Chapter 7

The following is an outline of one of Æsop’s fables:—

1. Donkey carrying salt—passing through stream—falls—loses load.2. Next day loaded with salt—lies down in stream.3. Master resolves to teach lesson—third journey load of sponge.4. Donkey lies down—load heavier.

1. Donkey carrying salt—passing through stream—falls—loses load.

2. Next day loaded with salt—lies down in stream.

3. Master resolves to teach lesson—third journey load of sponge.

4. Donkey lies down—load heavier.

This outline may be filled in thus:—

A donkey laden with salt happened to fall while passing through a stream.The water melted the salt, and the donkeyon getting up was delightedto find himself with nothing to carry. Next day he had to pass again, laden with salt, through the same stream.Remembering how the water had yesterday rid him of his burden, he lay down purposely, and was again rid of it.But clever as he was his master was cleverer, and resolved to teach him a lesson. On the third journey he therefore placed on the creature’s back several bags filled with sponges. The donkey lay down as before, but on getting up he found that his load, instead of being much lighter, was much heavier.

In the fable, as thus told, there are several points (printed in italics) which are not in the outline. Such little details help to make the story more real.

1. Cold winter’s day—snake half dead.2. Peasant pities it—places in bosom—takes home—lays before fire.3. Snake revives—attacks children—peasant kills it.

1. Cold winter’s day—snake half dead.

2. Peasant pities it—places in bosom—takes home—lays before fire.

3. Snake revives—attacks children—peasant kills it.

This outline may be filled in as follows:—

On a cold winter’s day a peasant discovered a snake that was half dead. He pitied the half-frozen creature, placed it in his bosom, and upon taking it home, laid it before the fire. The snake soon revived, and, true to its nature, attacked the children of the household, when it was promptly killed by the peasant.

1. Lion sleeping—mouse happens to wake him.2. Lion going to kill mouse—mouse begs for mercy—mercy granted.3. Lion caught in a net—roars—mouse hears him—nibbles net.

1. Lion sleeping—mouse happens to wake him.

2. Lion going to kill mouse—mouse begs for mercy—mercy granted.

3. Lion caught in a net—roars—mouse hears him—nibbles net.

1. Ox feeding in marshy meadow—treads among young frogs—kills many.2. One that escapes tells mother—“Such a big beast!”3. Vain mother asks, “So big?”—“Much bigger.”4. Mother puffs out—“So big?”—“Much bigger.”5. This several times—at last mother bursts.

1. Ox feeding in marshy meadow—treads among young frogs—kills many.

2. One that escapes tells mother—“Such a big beast!”

3. Vain mother asks, “So big?”—“Much bigger.”

4. Mother puffs out—“So big?”—“Much bigger.”

5. This several times—at last mother bursts.

1. Hare jeers at tortoise for slowness.2. Tortoise proposes race—hare accepts.3. Tortoise starts—hare says, “Will take a nap first.”4. When hare wakes tortoise has passed post.5. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

1. Hare jeers at tortoise for slowness.

2. Tortoise proposes race—hare accepts.

3. Tortoise starts—hare says, “Will take a nap first.”

4. When hare wakes tortoise has passed post.

5. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

1. Lion, donkey and fox hunting—much spoil.2. Lion asks donkey to divide—divides into three equal parts.3. Lion angry—kills donkey—asks fox to divide.4. Fox makes very great heap for lion and very little one for himself.5. “Who taught you to divide so well?”—“The dead donkey.”

1. Lion, donkey and fox hunting—much spoil.

2. Lion asks donkey to divide—divides into three equal parts.

3. Lion angry—kills donkey—asks fox to divide.

4. Fox makes very great heap for lion and very little one for himself.

5. “Who taught you to divide so well?”—“The dead donkey.”

1. Wind and sun dispute which is stronger.2. Agree to try on passing traveler—which can soonest make him take off cloak.3. Wind begins—blows furiously—traveler holds cloak the tighter.4. Sun shines—traveler too warm—throws off cloak.5. Kindness better than force.

1. Wind and sun dispute which is stronger.

2. Agree to try on passing traveler—which can soonest make him take off cloak.

3. Wind begins—blows furiously—traveler holds cloak the tighter.

4. Sun shines—traveler too warm—throws off cloak.

5. Kindness better than force.

1. Quarrelsome brothers—father speaks in vain.2. Asks sons to break bundle of sticks—each tries and fails.3. Asks them to undo bundle and break separate sticks—easy.4. Brothers united, like bundle—quarrelsome, like separate sticks.5. “Union is strength.”

