When you were mine in auld lang syne,And when none else your charms might ogle,I'll not deny,Fair nymph, that IWas happier than a Persian mogul.
Beforeshecame—that rival flame!—(Was ever female creature sillier?)In those good times,Bepraised in rhymes,I was more famed than Mother Ilia!
Chloe of Thrace! With what a graceDoes she at song or harp employ her!I'd gladly dieIf only IMight live forever to enjoy her!
My Sybaris so noble isThat, by the gods! I love him madly—That I might saveHim from the graveI'd give my life, and give it gladly!
What if ma belle from favor fell,And I made up my mind to shake her,Would Lydia, then,Come back againAnd to her quondam flame betake her?
My other beau should surely go,And you alone should find me gracious;For no one slingsSuch odes and thingsAs does the lauriger Horatius!
Us two wuz boys when we fell out,—Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;Don't rec'lect what't wuz about,Some small deeff'rence, I'll allow.Lived next neighbors twenty years,A-hatin' each other, me 'nd Jim,—He havin'hisopinyin uvme,'NdIhavin'myopinyin uvhim.
Grew up together 'nd would n't speak,Courted sisters, 'nd marr'd 'em, too;Tended same meetin'-house oncet a week,A-hatin' each other through 'nd through!But when Abe Linkern asked the WestF'r soldiers, we answered,—me 'nd Jim,—Hehavin'hisopinyin uvme,'NdIhavin'myopinyin uvhim.
But down in Tennessee one nightTher' wuz sound uv firin' fur away,'Nd the sergeant allowed ther' 'd be a fightWith the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' day;'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd homeJim stood afore me, long 'nd slim,—Hehavin'hisopinyin uvme,'NdIhavin'myopinyin uvhim.
Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to beSerious trouble f'r me 'nd him;Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me,But never a word from me or Jim!He wenthisway 'ndIwentmine,'Nd into the battle's roar went we,—Ihavin'myopinyin uv Jim,'Ndhehavin'hisopinyin uvme.
Jim never come back from the war again,But I ha' n't forgot that last, last nightWhen, waitin' f'r orders, us two menMade up 'nd shuck hands, afore the fight.'Nd, after it all, it's soothin' to knowThat hereIbe 'nd yonder's Jim,—Hehavin'hisopinyin uvme,'NdIhavin'myopinyin uvhim.
One night a tiny dewdrop fellInto the bosom of a rose,—"Dear little one, I love thee well,Be ever here thy sweet repose!"
Seeing the rose with love bedight,The envious sky frowned dark, and thenSent forth a messenger of lightAnd caught the dewdrop up again.
"Oh, give me back my heavenly child,—My love!" the rose in anguish cried;Alas! the sky triumphant smiled,And so the flower, heart-broken, died.
A moonbeam floateth from the skies,Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie!I would spin a web before your eyes,—A beautiful web of silver light,Wherein is many a wondrous sightOf a radiant garden leagues away,Where the softly tinkling lilies sway,And the snow-white lambkins are at play,—Heigho, my dearie!"
A brownie stealeth from the vineSinging, "Heigho, my dearie!And will you hear this song of mine,—A song of the land of murk and mistWhere bideth the bud the dew hath kist?Then let the moonbeam's web of lightBe spun before thee silvery white,And I shall sing the livelong night,—Heigho, my dearie!"
The night wind speedeth from the sea,Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie!I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,And the brownie sing thee lullabies;But I shall rock thee to and fro,Kissing the browheloveth so,And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow,—Heigho, my dearie!"
This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh,We've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh!He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so setIn ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet;But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils swear,—The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed anywhere!And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a tack,And that's because they emanateFrom little Mack.
In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man,As if he'd been constructed on the summer cottage plan;He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouthLies all the sensuous languor of the children of the South;His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bustHave given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust;In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders backFrom the grand Websterian foreheadOf little Mack.
No matter what the item is, if there's an item in it,You bet your life he's on to it and nips it in a minute!From multifarious nations, countries, monarchies, and lands,From Afric's sunny fountains and India's coral strands,From Greenland's icy mountains and Siloam's shady rills,He gathers in his telegrams, and Houser pays the bills;What though there be a dearth of news, he has a happy knackOf scraping up a lot of scoops,Does little Mack.
