No Maloryof old romance,No Crusoe tale, it seems to me,Can equal in rich circumstanceThis telephone directory.No ballad of fair ladies' eyes,No legend of proud knights and dames,Can fill me with such bright surmiseAs this great book of numbered names!How many hearts and lives unknown,Rare damsels pining for a squire,Are waiting for the telephoneTo ring, and call them to the wire.Some wait to hear a loved voice sayThe news they will rejoice to knowAt Rome 2637 JOr Marathon 1450!And some, perhaps, are stung with fearAnd answer with reluctant tread:The message they expect to hearMeans life or death or daily bread.A million hearts here wait our call,All naked to our distant speech—I wish that I could ring them allAnd have some welcome news for each!
No Crusoe tale, it seems to me,
This telephone directory.
No legend of proud knights and dames,
As this great book of numbered names!
Rare damsels pining for a squire,
To ring, and call them to the wire.
The news they will rejoice to know
Or Marathon 1450!
And answer with reluctant tread:
Means life or death or daily bread.
All naked to our distant speech—
And have some welcome news for each!
Atthree o'clock in the afternoonOn a hot September day,I began to dream of a highland streamAnd a frostbit russet tree;Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship(White canvas wet with spray)And the swirling green and milk-foam cleanAlong her canted lee.I heard the quick staccato clickOf the typist's pounding keys,And I had to brood of a wind more rudeThan that by a motor fanned—And I lay inert in a flannel shirtTo watch the rhyming seasDeploy and fall in a silver sprawlOn a beach of sun-blanched sand.There is no desk shall tame my lustFor hills and windy skies;My secret hope of the sea's blue slopeNo clerkly task shall dull;And though I print no echoed hintOf adventures I devise,My eyes still pine for the comely lineOf an outbound vessel's hull.When I elope with an autumn dayAnd make my green escape,I'll leave my pen to tamer menWho have more docile souls;For forest aisles and office filesHave a very different shape,And it's hard to woo the ocean blueIn a row of pigeon holes!
On a hot September day,
And a frostbit russet tree;
(White canvas wet with spray)
Along her canted lee.
Of the typist's pounding keys,
Than that by a motor fanned—
To watch the rhyming seas
On a beach of sun-blanched sand.
For hills and windy skies;
No clerkly task shall dull;
Of adventures I devise,
Of an outbound vessel's hull.
And make my green escape,
Who have more docile souls;
Have a very different shape,
In a row of pigeon holes!
Rocky OutcropMy eyes still pine for the comely lineOf an outbound vessel's hull.
My eyes still pine for the comely lineOf an outbound vessel's hull.
(Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute the name of his favorite suburb)
Thestars are kind to Marathon,How low, how close, they lean!They jostle one anotherAnd do their best to please—Indeed, they are so neighborlyThat in the twilight greenOne reaches out to pick themBehind the poplar trees.The stars are kind to Marathon,And one particularBright planet (which is Vesper)Most lucid and serene,Is waiting by the railway bridge,The Good Commuter's Star,The Star of Wise Men coming homeOn time, at 6:15!
I'dlike to split the sky that roofs us down,Break through the crystal lid of upper air,And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven.I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshnessDown some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust,Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles,The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells,And gush that bright sweet flood of unused airDown every alley where the children gasp.And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons—Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,—And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums.In every wagon would be blocks of coldness,Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver,With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty;Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer,And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.And where my wagons stood there would be puddles,A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness.My friends and I would chop and splinter openThe blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering,And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers,And some would stagger home with it in baskets,And some would be too gay for aught but sucking,Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles,Gulping as they slipped down unexpected—Laughing to perceive that secret numbnessAmid their small hot persons!At every stop would be at least one urchinWould take a piece to cool the sweating horsesAnd hold it up against their silky noses—And they would start, and then decide they liked it.Down all the sun-cursed byways of the townOur wagons would be trailed by grimy tots,Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement!Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage,A lucky few up sitting with the driver,All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.And by the time the wagons were all emptyOur arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping,Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen.But how we would recall those eager faces,Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them,The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness.Then we would know that arms were made for aching—I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!
