SIMON RAND.

No poet, however gifted, can get along without his muse, any better than a navigator can without his compass. If the goddess is not at his elbow, the lyre hangs mute upon the wall, and the pen corrodes in the ink. Then what can the poor limited rhymer do without a museto inspire him? As mine is at present leaning over the back of my chair in a very encouraging manner, I will strike my harp and lay the following heart-rending tale before the world in verse.

First Gossip—“Was she false?”Second Gossip—“Ay, false as her teeth.”—Old Volume.

First Gossip—“Was she false?”

Second Gossip—“Ay, false as her teeth.”

—Old Volume.

In Siskiyou, a tanner lived,Whose name was Simon Rand;He loved the miller’s daughter, fairAnnetta Hildebrand.The maiden loved the tanner, too,(At least the maid so said,)And she the happy day had namedThe parson would them wed.The golden day-dreams lengthened asThe season shorter grew,And Cupid slung his bow acrossHis shoulder, and withdrew.A golden pointed arrow layImbedded in each heart;The little god conjectured theyCould never live apart.But fire will test the iron safe,And powder prove the mine,And tempests try the ship at sea,The woodman’s axe the pine;And gold will sound the human heart,The maiden’s love it tries;It is the plummet weight that provesHow deep affection lies.One Jacob Towle, a rival, cameTo darken Simon’s days;His clothes were fine, his purse a mine,He drove a span of bays!The fair Annetta was his mark;He deftly played his hand;He turned her giddy head around,And love, from Simon Rand.The tanner saw his dove prove daw,And scarce believed his eyes;But change was there, in look and air,And in her curt replies.He called one night, in hopes he mightBack his affianced win;Word came by “sis” (an old game this),“Annetta was not in.”But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyesWhen rivals are around;A glossy hat hung in the hall;He reached it with a bound.“See, my child, a pleasing sight!”Said he with a ghastly smile;“For into fraction, into mite,I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”He seized it, and he squeezed it, too,He bowled it on the floor,He thumped it, and he jumped it, andHe kicked it through the door.So through the gate he then escaped,And he was heard to say,“By all the hides that I have scrapedWith life I’ll make away.”

In Siskiyou, a tanner lived,

Whose name was Simon Rand;

He loved the miller’s daughter, fair

Annetta Hildebrand.

The maiden loved the tanner, too,

(At least the maid so said,)

And she the happy day had named

The parson would them wed.

The golden day-dreams lengthened asThe season shorter grew,And Cupid slung his bow acrossHis shoulder, and withdrew.A golden pointed arrow layImbedded in each heart;The little god conjectured theyCould never live apart.

The golden day-dreams lengthened as

The season shorter grew,

And Cupid slung his bow across

His shoulder, and withdrew.

A golden pointed arrow lay

Imbedded in each heart;

The little god conjectured they

Could never live apart.

But fire will test the iron safe,And powder prove the mine,And tempests try the ship at sea,The woodman’s axe the pine;And gold will sound the human heart,The maiden’s love it tries;It is the plummet weight that provesHow deep affection lies.

But fire will test the iron safe,

And powder prove the mine,

And tempests try the ship at sea,

The woodman’s axe the pine;

And gold will sound the human heart,

The maiden’s love it tries;

It is the plummet weight that proves

How deep affection lies.

One Jacob Towle, a rival, cameTo darken Simon’s days;His clothes were fine, his purse a mine,He drove a span of bays!The fair Annetta was his mark;He deftly played his hand;He turned her giddy head around,And love, from Simon Rand.

One Jacob Towle, a rival, came

To darken Simon’s days;

His clothes were fine, his purse a mine,

He drove a span of bays!

The fair Annetta was his mark;

He deftly played his hand;

He turned her giddy head around,

And love, from Simon Rand.

The tanner saw his dove prove daw,And scarce believed his eyes;But change was there, in look and air,And in her curt replies.He called one night, in hopes he mightBack his affianced win;Word came by “sis” (an old game this),“Annetta was not in.”

The tanner saw his dove prove daw,

And scarce believed his eyes;

But change was there, in look and air,

And in her curt replies.

He called one night, in hopes he might

Back his affianced win;

Word came by “sis” (an old game this),

“Annetta was not in.”

But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyesWhen rivals are around;A glossy hat hung in the hall;He reached it with a bound.“See, my child, a pleasing sight!”Said he with a ghastly smile;“For into fraction, into mite,I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”

But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyes

When rivals are around;

A glossy hat hung in the hall;

He reached it with a bound.