And learning? Well he knows the folks of every tribe and ageThat ever played a part upon this fleeting human stage;His intellectual system's so extensive and so greedyThat, when it comes to records, he's a walkin' cyclopedy;For having studied (and digested) all the books a-goin',It stands to reason he must know about all's worth a-knowin'!So when a politician with a record's on the track,We're apt to hear some historyFrom little Mack.
And when a fellow-journalist is broke and needs a twenty,Who's allus ready to whack up a portion of his plenty?Who's allus got a wallet that's as full of sordid gainAs his heart is full of kindness and his head is full of brain?Whose bowels of compassion will in-va-ri-a-bly moveTheir owner to those courtesies which plainly, surely proveThat he's the kind of person that never does go backOn a fellow that's in trouble?Why, little Mack!
I've heard 'em tell of Dana, and of Bonner, and of Reid,Of Johnnie Cockerill, who, I'll own, is very smart indeed;Yet I don't care what their renown or influence may be,One metropolitan exchange is quite enough for me!So keep your Danas, Bonners, Reids, your Cockerills, and the rest,The woods is full of better men all through this woolly West;For all that sleek, pretentious, Eastern editorial packWe wouldn't swap the shadow ofOur little Mack!
I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown,Through yonder lattice creepin';You come for cream and to gar me dream,But you dinna find me sleepin'.The moonbeam, that upon the floorWi' crickets ben a-jinkin',Now steals away fra' her bonnie play—Wi' a rosier blie, I'm thinkin'.
I saw you, Maister Bawsy-brown,When the blue bells went a-ringin'For the merrie fays o' the banks an' braes,And I kenned your bonnie singin';The gowans gave you honey sweets,And the posies on the heatherDript draughts o' dew for the faery crewThat danct and sang together.
But posie-bloom an' simmer-dewAnd ither sweets o' faeryC'u'd na gae down wi' Bawsy-brown,Sae nigh to Maggie's dairy!My pantry shelves, sae clean and white,Are set wi' cream and cheeses,—Gae, gin you will, an' take your fillOf whatsoever pleases.
Then wave your wand aboon my eenUntil they close awearie,And the night be past sae sweet and fastWi' dreamings o' my dearie.But pinch the wench in yonder room,For she's na gude nor bonnie,—Her shelves be dust and her pans be rust,And she winkit at my Johnnie!
Full many a sinful notionConceived of foreign powersHas come across the oceanTo harm this land of ours;And heresies called fashionsHave modesty effaced,And baleful, morbid passionsCorrupt our native taste.O tempora! O mores!What profanations theseThat seek to dim the gloriesOf apple-pie and cheese!
I'm glad my educationEnables me to standAgainst the vile temptationHeld out on every hand;Eschewing all the tittlesWith vanity replete,I'm loyal to the victualsOur grandsires used to eat!I'm glad I've got three willing boysTo hang around and teaseTheir mother for the filling joysOf apple-pie and cheese!
Your flavored creams and icesAnd your dainty angel-foodAre mighty fine devicesTo regale the dainty dude;Your terrapin and oysters,With wine to wash 'em down,Are just the thing for roistersWhen painting of the town;No flippant, sugared notionShallmyappetite appease,Or bate my soul's devotionTo apple-pie and cheese!
The pie my Julia makes me(God bless her Yankee ways!)On memory's pinions takes meTo dear Green Mountain days;And seems like I see MotherLean on the window-sill,A-handin' me and brotherWhat she knows 'll keep us still;And these feelings are so grateful,Says I, "Julia, if you please,I'll take another platefulOf that apple-pie and cheese!"
And cheese! No alien it, sir,That's brought across the sea,—No Dutch antique, nor Switzer,Nor glutinous de Brie;There's nothing I abhor soAs mawmets of this ilk—Givemethe harmless morceauThat's made of true-blue milk!No matter what conditionsDyspeptic come to feaze,The best of all physiciansIs apple-pie and cheese!
Though ribalds may decry 'em,For these twin boons we stand,Partaking thrice per diemOf their fulness out of hand;No enervating fashionShall cheat us of our rightTo gratify our passionWith a mouthful at a bite!We'll cut it square or bias,Or any way we please,And faith shall justify usWhen we carve our pie and cheese!
De gustibus, 't is stated,Non disputandum est.Which meaneth, when translated,That all is for the best.So let the foolish choose 'emThe vapid sweets of sin,I will not disabuse 'emOf the heresy they're in;But I, when I undress meEach night, upon my kneesWill ask the Lord to bless meWith apple-pie and cheese!