Howwell he spoke who coined the phraseThe picture palace!Aye, in soothA palace, where men's weary daysAre crowned with kingliness of youth.Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim,Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart,We watch a wand of brightness limnThe old heroics of the heart.Romance again hath us in thrallAnd Love is sweet and always true,And in the darkness of the hallHands clasp—as they were meant to do.Remote from peevish joys and illsOur souls,pro tem, are purged and free:We see the sun on western hills,The crumbling tumult of the sea.We are the blond that maidens crave,Well balanced at a dozen banks;By sleight of hand we haste to saveA brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!Alas, perhaps our instinct feelsLife is not all it might have been,So we applaud fantastic reelsOf shadow, cast upon a screen!
The picture palace!Aye, in sooth
Are crowned with kingliness of youth.
Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart,
The old heroics of the heart.
And Love is sweet and always true,
Hands clasp—as they were meant to do.
Our souls,pro tem, are purged and free:
The crumbling tumult of the sea.
Well balanced at a dozen banks;
A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!
Life is not all it might have been,
Of shadow, cast upon a screen!
i
Eachmorn she crackles upward, tread by tread,All apprehensive of some hideous sight:Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed,Forgot his gas and let it burn all night—The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room,She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled,And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom,Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.iiNo League of Nations scheme can make her gay—She knows the rank duplicity of man;Some folks expect clean towels every day,They'll get away with murder if they can!She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it)Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!iiiMen lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said:They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines,They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread,They're out all morning, when a body cleans.A man ain't so secretive, never caresWhat kind of private papers he leaves lay,So I can get a line on his affairsAnd dope out whether he is likely pay.But women! Say, they surely get my bug!They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum,Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug,And fry marshmallows when their callers come.They always are behindhand with their rents—Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!
All apprehensive of some hideous sight:
Forgot his gas and let it burn all night—
She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled,
Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.
ii
She knows the rank duplicity of man;
They'll get away with murder if they can!
iii
Cleaning BedroomA man ain't so secretive, never caresWhat kind of private papers he leaves lay—
A man ain't so secretive, never caresWhat kind of private papers he leaves lay—
Aboutthese roaring cylindersWhere leaping words and paper mate,A sudden glory moves and stirs—An inky cataract in spate!What voice for falsehood or for truth,What hearts attentive to be stirred—How dimly understood, in sooth,The power of the printed word!These flashing webs and cogs of steelHave shaken empires, routed kings,Yet never turn too fast to feelThe tragedies of humble things.O words, be strict in honesty,Be just and simple and serene;O rhymes, sing true, or you will beUnworthy of this great machine!
Where leaping words and paper mate,
An inky cataract in spate!
What hearts attentive to be stirred—
The power of the printed word!
Have shaken empires, routed kings,
The tragedies of humble things.
Be just and simple and serene;
Unworthy of this great machine!
Acrossthe court there rises the back wallOf the Magna Carta Apartments.The other evening the people in the apartment oppositeHad forgotten to draw their curtains.I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth,The silver and glass, the crystal water jug,The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink handsOutstretched in busy gesture.It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human;So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.They were four: an elderly couple,A young man, and a girl—with lovely shouldersMellow in the glow of the lamp.They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.At last the older two left the room.The boy and girl looked at each other....Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!A little later I went down the street to the movies,And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.And as I watched them I felt like God—Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.
(To Stephen Vincent Benét.)
Climbingis easy and swift on Parnassus!Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop;There found a book of verse by a young poet.Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting—Then I ran with him on hills that were windy,Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches,Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights,Watched him disposing his planets in patterns,Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses;Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood—Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack,Trying my trinkets with those of his finding—And as I left the bookshopMy pipe was still warm in my hand.
Colin, worshipping some frail,By self-deprecation sways her:Calls himself unworthy male,Hardly even fit to praise her.But this tactic insincereIn the upshot greatly grieves himWhen he finds the lovely dearQuite implicitly believes him.
By self-deprecation sways her:
Hardly even fit to praise her.
In the upshot greatly grieves him
Quite implicitly believes him.
Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses
If sometimes, in a random phrase(For variation in my ditty),I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praiseAnd seem to intimate them pretty—It is because I do not dareWith too unmixed reiterationTo sing the browner eyes and hairThat are my true intoxication.Know, then, that I consider brownFor ladies' eyes, the only color;And deem all other orbs in town(Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.I pray, perpend, my dearest dear;While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking,How insubstantial was their cheer—It was of yours that I was thinking!