“See, my child, a pleasing sight!”

Said he with a ghastly smile;

“For into fraction, into mite,

I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”

He seized it, and he squeezed it, too,He bowled it on the floor,He thumped it, and he jumped it, andHe kicked it through the door.So through the gate he then escaped,And he was heard to say,“By all the hides that I have scrapedWith life I’ll make away.”

He seized it, and he squeezed it, too,

He bowled it on the floor,

He thumped it, and he jumped it, and

He kicked it through the door.

So through the gate he then escaped,

And he was heard to say,

“By all the hides that I have scraped

With life I’ll make away.”

REVENGE IS SWEET.

Next morning he was missing, andThe neighbors thought it queer:For he at work was ever foundThroughout the busy year.Noon came, but brought not Simon back;And then their wonder grewInto a fear, that he had doneWhat he had sworn to do.A search was instituted, andAll work was at a stand,For weak and stout alike turned outTo search for Simon Rand.Across the mill-pond and the flume,The grappling drag they drew,They scanned the trees and probed the wellsThe little village through.But tale or tidings none they found;So all the search gave o’er,And sat them down to talk and smoke,Around the tavern door.When teamster Joe picked up a hoeThat by his side was laid,And turning round to farmer Pound,He slapped his thigh and said,“I’ll stake my strongest pair of mulesAgainst Moll Benson’s cat,That Simon Rand, the missing man,Lies dead in his own vat!”No face was there, beard-hid or bare,Light, tawny-hue, or dark,But on the instant plainly showedThe weight of that remark.To feet they sprung, both old and young,And down the shortest road,By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill,To Simon’s shop they strode.

Next morning he was missing, and

The neighbors thought it queer:

For he at work was ever found

Throughout the busy year.

Noon came, but brought not Simon back;

And then their wonder grew

Into a fear, that he had done

What he had sworn to do.

A search was instituted, andAll work was at a stand,For weak and stout alike turned outTo search for Simon Rand.Across the mill-pond and the flume,The grappling drag they drew,They scanned the trees and probed the wellsThe little village through.But tale or tidings none they found;So all the search gave o’er,And sat them down to talk and smoke,Around the tavern door.

A search was instituted, and

All work was at a stand,

For weak and stout alike turned out

To search for Simon Rand.

Across the mill-pond and the flume,

The grappling drag they drew,

They scanned the trees and probed the wells

The little village through.

But tale or tidings none they found;

So all the search gave o’er,

And sat them down to talk and smoke,

Around the tavern door.

When teamster Joe picked up a hoeThat by his side was laid,And turning round to farmer Pound,He slapped his thigh and said,“I’ll stake my strongest pair of mulesAgainst Moll Benson’s cat,That Simon Rand, the missing man,Lies dead in his own vat!”

When teamster Joe picked up a hoe

That by his side was laid,

And turning round to farmer Pound,

He slapped his thigh and said,

“I’ll stake my strongest pair of mules

Against Moll Benson’s cat,

That Simon Rand, the missing man,

Lies dead in his own vat!”

No face was there, beard-hid or bare,Light, tawny-hue, or dark,But on the instant plainly showedThe weight of that remark.To feet they sprung, both old and young,And down the shortest road,By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill,To Simon’s shop they strode.

No face was there, beard-hid or bare,

Light, tawny-hue, or dark,

But on the instant plainly showed

The weight of that remark.

To feet they sprung, both old and young,

And down the shortest road,

By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill,

To Simon’s shop they strode.

THE EXPLORING PARTY.