Krinken was a little child,—It was summer when he smiled.Oft the hoary sea and grimStretched its white arms out to him,Calling, "Sun-child, come to me;Let me warm my heart with thee!"But the child heard not the sea,Calling, yearning evermoreFor the summer on the shore.
Krinken on the beach one daySaw a maiden Nis at play;On the pebbly beach she playedIn the summer Krinken made.Fair, and very fair, was she,Just a little child was he."Krinken," said the maiden Nis,"Let me have a little kiss,Just a kiss, and go with meTo the summer-lands that beDown within the silver sea."
Krinken was a little child—By the maiden Nis beguiled,Hand in hand with her went he,And 'twas summer in the sea.And the hoary sea and grimTo its bosom folded him—Clasped and kissed the little form,And the ocean's heart was warm.
Now the sea calls out no more;It is winter on the shore,—Winter where that little childMade sweet summer when he smiled;Though 'tis summer on the seaWhere with maiden Nis went he,—Summer, summer evermore,—It is winter on the shore,Winter, winter evermore.Of the summer on the deepCome sweet visions in my sleep:Hisfair face lifts from the sea,Hisdear voice calls out to me,—These my dreams of summer be.
Krinken was a little child,By the maiden Nis beguiled;Oft the hoary sea and grimReached its longing arms to him,Crying, "Sun-child, come to me;Let me warm my heart with thee!"But the sea calls out no more;It is winter on the shore,—Winter, cold and dark and wild;Krinken was a little child,—It was summer when he smiled;Down he went into the sea,And the winter bides with me.Just a little child was he.
There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,Pay you no heed unto my sorrow:But feast to-day while yet you may,—Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
"Give us a tune," the foemen cried,In one of their profane caprices;I bade them "No"—they frowned, and, lo!They dashed this innocent in pieces!
This fiddle was the village pride—The mirth of every fête enhancing;Its wizard art set every heartAs well as every foot to dancing.
How well the bridegroom knew its voice,As from its strings its song went gushing!Nor long delayed the promised maidEquipped for bridal, coy and blushing.
Why, it discoursed so merrily,It quickly banished all dejection;And yet, when pressed, our priest confessedI played with pious circumspection.
And though, in patriotic song,It was our guide, compatriot, teacher,I never thought the foe had wroughtHis fury on the helpless creature!
But there, poor dog, my faithful friend,Pay you no heed unto my sorrow;I prithee take this paltry cake,—Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choirAs this old fiddle used to do it?Can vintage come, with this voice dumbThat used to bid a welcome to it?
It soothed the weary hours of toil,It brought forgetfulness to debtors;Time and again from wretched menIt struck oppression's galling fetters.
No man could hear its voice, and hate;It stayed the teardrop at its portal;With that dear thing I was a kingAs never yet was monarch mortal!
Now has the foe—the vandal foe—Struck from my hands their pride and glory;There let it lie! In vengeance, IShall wield another weapon, gory!
And if, O countrymen, I fall,Beside our grave let this be spoken:"No foe of France shall ever danceAbove the heart and fiddle, broken!"
So come, poor dog, my faithful friend,I prithee do not heed my sorrow,But feast to-day while yet you may,For we are like to starve to-morrow.
A little peach in the orchard grew,—A little peach of emerald hue;Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,It grew.
One day, passing that orchard through,That little peach dawned on the viewOf Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—Them two.
Up at that peach a club they threw—Down from the stem on which it grewFell that peach of emerald hue.Mon Dieu!
John took a bite and Sue a chew,And then the trouble began to brew,—Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.Too true!
Under the turf where the daisies grewThey planted John and his sister Sue,And their little souls to the angels flew,—Boo hoo!
What of that peach of the emerald hue,Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.Adieu!
1880.
O fountain of Bandusia,Whence crystal waters flow,With garlands gay and wine I'll payThe sacrifice I owe;A sportive kid with budding hornsI have, whose crimson bloodAnon shall dye and sanctifyThy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Bandusia,The dog-star's hateful spellNo evil brings unto the springsThat from thy bosom well;Here oxen, wearied by the plough,The roving cattle here,Hasten in quest of certain restAnd quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia,Ennobled shalt thou be,For I shall sing the joys that springBeneath yon ilex-tree;Yes, fountain of Bandusia,Posterity shall knowThe cooling brooks that from thy nooksSinging and dancing go!