(For variation in my ditty),
And seem to intimate them pretty—
With too unmixed reiteration
That are my true intoxication.
For ladies' eyes, the only color;
(Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.
While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking,
It was of yours that I was thinking!
Whatis this PeaceThat statesmen sign?How I have soughtTo make it mine.Where groaning citiesClang and glowI hunted, hunted,Peace to know.And still I sawWhere I passed byDiscarded hearts,—Heard children cry.By willowed watersBrimmed with rainI thought to capturePeace again.I sat me downMy Peace to hoard,But Beauty pricked meWith a sword.For in the stillnessSomething stirred,And I was crippledFor a word.There is no peaceA man can find;The anguish sitsHis heart behind.The eyes he loves,The perfect breast,Too exquisiteTo give him rest.This is his curseSince brain began.His penaltyFor being man.
That statesmen sign?
To make it mine.
Clang and glow
Peace to know.
Where I passed by
Heard children cry.
Brimmed with rain
Peace again.
My Peace to hoard,
With a sword.
Something stirred,
For a word.
A man can find;
His heart behind.
The perfect breast,
To give him rest.
Since brain began.
For being man.
May, 1919
Beauty(so the poets say),Thou art joy and solace great;Long ago, and far awayThou art safe to contemplate,Beauty. But when now and here,Visible and close to touch,All too perilously near,Thou tormentest us too much!In a picture, in a song,In a novel's conjured scenes,Beauty, that's where you belong,Where perspective intervenes.But, my dear, in rosy factYour appeal I have to shirk—You disturb me, and distractMy attention from my work!
Thou art joy and solace great;
Thou art safe to contemplate,
Visible and close to touch,
Thou tormentest us too much!
In a novel's conjured scenes,
Where perspective intervenes.
Your appeal I have to shirk—
My attention from my work!
Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse,Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force,"And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.Inured to every mood of fool and crank,Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.O knight commander of our city stress,Little you know how picturesque you are!We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:"Say, that's a helva place to park your car!"
Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;
And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.
Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:
A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.
Little you know how picturesque you are!
"Say, that's a helva place to park your car!"
Mounted Police.Mounted Police.
Mounted Police.
Whydid not Fate to me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan?It would have been delight to meIfnatus ante1603.My stuff would not be soon forgottenIf I could write like Harry Wotton.I wish that I could wield the penLike William Drummond of Hawthornden.I would not fear the ticking clockIf I were Browne of Tavistock.For blithe conceits I would not worryIf I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.I wish (I hope I am not silly?)That I could juggle words like Lyly.I envy many a lyric champion,I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.I creak my rhymes up like a derrick,I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.My wits are dull as an old Barlow—I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney,Or some one else of that same kidney.For if I were, my lady's looksAnd all my lyric special pleadingWould be in all the future books,And called, at college,Required Reading.
And all my lyric special pleading
And called, at college,Required Reading.
AsI sat, to sift my dreamingTo the meet and needed word,Came a merry InterruptionWith insistence to be heard.Smiling stood a maid beside me,Half alluring and half shy;Soft the white hint of her bosom—Escapade was in her eye."I must not be so invaded,"(In an anger then I cried)—"Can't you see that I am busy?Tempting creature, stay outside!"Pearly rascal, I am writing:I am now composing verse—Fie on antic invitation:Wanton, vanish—fly—disperse!"Baggage, in my godlike momentWhat have I to do with thee?"And she laughed as she departed—"I am Poetry," said she.
To the meet and needed word,
With insistence to be heard.
Half alluring and half shy;
Escapade was in her eye.
(In an anger then I cried)—
Tempting creature, stay outside!
I am now composing verse—
Wanton, vanish—fly—disperse!
What have I to do with thee?"
"I am Poetry," said she.
Ioftenpass a gracious treeWhose name I can't identify,But still I bow, in courtesyIt waves a bough, in kind reply.I do not know your name, O tree(Are you a hemlock or a pine?)But why should that embarrass me?Quite probably you don't know mine.
Whose name I can't identify,
It waves a bough, in kind reply.
(Are you a hemlock or a pine?)
Quite probably you don't know mine.
