to me,
By a battered and shattered son of the sea--
To me and my messmate, Silas Green,
When I was a guileless young marine._
"'Twas the good ship _Gyascutus_,
All in the China seas,
With the wind a-lee and the capstan free
To catch the summer breeze.
"'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck,
To his mate in the mizzen hatch,
While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold,
Was winding the larboard watch.
"'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night!
How heads our gallant craft?'
'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N.,
And the binnacle lies abaft!'
"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate,
And how does the sextant stand?'
'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point,
And the quadrant's lost a hand!'
"'Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand,
And the sextant falls so low,
It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones
This night are bound to go!
"'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake!
And reef the spanker boom;
Bend a studding sail on the martingale,
To give her weather room.
"'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold
What water do you find?'
'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff
And rather more behind!'
"'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes
And each belaying pin;
Come stir your stumps, and spike the pumps,
Or more will be coming in!'
"They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps,
They spliced the mizzen brace;
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh!
The water gained apace.
"They bored a hole above the keel
To let the water out;
But, strange to say, to their dismay,
The water in did spout.
"Then up spoke the Cook, of our gallant ship,
And he was a lubber brave:
'I have several wives in various ports,
And my life I'd orter save.'
"Then up spoke the Captain of Marines,
Who dearly loved his prog:
'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry,
And I move we pipe to grog.'
"Oh, then 'twas the noble second mate
What filled them all with awe;
The second mate, as bad men hate,
And cruel skipper's jaw.
"He took the anchor on his back,
And leaped into the main;
Through foam and spray he clove his way,
And sunk and rose again!
"Through foam and spray, a league away
The anchor stout he bore;
Till, safe at last, he made it fast
And warped the ship ashore!
"'Taint much of a job to talk about,
But a ticklish thing to see,
And suth'in to do, if I say it, too,
For that second mate was me!"
_Such was the tale that was told to me
By that modest and truthful son of the sea,
And I envy the life of a second mate,
Though captains curse him and sailors hate,
For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen,
As would go and lie to a poor marine._
_James Jeffrey Roche._
THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS
Upon an island, all alone,
They lived, in the Pacific;
Somewhere within the Torrid Zone,
Where heat is quite terrific.
'Twould shock you were I to declare
The many things they did not wear,
Altho' no doubt
One's best without
Such things in heat terrific.
Though cannibals by birth were they,
Yet, since they'd first existed,
Their simple menu day by day
Of such-like things consisted:
Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams,
And stews from freshly-gathered clams,
Such things as these
Were,--if you please,--
Of what their fare consisted.
But after dinner they'd converse,
Nor did their topic vary;
Wild tales of gore they would rehearse,
And talk of _missionary_.
They'd gaze upon each other's joints,
And indicate the tender points.
Said one: "For us
'Tis dangerous
To _think_ of _missionary_."
Well, on a day, upon the shore,
As flotsam, or as jetsam,
Some wooden cases,--ten, or more,--
Were cast up. "Let us get some,
And see, my friend, what they contain;
The chance may not occur again,"
Said good Who-zoo.
Said Tum-tum, "Do;
We'll both wade out and get some."
The cases held,--what do you think?--
"|Prime Missionary--tinned.|"
Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink--
The man who made it sinned:
He thus had labelled bloater-paste
To captivate the native taste.
He hoped, of course,
This fraud to force
On them. In this he sinned.
Our simple friends knew naught of sin;
They thought that this confection
_Was_ missionary in a tin
According to direction.
For very joy they shed salt tears.
"'Tis what we've waited for, for years,"
Said they. "Hooray!
We'll feast to-day
According to direction."
"'Tis very tough," said one, for he
The tin and all had eaten.
"Too salt," the other said, "for me;
The flavour might be beaten."
It was enough. Soon each one swore
He'd missionary eat no more:
Their tastes were cured,
They felt assured
This flavour might be beaten.
And, should a missionary call
To-day, he'd find them gentle,
With no perverted tastes at all,
And manners ornamental;
He'd be received, I'm bound to say,
In courteous and proper way;
Nor need he fear
To taste their cheer
However ornamental.
_G. E. Farrow._
THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK
I may as well
Proceed to tell
About a Mister Higgs,
Who grew quite rich
In trade--the which
Was selling pork and pigs.
From trade retired,
He much desired
To rank with gentlefolk,
So bought a place
He called "The Chase,"
And furnished it--old oak.