I hear Thy voice, dear Lord;I hear it by the stormy seaWhen winter nights are black and wild,And when, affright, I call to Thee;It calms my fears and whispers me,"Sleep well, my child."
I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,In singing winds, in falling snow,The curfew chimes, the midnight bell."Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low;"The guardian angels come and go,—O child, sleep well!"
I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,Ay, though the singing winds be stilled,Though hushed the tumult of the deep,My fainting heart with anguish chilledBy Thy assuring tone is thrilled,—"Fear not, and sleep!"
Speak on—speak on, dear Lord!And when the last dread night is near,With doubts and fears and terrors wild,Oh, let my soul expiring hearOnly these words of heavenly cheer,"Sleep well, my child!"
The fire upon the hearth is low,And there is stillness everywhere,While like winged spirits, here and there,The firelight shadows fluttering go.And as the shadows round me creep,A childish treble breaks the gloom,And softly from a further roomComes, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
And somehow, with that little prayerAnd that sweet treble in my ears,My thoughts go back to distant yearsAnd linger with a loved one there;And as I hear my child's amen,My mother's faith comes back to me,—Crouched at her side I seem to be,And Mother holds my hands again.
Oh, for an hour in that dear place!Oh, for the peace of that dear time!Oh, for that childish trust sublime!Oh, for a glimpse of Mother's face!Yet, as the shadows round me creep,I do not seem to be alone,—Sweet magic of that treble tone,And "Now I lay me down to sleep."
1885.
Shall I woo the one or other?Both attract me—more's the pity!Pretty is the widowed mother,And the daughter, too, is pretty.
When I see that maiden shrinking,By the gods I swear I'll get 'er!But anon I fall to thinkingThat the mother 'll suit me better!
So, like any idiot assHungry for the fragrant fodder,Placed between two bales of grass,Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!
I count my treasures o'er with care.—The little toy my darling knew,A little sock of faded hue,A little lock of golden hair.
Long years ago this holy time,My little one—my all to me—Sat robed in white upon my kneeAnd heard the merry Christmas chime.
"Tell me, my little golden-head,If Santa Claus should come to-night,What shall he bring my baby bright,—What treasure for my boy?" I said.
And then he named this little toy,While in his round and mournful eyesThere came a look of sweet surprise,That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
And as he lisped his evening prayerHe asked the boon with childish grace;Then, toddling to the chimney-place,He hung this little stocking there.
That night, while lengthening shadows crept,I saw the white-winged angels comeWith singing to our lowly homeAnd kiss my darling as he slept.
They must have heard his little prayer,For in the morn, with rapturous face,He toddled to the chimney-place,And found this little treasure there.
They came again one Christmas-tide,—That angel host, so fair and white!And singing all that glorious night,They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, a little toy,A little lock of golden hair,The Christmas music on the air,A watching for my baby boy!
But if again that angel trainAnd golden-head come back for me,To bear me to Eternity,My watching will not be in vain!
1879.
Though care and strifeElsewhere be rife,Upon my word I do not heed 'em;In bed I lieWith books hard by,And with increasing zest I read 'em.
Propped up in bed,So much I've readOf musty tomes that I've a headfulOf tales and rhymesOf ancient times,Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!"
They give me joyWithout alloy;And isn't that what books are made for?And yet—and yet—(Ah, vain regret!)I would to God they all were paid for!
No festooned cupFilled foaming upCan lure me elsewhere to confound me;Sweeter than wineThis love of mineFor these old books I see around me!
A plague, I say,On maidens gay;I'll weave no compliments to tell 'em!Vain fool I were,Did I preferThose dolls to these old friends in vellum!
At dead of nightMy chamber's brightNot only with the gas that's burning,But with the glowOf long ago,—Of beauty back from eld returning.
Fair women's looksI see in books,I seethem, and I hear their laughter,—Proud, high-born maids,Unlike the jadesWhich men-folk now go chasing after!
Herein againSpeak valiant menOf all nativities and ages;I hear and smileWith rapture whileI turn these musty, magic pages.
The sword, the lance,The morris dance,The highland song, the greenwood ditty,Of these I read,Or, when the need,My Miller grinds me grist that's gritty!
When of such stuffWe've had enough,Why, there be other friends to greet us;We'll moralizeIn solemn wiseWith Plato or with Epictetus.
Sneer as you may,I'mproud to sayThat I, for one, am very gratefulTo Heaven, that sendsThese genial friendsTo banish other friendships hateful!