Tit for TatCourtesy
Courtesy
I'mglad our house is a little house,Not too tall nor too wide:I'm glad the hovering butterfliesFeel free to come inside.Our little house is a friendly house.It is not shy or vain;It gossips with the talking trees,And makes friends with the rain.And quick leaves cast a shimmer of greenAgainst our whited walls,And in the phlox, the courteous beesAre paying duty calls.
Not too tall nor too wide:
Feel free to come inside.
It is not shy or vain;
And makes friends with the rain.
Against our whited walls,
Are paying duty calls.
Whenlittle heads weary have gone to their bed,When all the good nights and the prayers have been said,Of all the good fairies that send bairns to restThe little Plumpuppets are those I love best.If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat—The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds:They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads;They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!
No matter what troubles have bothered the day,Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away;Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt—Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat—The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!
The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!
The PlumpuppetsThe Plumpuppets
The Plumpuppets
WhenDandy Dandelion wakesAnd combs his yellow hair,The ant his cup of dewdrop takesAnd sets his bed to air;The worm hides in a quilt of dirtTo keep the thrush away,The beetle dons his pansy shirt—They know that it is day!And caterpillars haste to milkThe cowslips in the grass;The spider, in his web of silk,Looks out for flies that pass.These humble people leap from bed,They know the night is done:When Dandy spreads his golden headThey think he is the sun!Dear Dandy truly does not smellAs sweet as some bouquets;No florist gathers him to sell,He withers in a vase;Yet in the grass he's emperor,And lord of high renown;And grateful little folk adoreHis bright and shining crown.
And combs his yellow hair,
And sets his bed to air;
To keep the thrush away,
They know that it is day!
The cowslips in the grass;
Looks out for flies that pass.
They know the night is done:
They think he is the sun!
As sweet as some bouquets;
He withers in a vase;
And lord of high renown;
His bright and shining crown.
Grimlythe parent matches wit and will:Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,He'ddrink it. You want to be big and fatLike Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,But you must finish first. Come, drink it up—(Splash!) Oh, youmustkeep both hands on the cup.All gone? Now for the prunes....And so it goes.This is the battlefield that parents know,Where one small splinter of old Adam's ribWithstands an entire household offering spoons.No use to gnash your teeth. For she will goRadiant to bed, glossy from crown to bibWith milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.
And so it goes.
Notlong ago I fell in love,But unreturned is my affection—The girl that I'm enamored ofPays little heed in my direction.I thought I knew her fairly well:In fact, I'd had my arm around her;And so it's hard to have to tellHow unresponsive I have found her.For, though she is not frankly rude,Her manners quite the wrong way rub me:It seems to me ingratitudeTo let me love her—and then snub me!Though I'm considerate and fond,She shows no gladness when she spies me—She gazes off somewhere beyondAnd doesn't even recognize me.Her eyes, so candid, calm and blue,Seem asking if I can support herIn the style appropriate toA lady like her father's daughter.Well, if I can't then no one can—And let me add that I intend to:She'll never know another manSo fit for her to be a friend to.Not love me, eh? She better had!By Jove, I'll make her love me one day;For, don't you see, I am her Dad,And she'll be three weeks old on Sunday!
But unreturned is my affection—
Pays little heed in my direction.
In fact, I'd had my arm around her;
How unresponsive I have found her.
Her manners quite the wrong way rub me:
To let me love her—and then snub me!
She shows no gladness when she spies me—
And doesn't even recognize me.
Seem asking if I can support her
A lady like her father's daughter.
And let me add that I intend to:
So fit for her to be a friend to.
By Jove, I'll make her love me one day;
And she'll be three weeks old on Sunday!
Babe in arms... It's hard to have to tellHow unresponsive I have found her.
... It's hard to have to tellHow unresponsive I have found her.
Thechestnut trees turned yellow,The oak like sherry browned,The fir, the stubborn fellow,Stayed green the whole year round.But O the bonny mapleHow richly he does shine!He glows against the sunsetLike ruddy old port wine.
Whenthe bulb of the moon with white fire fillsAnd dead leaves crackle under the feet,When men roll kegs to the cider millsAnd chestnuts roast on every street;When the night sky glows like a hollow shellOf lustered emerald and pearl,The kilted cricket knows too wellHis doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.Quavering under the polished starsIn stubble, thicket, and frosty copseThe cricket blows a few choked bars,And puts away his pipe—and stops.