Ancestors got
(Twelve pounds the lot,
In Tottenham Court Road);
A pedigree--
For nine pounds three,--
The Heralds' Court bestowed.
Within the hall,
And on the wall,
Hung armour bright and strong.
"To Ethelbred"--
The label read--
"De Higgs, this did belong."
'Twas _quite_ complete,
This country seat,
Yet neighbours stayed away.
Nobody called,--
Higgs was blackballed,--
Which caused him great dismay.
"Why _can_ it be?"
One night said he
When thinking of it o'er.
There came a knock
('Twas twelve o'clock)
Upon his chamber door.
Higgs cried, "Come in!"
A vapour thin
The keyhole wandered through.
Higgs rubbed his eyes
In mild surprise:
A ghost appeared in view.
"I beg," said he,
"You'll pardon me,
In calling rather late.
A family ghost,
I seek a post,
With wage commensurate.
"I'll serve you well;
My 'fiendish yell'
Is certain sure to please.
'Sepulchral tones,'
And 'rattling bones,'
I'm _very_ good at these.
"Five bob I charge
To roam at large,
With 'clanking chains' _ad lib._;
I do such things
As 'gibberings'
At one-and-three per gib.
"Or, by the week,
I merely seek
Two pounds--which is not dear;
Because I need,
Of course, _no_ feed,
_No_ washing, and _no_ beer."
Higgs thought it o'er
A bit, before
He hired the family ghost,
But, finally,
He did agree
To give to him the post.
It got about--
You know, no doubt,
How quickly such news flies--
Throughout the place,
From "Higgses Chase"
Proceeded ghostly cries.
The rumour spread,
Folks shook their head,
But dropped in one by one.
A bishop came
(Forget his name),
And then the thing was done.
For afterwards
_All_ left their cards,
"Because," said they, "you see,
One who can boast
A family ghost
Respectable _must_ be."
When it was due,
The "ghostes's" screw
Higgs raised--as was but right--
They often play,
In friendly way,
A game of cards at night.
_G. E. Farrow._
SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE
Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,--
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,--
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,
Over and over the Mænads sang:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Small pity for him!--He sailed away
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,--
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's-people on her deck!
"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"
And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,--
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?--
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Sweetly along the Salem road
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
Little the wicked skipper knew
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
Of voices shouting, far and near:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,--
"What to me is this noisy ride?
What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me,--I only dread
The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him! Why should we?"
Said an old wife, mourning her only son:
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
_J. G. Whittier._
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail
Of his coat for a sail,
Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why
He couldn't fly,
And flap and flutter and wish and try--
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign
He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer, age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean--
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry--for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent
To catch the scent,
Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.
And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Dædalus of yore
And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs
Those wings of wax
He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion
That the air is also man's dominion,
And that, with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late shall navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And if you doubt it,
Hear how Darius reasoned about it.
"The birds can fly an' why can't I?
Must we give in," says he with a grin.
"That the bluebird an' ph[oe]be
Are smarter'n we be?
Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren,
No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men?
Just show me that!
Ur prove 't the bat
Hez got more brains than's in my hat.
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"
He argued further: "Nur I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me;--
Ain't my business
Important's his'n is?
That Icarus
Made a perty muss--
Him an' his daddy Dædalus
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax
Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks.
I'll make mine o' luther,
Ur suthin' ur other."
And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned:
"But I ain't goin' to show my hand
To mummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand."
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws
And all such things as geniuses use;--
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box,
In which he locks
These and a hundred other things.
His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work--
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks
He plugged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks;
And a dipper of water, which one would think
He had brought up into the loft to drink
When he chanced to be dry,
Stood always nigh,
For Darius was sly!
And whenever at work he happened to spy
At chink or crevice a blinking eye,
He let the dipper of water fly.
"Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep,
Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"
And he sings as he locks
His big strong box:--
"The weasel's head is small an' trim,
An' he is little an' long an' slim,
An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb
An' ef you'll be
Advised by me,
Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!"
So day after day
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away,
Till at last 'twas done--
The greatest invention under the sun!
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fur some fun!"
'Twas the Fourth of July,
And the weather was dry,
And not a cloud was on all the sky,
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there
Half mist, half air,
Like foam on the ocean went floating by--
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine.
Thought cunning Darius: "Now I shan't go
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show.