And when I'm done,I'd have no sonPounce on these treasures like a vulture;Nay, give them halfMy epitaph,And let them share in my sepulture.
Then, when the crackOf doom rolls backThe marble and the earth that hide me,I'll smuggle homeEach precious tome,Without a fear my wife shall chide me!
The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv,And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv;'T wuz in the year uv sixty-nine,—somewhere along in summer,—There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer;His name wuz Silas Pettibone,—a' artist by perfession,—With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession.He told us, by our leave, he 'd kind uv like to make some sketchesUv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountainstretches;"You're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to usA waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-floo-us.
All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin',—At daybreak off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin'That everlastin' book uv his with spider-lines all through it;Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn't no meanin' to it."Gol durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot atA-drawin' hills that's full uv quartz that's pinin' to be got at!""Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye;But one uv these fine times I'll show ye sumthin' will surprise ye!"The which remark led us to think—although he didn't say it—That Pettibone wuz owin' us a gredge 'nd meant to pay it.
One evenin' as we sat around the Restauraw de Casey,A-singin' songs 'nd tellin' yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy,In come that feller Pettibone, 'nd sez, "With your permission,I'd like to put a picture I have made on exhibition."He sot the picture on the bar 'nd drew aside its curtain,Sayin', "I reckon you'll allow as howthat'sart, f'r certain!"And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken,And f'r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken—Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover:"Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone's shef doover!"
It wuz a face—a human face—a woman's, fair 'nd tender—Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan's, and slender;The hair wuz kind uv sunny, 'nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy,The mouth wuz half a-smilin', 'nd the cheeks wuz soft 'nd creamy;It seemed like she wuz lookin' off into the west out yonder,And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, fonder,—Like, lookin' off into the west, where mountain mists wuz fallin',She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin';"Hooray!" we cried,—"a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon!Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, 'nd nominate your pizen!"
A curious situation,—one deservin' uv your pity,—No human, livin', female thing this side of Denver City!But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand 'nd bitters,—Do you wonder that that woman's face consoled the lonesome critters?And not a one but what it served in some way to remind himOf a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him;And some looked back on happier days, and saw the old-time facesAnd heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places,—A gracious touch of home. "Look here," sez Hoover, "ever'bodyQuit thinkin' 'nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!"
It wuzn't long afore the news had spread the country over,And miners come a-flockin' in like honey-bees to clover;It kind uv did 'em good, they said, to feast their hungry eyes onThat picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon.But one mean cuss from Nigger Crick passed criticisms on 'er,—Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone's madonner,The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady,So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool 'nd dry 'nd shady;Which same might not have been good law, but itwuzthe right manoeuvreTo give the critics due respect for Pettibone's shef doover.
Gone is the camp,—yes, years ago the Blue Horizon busted,And every mother's son uv us got up one day 'nd dusted,While Pettibone perceeded East with wealth in his possession,And went to Yurrup, as I heerd, to study his perfession;So, like as not, you'll find him now a-paintin' heads 'nd facesAt Venus, Billy Florence, and the like I-talyun places.But no sech face he'll paint again as at old Blue Horizon,For I'll allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on;And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris 'nd the Loover,I say, "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!"
Upon a mountain height, far from the sea,I found a shell,And to my listening ear the lonely thingEver a song of ocean seemed to sing,Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.
How came the shell upon that mountain height?Ah, who can sayWhether there dropped by some too careless hand,Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land,Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?
Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep,One song it sang,—Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide,Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,—Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.
And as the shell upon the mountain heightSings of the sea,So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,—So do I ever, wandering where I may,—Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.
1883.
Aha! a traitor in the camp,A rebel strangely bold,—A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,Not more than four years old!
To think that I, who've ruled aloneSo proudly in the past,Should be ejected from my throneBy my own son at last!
He trots his treason to and fro,As only babies can,And says he'll be his mamma's beauWhen he's a "gweat, big man"!
You stingy boy! you've always hadA share in mamma's heart;Would you begrudge your poor old dadThe tiniest little part?
That mamma, I regret to see,Inclines to take your part,—As if a dual monarchyShould rule her gentle heart!
But when the years of youth have sped,The bearded man, I trow,Will quite forget he ever saidHe'd be his mamma's beau.
Renounce your treason, little son,Leave mamma's heart to me;For there will come another oneTo claim your loyalty.