And dead leaves crackle under the feet,
And chestnuts roast on every street;
Of lustered emerald and pearl,
His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.
In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse
And puts away his pipe—and stops.
(A Christmas Baby, Now One Year Old.)
Undauntedby a world of griefYou came upon perplexing days,And cynics doubt their disbeliefTo see the sky-stains in your gaze.Your sudden and inclusive smileAnd your emphatic tears, admitThat you must find this life worth while,So eagerly you clutch at it!Your face of triumph says, brave mite,That life is full of love and luck—Of blankets to kick off at night,And two soft rose-pink thumbs to suck.O loveliest of pioneersUpon this trail of long surprise,May all the stages of the yearsShow such enchantment in your eyes!By parents' patient buttonings,And endless safety pins, you'll growTo ribbons, garters, hooks and things,Up to the Ultimate Trousseau—But never, in your dainty prime,Will you be more adored by meThan when you see, this Great First Time,Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!December, 1919.
First Christmas... When you see, this Great First Time,Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!
... When you see, this Great First Time,Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!
Ourhearts to-night are open wide,The grudge, the grief, are laid aside:The path and porch are swept of snow,The doors unlatched; the hearthstones glow—No visitor can be denied.All tender human homes must hideSome wistfulness beneath their pride:Compassionate and humble growOur hearts to-night.Let empty chair and cup abide!Who knows? Some well-remembered strideMay come as once so long ago—Then welcome, be it friend or foe!There is no anger can divideOur hearts to-night.
The path and porch are swept of snow,The doors unlatched; the hearthstones glow—
Compassionate and humble grow
Our hearts to-night.
May come as once so long ago—Then welcome, be it friend or foe!
Our hearts to-night.
Majestictomes, you are the tombOf Aristides Edward Bloom,Who labored, from the world aloof,In reading every page of proof.From A to And, from Aus to BisEnthusiasm still was his;From Cal to Cha, from Cha to ConHis soft-lead pencil still went on.But reaching volume Fra to Gib,He knew at length that he was sibTo Satan; and he sold his soulTo reach the section Pay to Pol.Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to SubHe staggered on, and sought a pub.And just completing Vet to Zym,The motor hearse came round for him.He perished, obstinately brave:They laid the Index on his grave.
At six—long ere the wintry dawn—There sounded through the silent hallTo where I lay, with blankets drawnAbove my ears, a plaintive call.The Urchin, in the eagernessOf three years old, could not refrain;Awake, he straightway yearned to dressAnd frolic with his clockwork train.I heard him with a sullen shock.His sister, by her usual plan,Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock—I vowed to quench the little man.I leaned above him, somewhat stern,And spoke, I fear, with emphasis—Ah, how much better, parents learn,To seal one's censure with a kiss!Again the house was dark and still,Again I lay in slumber's snare,When down the hall I heard a trill,A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air—His music-box! His best-loved toy,His crib companion every night;And now he turned to it for joyWhile waiting for the lagging light.How clear, and how absurdly sadThose tingling pricks of sound unrolled;They chirped and quavered, as the ladHis lonely little heart consoled.Columbia, the Ocean's Gem—(Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint.He cranked the chimes, admiring themIn vigil gay, without complaint.The treble music piped and stirred,The leaping air that was his bliss;And, as I most contritely heard,I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!The needled jets of melodyRang slowlier and died away—The Urchin slept; and it was IWho lay and waited for the day.
There sounded through the silent hall
Above my ears, a plaintive call.
Of three years old, could not refrain;
And frolic with his clockwork train.
His sister, by her usual plan,
I vowed to quench the little man.
And spoke, I fear, with emphasis—
To seal one's censure with a kiss!
Again I lay in slumber's snare,
A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air—
His crib companion every night;
While waiting for the lagging light.
Those tingling pricks of sound unrolled;
His lonely little heart consoled.
(Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint.
In vigil gay, without complaint.
The leaping air that was his bliss;
I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!
Rang slowlier and died away—
Who lay and waited for the day.
Music BoxThe Music Box
The Music Box
(Robert Burns's Dog)
"Darling Jean" was Jean Armour, a "comely country lass" whom Burns met at a penny wedding at Mauchline. They chanced to be dancing in the same quadrille when the poet's dog sprang to his master and almost upset some of the dancers. Burns remarked that he wished he could get any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.