One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt,Who let his dinner stand,And joined the throng that surged alongIn search of Simon Rand.Across his shoulder, stooped with age,He poised his garden rake,And those had need to urge their speedWho followed in his wake.Then side and side, with equal stride,Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane;Next Elder Chase kept even paceWith stout old Sidney Vane.Then two and two, and three and three,And sometimes four abreast,With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks,Come clattering on the rest.The place was gained, all eyes were strainedUpon the brimming vat;But not an eye its depths could spy,Or pierce its scum of fat.“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase,As down he dipped his pole;“No love or woe could make him throwHimself in such a hole.A man would choose a hempen noose,A pistol, drug, or knife,If he designed through troubled mindTo make away with life.”A silent group they kneel and stoop,And shove their poles around,Now left, now right, till all affrightOne cried, “I’ve something found!It’s him I know, I must let go!I dare not see his faceWhen coming from the depths below;Will some one take my place?”Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front,And clasped his hands in prayer;And cried, “We thank thee for his dust,His soul in mercy spare.”Then took the pole from Selby’s hand,Who quickly sought the rear,Yet dodged and peeped his best to seeIf Rand indeed was there.Up rose the heavy burdened hook;“That’s him!” a dozen cried;But when they took a second lookIt proved a brindled hide!Then impious Brown, the village clown,Turned from that vat aside,And laughed until the tears ran downHis cheeks as though he cried.Still round he went, with body bent,His face one endless grin,Because the Parson praised the Lord,Then raised—the heifer’s skin!The tools once more sink as before,To scrape the bottom slow:Another mass—they strike—and pass,It rolls along below!“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe,The blacksmith’s helping man;While down his face, in rapid race,The perspiration ran.With mighty grip, and backward tip,Stout Dennis manned the pole,Which bent as though ’twould snap and go,And Howe would backwards roll.

One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt,

Who let his dinner stand,

And joined the throng that surged along

In search of Simon Rand.

Across his shoulder, stooped with age,

He poised his garden rake,

And those had need to urge their speed

Who followed in his wake.

Then side and side, with equal stride,Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane;Next Elder Chase kept even paceWith stout old Sidney Vane.Then two and two, and three and three,And sometimes four abreast,With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks,Come clattering on the rest.

Then side and side, with equal stride,

Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane;

Next Elder Chase kept even pace

With stout old Sidney Vane.

Then two and two, and three and three,

And sometimes four abreast,

With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks,

Come clattering on the rest.

The place was gained, all eyes were strainedUpon the brimming vat;But not an eye its depths could spy,Or pierce its scum of fat.

The place was gained, all eyes were strained

Upon the brimming vat;

But not an eye its depths could spy,

Or pierce its scum of fat.

“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase,As down he dipped his pole;“No love or woe could make him throwHimself in such a hole.A man would choose a hempen noose,A pistol, drug, or knife,If he designed through troubled mindTo make away with life.”

“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase,

As down he dipped his pole;

“No love or woe could make him throw

Himself in such a hole.

A man would choose a hempen noose,

A pistol, drug, or knife,

If he designed through troubled mind

To make away with life.”

A silent group they kneel and stoop,And shove their poles around,Now left, now right, till all affrightOne cried, “I’ve something found!It’s him I know, I must let go!I dare not see his faceWhen coming from the depths below;Will some one take my place?”

A silent group they kneel and stoop,

And shove their poles around,

Now left, now right, till all affright

One cried, “I’ve something found!

It’s him I know, I must let go!

I dare not see his face

When coming from the depths below;

Will some one take my place?”

Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front,And clasped his hands in prayer;And cried, “We thank thee for his dust,His soul in mercy spare.”Then took the pole from Selby’s hand,Who quickly sought the rear,Yet dodged and peeped his best to seeIf Rand indeed was there.

Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front,

And clasped his hands in prayer;

And cried, “We thank thee for his dust,

His soul in mercy spare.”

Then took the pole from Selby’s hand,

Who quickly sought the rear,

Yet dodged and peeped his best to see

If Rand indeed was there.

Up rose the heavy burdened hook;“That’s him!” a dozen cried;But when they took a second lookIt proved a brindled hide!Then impious Brown, the village clown,Turned from that vat aside,And laughed until the tears ran downHis cheeks as though he cried.

Up rose the heavy burdened hook;

“That’s him!” a dozen cried;

But when they took a second look

It proved a brindled hide!

Then impious Brown, the village clown,

Turned from that vat aside,

And laughed until the tears ran down

His cheeks as though he cried.

Still round he went, with body bent,His face one endless grin,Because the Parson praised the Lord,Then raised—the heifer’s skin!The tools once more sink as before,To scrape the bottom slow:Another mass—they strike—and pass,It rolls along below!

Still round he went, with body bent,

His face one endless grin,

Because the Parson praised the Lord,

Then raised—the heifer’s skin!

The tools once more sink as before,

To scrape the bottom slow:

Another mass—they strike—and pass,

It rolls along below!