And when that other comes to you,God grant her love may shineThrough all your life, as fair and trueAs mamma's does through mine!
1885.
Fair is the castle up on the hill—Hushaby, sweet my own!The night is fair, and the waves are still,And the wind is singing to you and to meIn this lowly home beside the sea—Hushaby, sweet my own!
On yonder hill is store of wealth—Hushaby, sweet my own!And revellers drink to a little one's health;But you and I bide night and dayFor the other love that has sailed away—Hushaby, sweet my own!
See not, dear eyes, the forms that creepGhostlike, O my own!Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;Oh, see them not and make no cryTill the angels of death have passed us by—Hushaby, sweet my own!
Ah, little they reck of you and me—Hushaby, sweet my own!In our lonely home beside the sea;They seek the castle up on the hill,And there they will do their ghostly will—Hushaby, O my own!
Here by the sea a mother croons"Hushaby, sweet my own!"In yonder castle a mother swoonsWhile the angels go down to the misty deep,Bearing a little one fast asleep—Hushaby, sweet my own!
"Sweetheart, take this," a soldier said,"And bid me brave good-by;It may befall we ne'er shall wed,But love can never die.Be steadfast in thy troth to me,And then, whate'er my lot,'My soul to God, my heart to thee,'—Sweetheart, forget me not!"
The maiden took the tiny flowerAnd nursed it with her tears:Lo! he who left her in that hourCame not in after years.Unto a hero's death he rode'Mid shower of fire and shot;But in the maiden's heart abodeThe flower, forget-me-not.
And whenhecame not with the restFrom out the years of blood,Closely unto her widowed breastShe pressed a faded bud;Oh, there is love and there is pain,And there is peace, God wot,—And these dear three do live againIn sweet forget-me-not.
'T is to an unmarked grave to-dayThat I should love to go,—Whether he wore the blue or gray,What need that we should know?"He loved a woman," let us say,And on that sacred spot,To woman's love, that lives for aye,We'll strew forget-me-not.
1887.
Lofty and enduring is the monument I've reared,—Come, tempests, with your bitterness assailing;And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal feared,Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing!
I shall not altogether die; by far my greater partShall mock man's common fate in realms infernal;My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my art,—My works shall be my monument eternal!
While this great Roman empire stands and gods protect our fanes,Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story,How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plainsFirst raised the native lyric muse to glory.
Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I've won,And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying,Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated sonThe Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying!
Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn,—Lie in my arms and dinna greit;Long time been past syn I kenned you last,But my harte been allwais the same, my swete.
Ailsie, I colde not say you ill,For out of the mist of your bitter tears,And the prayers that rise from your bonnie eyesCometh a promise of oder yeres.
I mind the time when we lost our bairn,—Do you ken that time? A wambling tot,You wandered away ane simmer day,And we hunted and called, and found you not.
I promised God, if He'd send you back,Alwaies to keepe and to love you, childe;And I'm thinking again of that promise whenI see you creep out of the storm sae wild.
You came back then as you come back now,—Your kirtle torn and your face all white;And you stood outside and knockit and cried,Just as you, dearie, did to-night.
Oh, never a word of the cruel wrang,That has faded your cheek and dimmed your ee;And never a word of the fause, fause lord,—Only a smile and a kiss for me.
Lie in my arms, as long, long syne,And sleepe on my bosom, deere wounded thing,—I'm nae sae glee as I used to be,Or I'd sing you the songs I used to sing.
But Ile kemb my fingers thro' y'r haire,And nane shall know, but you and I,Of the love and the faith that came to us baithWhen Ailsie, my bairn, came home to die.
Out on the mountain over the town,All night long, all night long,The trolls go up and the trolls go down,Bearing their packs and crooning a song;And this is the song the hill-folk croon,As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,—This is ever their dolorous tune:"Gold, gold! ever more gold,—Bright red gold for dearie!"
Deep in the hill the yeoman delvesAll night long, all night long;None but the peering, furtive elvesSee his toil and hear his song;Merrily ever the cavern ringsAs merrily ever his pick he swings,And merrily ever this song he sings:"Gold, gold! ever more gold,—Bright red gold for dearie!"
Mother is rocking thy lowly bedAll night long, all night long,Happy to smooth thy curly headAnd to hold thy hand and to sing her song;'T is not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old,Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold,And the burden it beareth is not of gold;But it's "Love, love!—nothing but love,—Mother's love for dearie!"