I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!
An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off,
I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing,
An' practise a little on the wing."
"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"
Says brother Nate. "No; botheration!
I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I--
My gracious!--feel's though I should fly!"
Said Jotham, "Sho!
Guess ye better go."
But Darius said, "No!
Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though,
'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red
O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head."
For all the while to himself he said:--
"I tell ye what!
I'll fly a few times around the lot,
To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got
The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,
I'll astonish the nation,
An' all creation,
By flyin' over the celebration!
Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;
I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull:
I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple;
I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people!
I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow;
An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,
'What world's this 'ere
That I've come near?'
Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon;
An' I'll try to race 'ith their ol' balloon!"
He crept from his bed;
And, seeing the others were gone, he said,
"I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head."
And away he sped,
To open the wonderful box in the shed.
His brothers had walked but a little way,
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,
"What is the feller up to, hey!"
"Don'o'--the 's suthin' ur other to pay,
Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-day."
Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye!
_He_ never 'd missed a Fo'th-o'-July,
Ef he hedn't got some machine to try."
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!
Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn,
An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!"
"Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back
Along by the fences, behind the stack,
And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;
And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat
And there they hid;
And Reuben slid
The fastenings back, and the door undid.
"Keep dark!" said he,
"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."
As knights of old put on their mail--
From head to foot an iron suit,
Iron jacket and iron boot,
Iron breeches, and on the head
No hat, but an iron pot instead,
And under the chin the bail,
(I believe they called the thing a helm,)
Then sallied forth to overwhelm
The dragons and pagans that plagued the earth
So this _modern_ knight
Prepared for flight,
Put on his wings and strapped them tight
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light--
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip;
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip
And a helm had he, but that he wore,
Not on his head, like those of yore,
But more like the helm of a ship.
"Hush!" Reuben said,
"He's up in the shed!
He's opened the winder--I see his head!
He stretches it out, an' pokes it about,
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,
An' nobody near;--
Guess he don' o' who's hid in here!
He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!
Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!
He's a climbin' out now--Of all the things!
What's he got on? I vum, it's wings!
An' that 'tother thing? I vum, it's a tail!
An' there he sits like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder; this way an' that,
Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by;
But the' 's on'y a caf an' goslin nigh.
_They_ turn up aderin' eye,
To see-- The dragon! he's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!
Flop--flop--an' plump
To the ground with a thump!
Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin' all 'n a lump!"
As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere--
Heels over head, and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,
In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs.
Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting-stars, and various things;
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that wasn't so sweet by half.
Away with a bellow fled the calf,
And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?
'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying,
"Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?"
Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,
Darius just turned and looked that way,
As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff.
"Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"
He said; "but the' ain't such a thunderin' sight
O' fun in 't when ye come to light."
I just have room for the |MORAL| here:
And this is the moral--Stick to your sphere.
Or if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is--Take care how you light.
_John Townsend Trowbridge._
A GREAT FIGHT
"There was a man in Arkansaw
As let his passions rise,
And not unfrequently picked out
Some other varmint's eyes.
"His name was Tuscaloosa Sam
And often he would say,
'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw
I can't whip any day.'
"One morn, a stranger passin' by,
Heard Sammy talkin' so,
And down he scrambled from his hoss,
And off his coat did go.
"He sorter kinder shut one eye,
And spit into his hand,
And put his ugly head one side,
And twitched his trowsers' band.
"'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief,
Whomever you may be,
That I kin make you screech, and smell
Pertiklor agony.'
"I'm thar,' said Tuscaloosa Sam,
And chucked his hat away;
'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned up
As far as buttons may.
"He thundered on the stranger's mug,
The stranger pounded he;
And oh! the way them critters fit
Was beautiful to see.
"They clinched like two rampageous bears,
And then went down a bit;
They swore a stream of six-inch oaths
And fit, and fit, and fit.
"When Sam would try to work away,
And on his pegs to git,
The stranger'd pull him back; and so,
They fit, and fit, and fit!
"Then like a pair of lobsters, both
Upon the ground were knit,
And yet the varmints used their teeth,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!
"The sun of noon was high above,
And hot enough to split,
But only riled the fellers more,
That fit, and fit, and fit!!!
"The stranger snapped at Samy's nose,
And shortened it a bit;
And then they both swore awful hard,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!
"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark,
And all the litenins lit;
But still them critters rolled about,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!