Some days afterward, Jean, seeing him pass as she was bleaching clothes on the village green, called to him and asked him if he had yet got any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.
That was the beginning of an acquaintance that coloured all of Burns's life.—Nathan Haskell Dole.
Well, Luath, man, when you came prancingAll glee to see your Robin dancing,His partner's muslin gown mischancingYou leaped for joy!And little guessed what sweet romancingYou caused, my boy!With happy bark, that moment jolly,You frisked and frolicked, faithful collie;His other dog, old melancholy,Was put to flight—But what a tale of grief and follyYou wagged that night!Ah, Luath, tyke, your bonny masterWhose lyric pulse beat ever fasterEach time he saw a lass and passed herHis breast went bang!In many a woful heart's disasterHe felt the pang!Poor Robin's heart, forever burning,Forever roving, ranting, yearning,From you that heart might have been learningTo be less fickle!Might have been spared so many a turningAnd grievous prickle!Your collie heart held but one notion—When Robbie jigged in sprightly motionYou ran to show your own devotionAnd gambolled too,And so that tempest on love's oceanWas due to you!Well, it is ower late for preachingAnd hearts are aye too hot for teaching!When Robin with his eye beseechingBy greenside came,Jeanie—poor lass—forgot her bleachingAnd yours the blame!
You leaped for joy!
You caused, my boy!
Was put to flight—
You wagged that night!
His breast went bang!
He felt the pang!
To be less fickle!
And grievous prickle!
And gambolled too,
Was due to you!
By greenside came,
And yours the blame!
Ihada friend whose path was pain—Oppressed by all the cares of earthLife gave him little chance to drainHis secret cisterns of rich mirth.His work was hasty, harassed, vexed:His dreams were laid aside, perforce,Until—in this world, or the next....(His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)What funded wealth of tenderness,What ingots of the heart and mindHe must uneasily repressBeneath the rasping daily grind.But now and then, and with my aid,For fear his soul be wholly lost,His devoir to the grape he paidTo call soul back, at any cost!Then, liberate from discipline,Undrugged by caution and control,Through all his veins came flooding inThe virtued passion of his soul!His spirit bared, and felt no shame:With holy light his eyes would shine—See Truth her acolyte reclaimAfter the second glass of wine!The self that life had trodden hardAspired, was generous and free:The glowing heart that care had charredGrew flame, as it was meant to be.A pox upon the canting lotWho call the glass the Devil's shape—A greater pox where'er some sotDefiles the honor of the grape.Then look with reverence on wineThat kindles human brains uncouth—There must be something part divineIn aught that brings us nearer Truth!So—continently skull your fumes(Here let our little sermon end)And bless this X-ray that illumesThe secret bosom of your friend!
Oppressed by all the cares of earth
His secret cisterns of rich mirth.
His dreams were laid aside, perforce,
(His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)
What ingots of the heart and mind
Beneath the rasping daily grind.
For fear his soul be wholly lost,
To call soul back, at any cost!
Undrugged by caution and control,
The virtued passion of his soul!
With holy light his eyes would shine—
After the second glass of wine!
Aspired, was generous and free:
Grew flame, as it was meant to be.
Who call the glass the Devil's shape—
Defiles the honor of the grape.
That kindles human brains uncouth—
In aught that brings us nearer Truth!
(Here let our little sermon end)
The secret bosom of your friend!
Therewas a Russian novelistWhose name was Solugubrious,The reading circles took him up,(They'd heard he was salubrious.)The women's club of Cripple CreekSoon held a kind of seminarTo learn just what his message was—You know what bookworms women are.The tea went round. After five cups(You should have seen them bury tea)Dear Mrs. Brown said what she likedWas the great man'ssincerity.Sweet Mrs. Jones (how free she wasFrom all besetting vanity)Declared that she loved even moreHis broad and deephumanity.Good Mrs. Smith, though she disclaimedAll thought of being critical,Protested that she found his workA wee bitanalytical.
Whose name was Solugubrious,
(They'd heard he was salubrious.)
Soon held a kind of seminar
You know what bookworms women are.
(You should have seen them bury tea)
Was the great man'ssincerity.
From all besetting vanity)
His broad and deephumanity.
All thought of being critical,
A wee bitanalytical.