There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine,And gayly they called to the hostess for wine."And where is thy daughter? We would she were here,—Go fetch us that maiden to gladden our cheer!"
"I'll fetch thee thy goblets full foaming," she said,"But in yon darkened chamber the maiden lies dead."And lo! as they stood in the doorway, the whiteOf a shroud and a dead shrunken face met their sight.
Then the first cavalier breathed a pitiful sigh,And the throb of his heart seemed to melt in his eye,And he cried, "Hadst thou lived, O my pretty white rose,I ween I had loved thee and wed thee—who knows?"
The next cavalier drew aside a small space,And stood to the wall with his hands to his face;And this was the heart-cry that came with his tears:"I loved her, I loved her these many long years!"
But the third cavalier kneeled him down in that place,And, as it were holy, he kissed that dead face:"I loved thee long years, and I love thee to-day,And I'll love thee, dear maiden, forever and aye!"
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hidingWhenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding;Sothly it ben faire to give up your moderFor to beare swete company with some oder;Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth,But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth;Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyesThat marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;But all that do with gode men wed full quickylyeWhen that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.
The sky is dark and the hills are whiteAs the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,And this is the song the storm-king sings,As over the world his cloak he flings:"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;"He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:"Sleep, little one, sleep."
On yonder mountain-side a vineClings at the foot of a mother pine;The tree bends over the trembling thing,And only the vine can hear her sing:"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;What shall you fear when I am here?Sleep, little one, sleep."
The king may sing in his bitter flight,The tree may croon to the vine to-night,But the little snowflake at my breastLiketh the songIsing the best,—Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;Weary thou art, anext my heartSleep, little one, sleep.
When, to despoil my native France,With flaming torch and cruel swordAnd boisterous drums her foeman comes,I curse him and his vandal horde!Yet, what avail accrues to her,If we assume the garb of woe?Let's merry be,—in laughter weMay rescue somewhat from the foe!
Ah, many a brave man trembles now.I (coward!) show no sign of fear;When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends,I drown my panic in his cheer.Come, gather round my humble board,And let the sparkling wassail flow,—Chuckling to think, the while you drink,"This much we rescue from the foe!"
My creditors beset me soAnd so environed my abode,That I agreed, despite my need,To settle up the debts I owed;When suddenly there came the newsOf this invasion, as you know;I'll pay no score; pray, lend me more,—I—Iwill keep it from the foe!
Now here's my mistress,—pretty dear!—Feigns terror at this martial noise,And yet, methinks, the artful minxWould like to meet those soldier boys!I tell her that they're coarse and rude,Yet feel she don't believe 'em so,—Well, never mind; so she be kind,That much I rescue from the foe!
If, brothers, hope shall have in storeFor us and ours no friendly glance,Let's rather die than raise a cryOf welcome to the foes of France!But, like the swan that dying sings,Let us, O Frenchmen, singing go,—Then shall our cheer, when death is near,Be so much rescued from the foe!
Thar showed up out'n Denver in the spring uv '81A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.His name wuz Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he wuz a sight ter viewEz he walked inter the orfice 'nd inquired fer work ter do.Thar warn't no places vacant then,—fer be it understood,That wuz the time when talent flourished at that altitood;But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the restUv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best,Till finally he stated (quite by chance) that he hed doneA heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cussWho'd worked f'r Mr. Danamustbe good enough ferus!And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could,For ifwe didn'ttake him we knew John Arkinswould;And Cooper, too, wuz mouzin' round fer enterprise 'nd brains,Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains.At any rate we nailed him, which made ol' Cooper swearAnd Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair;Butweset back and cackled, 'nd bed a power uv funWith our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop,Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop:It seems that Dana wuz the biggest man you ever saw,—He lived on human bein's, 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw!If he hed Democratic drugs ter take, before he took 'em,As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em.The man that could set down 'nd write like Dany never grew,And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew;The consequence appeared to be that nearly every oneConcurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun.
This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in,—He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin.Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk,He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work!If any other cuss had played the tricks he dared ter play,The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day;But somehow folks respected him and stood him to the last,Considerin' his superior connections in the past.So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gunOn the man who 'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.
Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83.A very different party from the man we thought ter see,—A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm,You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm!A certain hearty manner 'nd a fulness uv the vestBetokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best;His face wuz so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind,That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind;And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hairIn promise uv the golden crown He meaneth him to wear.So, uv us boys that met him out'n Denver, there wuz noneBut fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun.