"First Sam on top, then t'other chap;
When one would make a hit,
The other'd smell the grass; and so
They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!
"The night came on, the stars shone out
As bright as wimmen's wit;
And still them fellers swore and gouged,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!
"The neighbours heard the noise they made,
And thought an earthquake lit;
Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam
As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!
"For miles around the noise was heard;
Folks couldn't sleep a bit,
Because them two rantankerous chaps
Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!
"But jist at cock-crow, suddenly,
There came an awful pause,
And I and my old man run out
To ascertain the cause.
"The sun was rising in the yeast,
And lit the hull concern;
But not a sign of either chap
Was found at any turn.
"Yet, in the region where they fit,
We found, to our surprise,
One pint of buttons, two big knives,
Some whiskers, and four, eyes!"
_Robert Henry Newell._
THE DONNYBROOK JIG
Oh! 'twas Dermot O'Nolan M'Figg,
That could properly handle a twig,
He wint to the fair, and kicked up a dust there,
In dancing a Donnybrook jig--with his twig.
Oh! my blessing to Dermot M'Figg.
Whin he came to the midst of the fair,
He was all in a paugh for fresh air,
For the fair very soon, was as full--as the moon,
Such mobs upon mobs as were there, oh rare!
So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.
But Dermot, his mind on love bent,
In search of his sweetheart he went,
Peep'd in here and there, as he walked through the fair,
And took a small drop in each tent--as he went,--
Oh! on whisky and love he was bent.
And who should he spy in a jig,
With a meal-man so tall and so big,
But his own darling Kate, so gay and so nate?
Faith! her partner he hit him a dig--the pig,
He beat the meal out of his wig.
The piper, to keep him in tune,
Struck up a gay lilt very soon;
Until an arch wag cut a hole in the bag,
And at once put an end to the tune--too soon--
Och! the music flew up to the moon.
The meal-man he looked very shy,
While a great big tear stood in his eye,
He cried, "Lord, how I'm kilt, all alone for that jilt;
With her may the devil fly high in the sky,
For I'm murdered, and don't know for why."
"Oh!" says Dermot, and he in the dance,
Whilst a step to'ards his foe did advance,
"By the Father of Men, say but that word again,
And I'll soon knock you back in a trance--to your dance,
For with me you'd have but small chance."
"But," says Kitty, the darlint, says she,
"If you'll only just listen to me,
It's myself that will show that he can't be your foe,
Though he fought for his cousin--that's me," says she,
"For sure Billy's related to me.
"For my own cousin-jarmin, Anne Wild,
Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first child;
And Biddy's step-son, sure he married Bess Dunn,
Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild a child
As ever at mother's breast smiled.
"And may be you don't know Jane Brown,
Who served goat's-whey in Dundrum's sweet town?
'Twas her uncle's half-brother, who married my mother,
And bought me this new yellow gown, to go down
When the marriage was held in Milltown."
"By the powers, then," says Dermot, "'tis plain,
Like the son of that rapscallion Cain,
My best friend I have kilt, though no blood is spilt,
But the devil a harm did I mane--that's plain;
And by me he'll be ne'er kilt again."
_Viscount Dillon._
UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY
A captain bold from Halifax who dwelt in country quarters,
Betrayed a maid who hanged herself one morning in her Garters.
His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his Stomach daily,
And took to drinking Ratafia while thinking of Miss Bailey.
One night betimes he went to bed, for he had caught a Fever;
Says he, "I am a handsome man, but I'm a gay Deceiver."
His candle just at twelve o'clock began to burn quite palely,
A Ghost stepped up to his bedside and said "Behold Miss Bailey!"
"Avaunt, Miss Bailey!" then he cries, "your Face looks white and mealy."
"Dear Captain Smith," the ghost replied, "you've used me ungenteelly;
The Crowner's 'Quest goes hard with me because I've acted frailly,
And Parson Biggs won't bury me though I am dead Miss Bailey."
"Dear Corpse!" said he, "since you and I accounts must once for all
close,
There really is a one pound note in my regimental Smallclothes;
I'll bribe the sexton for your grave." The ghost then vanished gaily
Crying "Bless you, Wicked Captain Smith, Remember poor Miss Bailey."
_Unknown._
THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN
The last two stanzas were added by Miss Ferrier.
The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great;
His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state;
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep;
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.
Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she'd look well
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee--
A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree.