“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe,The blacksmith’s helping man;While down his face, in rapid race,The perspiration ran.With mighty grip, and backward tip,Stout Dennis manned the pole,Which bent as though ’twould snap and go,And Howe would backwards roll.

“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe,

The blacksmith’s helping man;

While down his face, in rapid race,

The perspiration ran.

With mighty grip, and backward tip,

Stout Dennis manned the pole,

Which bent as though ’twould snap and go,

And Howe would backwards roll.

UP HE COMES.

And woe is me, that tanner man,And woe is me, that maid!And woe is me, that staring groupAround that vat, afraid.The hold was good, the pole has stood,And up the hook has drawnThe poor discarded Simon Rand,Dead as a pickled prawn!And lo! a great cast-iron weightFast to one leg was tied;Which, as he rose did oscillate,And swing from side to side.Upon a door his form they boreBack slowly through the town,And still behind them left a trailWhere dripped the water down.For every step fresh showers drewDown from that litter bare,From garments soaked quite through and through,From mouth and nose and hair.’Twere sad to tell of funeral showThat in that town was seen;Enough to know that Simon lowLies where the grass is green.Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle,And servants on her wait;And dogs with uninviting growlDrive beggars from her gate.And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck,No bark is needed now,No more before the greasy doorLie horns of ox or cow!

And woe is me, that tanner man,

And woe is me, that maid!

And woe is me, that staring group

Around that vat, afraid.

The hold was good, the pole has stood,

And up the hook has drawn

The poor discarded Simon Rand,

Dead as a pickled prawn!

And lo! a great cast-iron weightFast to one leg was tied;Which, as he rose did oscillate,And swing from side to side.Upon a door his form they boreBack slowly through the town,And still behind them left a trailWhere dripped the water down.

And lo! a great cast-iron weight

Fast to one leg was tied;

Which, as he rose did oscillate,

And swing from side to side.

Upon a door his form they bore

Back slowly through the town,

And still behind them left a trail

Where dripped the water down.

For every step fresh showers drewDown from that litter bare,From garments soaked quite through and through,From mouth and nose and hair.’Twere sad to tell of funeral showThat in that town was seen;Enough to know that Simon lowLies where the grass is green.

For every step fresh showers drew

Down from that litter bare,

From garments soaked quite through and through,

From mouth and nose and hair.

’Twere sad to tell of funeral show

That in that town was seen;

Enough to know that Simon low

Lies where the grass is green.

Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle,And servants on her wait;And dogs with uninviting growlDrive beggars from her gate.And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck,No bark is needed now,No more before the greasy doorLie horns of ox or cow!

Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle,

And servants on her wait;

And dogs with uninviting growl

Drive beggars from her gate.

And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck,

No bark is needed now,

No more before the greasy door

Lie horns of ox or cow!

UNPROMISING OUTLOOK.

But on the anniversaryOf that distressful night,The superstitious people say—Within it burns a light.And there the tanner may be seenHis thin arms shining bare,Bent o’er the bench, as though at workFast scraping off the hair!Anon, slow rising from his toilA woeful sigh he gives,And gazes long towards the hill,Where false Annetta lives.Then turning round he gives a bound,As when he crushed the hat,And fastening to his leg a weightHe leaps into the vat!And with him goes the wondrous lightThat shed its ghostly ray;And dismal darkness wraps the placeUntil the dawn of day.

But on the anniversaryOf that distressful night,The superstitious people say—Within it burns a light.

But on the anniversary

Of that distressful night,

The superstitious people say—

Within it burns a light.

And there the tanner may be seenHis thin arms shining bare,Bent o’er the bench, as though at workFast scraping off the hair!Anon, slow rising from his toilA woeful sigh he gives,And gazes long towards the hill,Where false Annetta lives.

And there the tanner may be seen

His thin arms shining bare,

Bent o’er the bench, as though at work

Fast scraping off the hair!

Anon, slow rising from his toil

A woeful sigh he gives,

And gazes long towards the hill,

Where false Annetta lives.

Then turning round he gives a bound,As when he crushed the hat,And fastening to his leg a weightHe leaps into the vat!And with him goes the wondrous lightThat shed its ghostly ray;And dismal darkness wraps the placeUntil the dawn of day.

Then turning round he gives a bound,

As when he crushed the hat,

And fastening to his leg a weight

He leaps into the vat!

And with him goes the wondrous light

That shed its ghostly ray;

And dismal darkness wraps the place

Until the dawn of day.

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