But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83,His old friend Cantell Whoppers disappeared upon a spree;The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so(They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know),That he borrered all the stuff he could and started on a bat,And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that.So, when ol' Dana hove in sight, we couldn't understandWhy he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand;No casual allusion, not a question, no, not one,For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun!"
We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised,Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised.He said that Whoppers wuz a man he 'd never heerd about,But he mought have carried papers on a Jarsey City route;And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laffan sayThat he'd fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day,Which, with more likkerunderneaththan moneyinhis vest,Had started on a freight-train fur the great 'nd boundin' West,But further information or statistics he had noneUv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."
We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss,—When we get played for suckers, why, that's a horse on us!—But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laffTo hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staffA man who's "worked with Dana," 'nd then we fellers winkAnd pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think.It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say,If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away;And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shunThe man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."
But bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years,To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears;An' mayIlive a thousan', too,—a thousan' less a day,For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away.And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaffNor biographic data put in your epitaph;But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks knowThe homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe;You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who runThat best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."
Hush, little one, and fold your hands;The sun hath set, the moon is high;The sea is singing to the sands,And wakeful posies are beguiledBy many a fairy lullaby:Hush, little child, my little child!
Dream, little one, and in your dreamsFloat upward from this lowly place,—Float out on mellow, misty streamsTo lands where bideth Mary mild,And let her kiss thy little face,You little child, my little child!
Sleep, little one, and take thy rest,With angels bending over thee,—Sleep sweetly on that Father's breastWhom our dear Christ hath reconciled;But stay not there,—come back to me,O little child, my little child!
What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,With smiles for diet,Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,On the quiet?For whom do you bind up your tresses,As spun-gold yellow,—Meshes that go, with your caresses,To snare a fellow?
How will he rail at fate capricious,And curse you duly!Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,Youperfect, truly!Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean;He'll soon fall in there!Then shall I gloat on his commotion,ForIhave been there!
My Shepherd is the Lord my God,—There is no want I know;His flock He leads in verdant meads,Where tranquil waters flow.
He doth restore my fainting soulWith His divine caress,And, when I stray, He points the wayTo paths of righteousness.
Yea, though I walk the vale of death,What evil shall I fear?Thy staff and rod are mine, O God,And Thou, my Shepherd, near!
Mine enemies behold the feastWhich my dear Lord hath spread;And, lo! my cup He filleth up,With oil anoints my head!
Goodness and mercy shall be mineUnto my dying day;Then will I bide at His dear sideForever and for aye!
The women-folk are like to books,—Most pleasing to the eye,Whereon if anybody looksHe feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale,—Those that record no dates,And such editions as regaleThe view with colored plates.
Of every quality and gradeAnd size they may be found,—Quite often beautifully made,As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice,I'd choose no folio tall,But some octavo to rejoiceMy sight and heart withal,—
As plump and pudgy as a snipe;Well worth her weight in gold;Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,Andjustthe size to hold!
With such a volume for my wifeHow should I keep and con!How like a dream should run my lifeUnto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fairThan any colored plate;Blooming with health, she would not careTo extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should beA wealth of prose and verse,With now and then ajeu d'esprit,—But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,Verse when to verse inclined,—Forever bringing sweet reposeTo body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prizeIn bindings full and fine,And keep her where no human eyesShould see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as thisWhat happiness abounds!Who—who could paint my rapturous bliss,My joy unknown to Lowndes!
Sing, Christmas bells!Say to the earth this is the mornWhereon our Saviour-King is born;Sing to all men,—the bond, the free,The rich, the poor, the high, the low,The little child that sports in glee,The aged folk that tottering go,—Proclaim the mornThat Christ is born,That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host!Sing of the star that God has placedAbove the manger in the east;Sing of the glories of the night,The virgin's sweet humility,The Babe with kingly robes bedight,Sing to all men where'er they beThis Christmas morn;For Christ is born,That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth!O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!God liveth, and we have a king!The curse is gone, the bond are free,—By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed,By all the heavenly signs that be,We know that Israel is redeemed;That on this mornThe Christ is bornThat saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart!Sing thou in rapture this dear mornWhereon the blessed Prince is born!And as thy songs shall be of love,So let my deeds be charity,—By the dear Lord that reigns above,By Him that died upon the tree,By this fair mornWhereon is bornThe Christ that saveth all and me!