His wig was well-pouther'd, as guid as when new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue:
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat--
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie--
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben:
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine;
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put off her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low;
And what was his errand he soon let her know,
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na,
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.
Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten--
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,
They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.
_Lady Nairne._
A WEDDING
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been;
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.
At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town;
Vorty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest;
Our landlord looks like nothing to him;
The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him
Should he go still so drest.
At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the green,
Or Vincent of the crown.
But wot you what? The youth was going
To make an end of all his woing;
The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance as did the maid.
The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)
For such a maid no Whitson-ale
Could ever yet produce;
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft, as she
Nor half so full of juyce.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck:
And, to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way;
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisie makes comparison
(Who sees them is undone);
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,
The side that's next the Sun.
Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on a Sun in July.
Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.
Passion, oh me! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, besides the bride.
The business of the kitchen's great;
For it is fit that men should eat,
Nor was it there denied.
Just in the nick the Cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up like our train'd band,
Presented, and away.
When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace
The company was seated.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,
(And who could help it, Dick?)
O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again, and kiss:
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,
And ev'ry man wish'd his.
By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:
But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.
_Sir John Suckling._
XI
TRIBUTE
THE AHKOND OF SWAT
Who, or why, or which, or _what_,
Is the Ahkond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat, or a Cot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his t's and finish his i's with a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear,
Without a speck or a smudge or smear or a Blot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or Plot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or Shot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark, Garotte?
Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion a Jot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or What,
The Ahkond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a Lot,
For the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe
or a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, Shalott.
The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a Scot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a Grott,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a Pot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or Rot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a Knot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or Not,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a Yacht,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
The Ahkond of Swat?
_Edward Lear._
THE AHKOOND OF SWAT
"The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."--London Papers of Jan. 22, 1878.
What, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea and the Med-
Iterranean--he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn,
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.
Dead, dead, dead:
(Sorrow, Swats!)
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to victory,
As the case might be.
Sorrow, Swats!
Tears shed,
Shed tears like water.
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat,
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But laid 'mid worms to rot.
His mortal part alone, his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his frame surround
(Forever hallowed by the ground!)
And skeptics mock the lowly mound
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
His soul is in the skies--
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries--
He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength;
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond,
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not!
_George Thomas Lanigan._
DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL,
RIVAL OF THE AKHOOND OF SWAT
I
Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot
Kotal--though where or what
On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot;
Further than this indeed he knoweth not--
It borders upon Swat!
II
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battal-
Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies
Upon Kotal,
On sad Kotal whose people ululate
For their loved Moolla late.
Put away his little turban,
And his narghileh embrowned,
The lord of Kotal--rural urban--
'S gone unto his last Akhoond,
'S gone to meet his rival Swattan,
'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.
III
His rival, but in what?
Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat
Kotal's lamented Moolla late,
As it were, emulate?
Was it in the tented field
With crash of sword on shield,
While backward meaner champions reeled
And loud the tom-tom pealed?
Did they barter gash for scar
With the Persian scimetar
Or the Afghanistee tulwar,
While loud the tom-tom pealed--
While loud the tom-tom pealed,
And the jim-jam squealed,
And champions less well heeled
Their war-horses wheeled
And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field?
Was Kotal's proud citadel--
Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned,
Beaten down with shot and shell
By the guns of the Akhoond?
Or were wails despairing caught, as
The burghers pale of Swat
Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas?"
--Or what?
Or made each in the cabinet his mark
Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?
Did they explain and render hazier
The policies of Central Asia?
Did they with speeches from the throne,
Wars dynastic,
_Entents cordiales_,
Between Swat and Kotal;
Holy alliances,
And other appliances
Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic
Come by much more than their own?
Made they mots, as "There to-day is
No more Himalayehs,"
Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are
No more Himalaya?"
Or, said the Akhoond, "Sah,
L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?"
Khabu, did there come great fear
On thy Khabuldozed Ameer
Ali Shere?
Or did the Khan of far
Kashgar
Tremble at the menace hot
Of the Moolla of Kotal,
"I will extirpate thee, pal
Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat?"
Who knows
Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?
Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes,
And in their deaths not very much divided?
If any one knows it,
Let him disclose it!
_George Thomas Lanigan._
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is--
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is--
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo:
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:
All these you eat at Terré's tavern
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-cheeked _écaillère_ is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter--nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?"
The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder--
"Monsieur is dead this many a day."
"It is the lot of saint and sinner,
So honest Terré's run his race."
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?"
"Tell me a good one."--"That I can, Sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal."
"So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place;
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and with Bouillabaisse."
My old accustom'd corner here is,
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, _cari luoghi_,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty--
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the _Gazette_;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place--but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me
--There's no one now to share my cup.
* * * * *
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
--Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
_W. M. Thackeray._
OULD DOCTOR MACK
Ye may tramp the world over
From Delhi to Dover,
And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon,
Circumvint back
Through the whole Zodiack,
But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.
Have ye the dropsy,
The gout, the autopsy?
Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez,
No ways infarior
In skill, but suparior,
And lineal postarior to Ould Aysculapius.
_Chorus_
He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:
Here's to his health,
Honor and wealth,
The king of his kind and the crame of all charity!
How the rich and the poor,
To consult for a cure,
Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages,
Showin' their tongues
Or unlacin' their lungs,
For divle one symptom the docther disparages.
Troth, an' he'll tumble,
For high or for humble,
From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;
Makin' as light
Of nursin' all night
The beggar in rags as the belle of society.
_Chorus_--He and his wig, etc.
And as if by a meracle,
Ailments hysterical,
Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother,
And quench the love-sickness
Wid wonderful quickness,
By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other.
And the sufferin' childer--
Your eyes 'twould bewilder
To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin',
And aich of them fast
On some treasure at last,
Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.
_Chorus_--He and his wig, etc.
Thin, his doctherin' done,
In a rollickin' run
Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure.
By Jupiter Ammon,
What jack-snipe or salmon
E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!
And hark! the view-hollo!
'Tis Mack in full follow
On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'.
Och, but you'd think
'Twas old Nimrod in pink,
Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and palin'.
_Chorus_
He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:
Here's to his health,
Honor and wealth!
Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity,
Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way,
All at once, widout disparity!
One more cheer
For our docther dear,
The king of his kind and the crame of all charity.
Hip, hip, hooray!
_Alfred Perceval Graves._
FATHER O'FLYNN
Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety;
Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
|Chorus|
_Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tenderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal._
Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,
Dad and the divels and all at Divinity,
Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!
Come, I venture to give you my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from Mythology
Into Thayology,
Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call.
_Chorus._
Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,
All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick!
Still for all you've so gentle a soul,
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;
Checking the crazy ones,
Coaxin' onaisy ones,
Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.
_Chorus._
And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
"Is it lave gaiety
All to the laity?
Cannot the clargy he Irishmen too?"
_Chorus._
_Alfred Perceval Graves._
THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT
O the quietest home in earth had I,
No thought of trouble, no hint of care;
Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by,
And Peace had folded her pinions there.
But one day there joined in our household band
A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.
Oh, the despot came in the dead of night,
And no one ventured to ask him why;
Like slaves we trembled before his might,
Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry;
For never a soul could his power withstand,
That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.
He ordered us here, and he sent us there--
Though never a word could his small lips speak--
With his toothless gums and his vacant stare,
And his helpless limbs so frail and weak,
Till I cried, in a voice of stern command,
"Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!"
But his abject slaves they turned on me;
Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there,
The while they worshiped with bended knee
This ruthless wretch with the missing hair;
For he rules them all with relentless hand,
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.
Then I searched for help in every clime,
For peace had fled from my dwelling now,
Till I finally thought of old Father Time,
And low before him I made my bow.
"Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand,
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?"
Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare,
And a smile came over his features grim.
"I'll take the tyrant under my care:
Watch what my hour-glass does to him.
The veriest humbug that ever was planned
Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land."
Old Time is doing his work full well--
Much less of might does the tyrant wield;
But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell,
And sad tears fall as I see him yield.
Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand,
I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land.
For the loss of peace I have ceased to care;
Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth,
To love the wretch who forgot his hair
And hurried along without a tooth,
And he rules me too with his tiny hand,
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.
_Mary E. Vandyne._
BARNEY McGEE
Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you,
Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you,
Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you--
Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see!
Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity,
Nose that turns up without any vulgarity,
Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty--
Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee!
Mellow as Tarragon,
Prouder than Aragon--
Hardly a paragon,
You will agree--
Here's all that's fine to you!
Books and old wine to you!
Girls be divine to you,
Barney McGee!
Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly,
Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly.
Here's some _Barbera_ to drink it befittingly,
That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee!
Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there,
Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there--
Once more to drink Nebiolo Spumante there,
How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea!
There where the gang of us
Met ere Rome rang of us,
They had the hang of us
To a degree.
How they would trust to you!
That was but just to you.
Here's o'er their dust to you,
Barney McGee!
Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate,
But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect;
Divil a one of us ever came in till late,
Once at the bar where you happened to be--
Every eye there like a spoke in you centering,
You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering--
All Vagabondia shouts at your entering,
King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee!
There's no satiety
In your society
With the variety
Of your _esprit_.
Here's a long purse to you,
And a great thirst to you!
Fate be no worse to you,
Barney McGee!
Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate,
Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate!
Faith, it's so killing you are, you assassinate--
Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee!
Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery--
Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery!
Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery!
How, would they silence you, Barney machree?
Naught can your gab allay,
Learned as Rabelais
(You in his abbey lay
Once on the spree).
Here's to the smile of you,
(Oh, but the guile of you!)
And a long while of you,
Barney McGee!
Facile with phrases of length and Latinity,
Like honorificabilitudinity,
Where is the maid could resist your vicinity,
Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea?
Then your vivacity and pertinacity
Carry the day with the divil's audacity;
No mere veracity robs your sagacity
Of perspicacity, Barney McGee.
When all is new to them,
What will you do to them?
Will you be true to them?
Who shall decree?
Here's a fair strife to you!
Health and long life to you!
And a great wife to you, Barney McGee!
Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility;
Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility;
Nobody ever yet found your utility
There is the charm of you, Barney McGee;
Under conditions that others would stammer in,
Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron,
Polished as somebody in the Decameron,
Putting the glamour on price or Pawnee.
In your meanderin',
Love and philanderin',
Calm as a mandarin
Sipping his tea!
Under the art of you,
Parcel and part of you,
Here's to the heart of you,
Barney McGee!
You who were ever alert to befriend a man,
You who were ever the first to defend a man,
You who had always the money to lend a man,
Down on his luck and hard up for a V!
Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beatitude
(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)--
Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude,
You'll find your latitude, Barney McGee.
That's no flim-flam at all,
Frivol or sham at all,
Just the plain--Damn it all,
Have one with me!
Here's one and more to you!
Friends by the score to you,
True to the core to you,
Barney MeGee!
_Richard Hovey._
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang;
An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
A' down my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;
An', raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were i' their doup!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neebors sympathize to ease us
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee!--thou hell o' a' diseases,
They mock our groan!
Of a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree!
Whare'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whare a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' rankèd plagues their numbers tell
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
'Till humankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick;--
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's toothache!
_Robert Burns._
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 contrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the laboring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us
That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill-fortune, that would thwart us,
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowèd features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters,--that who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than, before,
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformèd god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain;
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell,
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinkingest of the stinking kind!
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind!
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison!
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite--
Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you!
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe--
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be from pain or not.
Or, as men constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
For thy sake, |TOBACCO|, I
Would do anything but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she who once hath been
A king's consort is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.
_Charles Lamb._
JOHN BARLEYCORN
There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall:
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.
The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They fillèd up a darksome pit
With water to the brim:
They heavèd in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe:
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all--
He crush'd him 'tween two stones.
And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round,
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
_Robert Burns._
STANZAS TO PALE ALE
Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever
Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;
From thee my lips they could not sever
By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.
Did I believe the slander? Never!
I held thee still to be divine.
For me thy color hath a charm,
Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;
And be thou cold when I am warm,
As late I've been--so high the scale
Of |Fahrenheit|--and febrile harm
Allay, refrigerating Ale!
How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too
And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
Than a conundrum or a pun,
It is, in every point of view,
Must be allow'd by every one.
Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,
And burst the buttons off the coat,
Like stout and porter--fattening slops!
_Unknown._
ODE TO TOBACCO
Thou who, when fears attack,
Bidst 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 Stuart Calverley._
SONNET TO A CLAM
DUM TACENT CLAIMANT
Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil--
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
_John G. Saxe._
TO A FLY
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL Of PUNCH
Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul--
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Now let me take thee out, and moralize--
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.
Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild.
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother.
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!
And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands
Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."
And well mayest thou rejoice--'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt--
Now turnest--on the table making rings,
Now crawling, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford--
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream.
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm
While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin,
Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
_John Wolcot._