1. Quarrelsome brothers—father speaks in vain.

2. Asks sons to break bundle of sticks—each tries and fails.

3. Asks them to undo bundle and break separate sticks—easy.

4. Brothers united, like bundle—quarrelsome, like separate sticks.

5. “Union is strength.”

1. Man has goose—lays golden egg daily.2. Man greedy—thinks inside must be full of gold—kills goose—finds her like all other geese.

1. Man has goose—lays golden egg daily.

2. Man greedy—thinks inside must be full of gold—kills goose—finds her like all other geese.

1. Frogs ask Jupiter for a king—he laughs at their folly—throws them a log.2. The splash frightens them—finding log still they venture to look at it—at last jump on it and despise it.3. Ask for another king—Jupiter annoyed—sends them a stork.4. Stork eats many—the rest ask Jupiter to take stork away—he says “No.” “Let well alone.”

1. Frogs ask Jupiter for a king—he laughs at their folly—throws them a log.

2. The splash frightens them—finding log still they venture to look at it—at last jump on it and despise it.

3. Ask for another king—Jupiter annoyed—sends them a stork.

4. Stork eats many—the rest ask Jupiter to take stork away—he says “No.” “Let well alone.”

1. Bat is a beast, but flies like a bird.2. Battle between birds and beasts—bat keeps aloof.3. Beasts appear to be winning—bat joins them.4. Birds rally and win—bat found among victors.5. Peace made—birds and beasts condemn bat—bat never since dared show face in daylight.

1. Bat is a beast, but flies like a bird.

2. Battle between birds and beasts—bat keeps aloof.

3. Beasts appear to be winning—bat joins them.

4. Birds rally and win—bat found among victors.

5. Peace made—birds and beasts condemn bat—bat never since dared show face in daylight.

1. Hart fleeing from hunters—hides among leaves of vine—hunters pass without seeing him.2. He begins to eat leaves—a hunter hears noise—shoots hart.3. Hart lies wounded—reproaches itself for committing so great a folly.4. “Vine protected me; I injured it; deserved my fate.”

1. Hart fleeing from hunters—hides among leaves of vine—hunters pass without seeing him.

2. He begins to eat leaves—a hunter hears noise—shoots hart.

3. Hart lies wounded—reproaches itself for committing so great a folly.

4. “Vine protected me; I injured it; deserved my fate.”

1. Three bulls feeding together in a meadow.2. Lion wished to eat them—afraid of the three.3. Lion tells each that the others have been slandering.4. Bulls quarrel—lion kills each separately.

1. Three bulls feeding together in a meadow.

2. Lion wished to eat them—afraid of the three.

3. Lion tells each that the others have been slandering.

4. Bulls quarrel—lion kills each separately.

1. Vessel goes to sea—overtaken by storm.2. Storm increases—ship driven on the rocks.3. Officers and crew in distress—clinging to the rigging—making signals.4. Seen by the Life Guard on shore.5. Boat hurries to the rescue—heroic seamen.6. Men on board brought ashore—benumbed—famishing.7. Revived—grateful to rescuers.

1. Vessel goes to sea—overtaken by storm.

2. Storm increases—ship driven on the rocks.

3. Officers and crew in distress—clinging to the rigging—making signals.

4. Seen by the Life Guard on shore.

5. Boat hurries to the rescue—heroic seamen.

6. Men on board brought ashore—benumbed—famishing.

7. Revived—grateful to rescuers.

1. Early home—restless youth—runs away.2. Goes to seek his fortune—falls in with vicious companions.3. Roams from place to place—becomes an idle beggar.4. Young man in a police court charged with burglary—sentenced to state prison.5. First mistake was leaving home—next, companionship—then, theft.6. Value of home attachments—industry—honesty.7. Beware of the first wrong step—not easy to remedy our mistakes.

1. Early home—restless youth—runs away.

2. Goes to seek his fortune—falls in with vicious companions.

3. Roams from place to place—becomes an idle beggar.

4. Young man in a police court charged with burglary—sentenced to state prison.

5. First mistake was leaving home—next, companionship—then, theft.

6. Value of home attachments—industry—honesty.

7. Beware of the first wrong step—not easy to remedy our mistakes.

The following poem, by Charles Kingsley, tells a touching little story:—

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,Away to the west as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town.For men must work, and women must weep,And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown!But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come home to the town.For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep,And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,

Away to the west as the sun went down;

Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,

And there’s little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown!But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown!

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come home to the town.For men must work, and women must weep,And the sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep,And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep,

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Here is the same story, told in prose:—

One afternoon in a western port, three fishermen might be seen walking slowly down towards the beach. Heavy masses of clouds were moving rapidly overhead; the setting sun had tinged the sky an angry crimson, and the waves broke with a moaning noise over the bar at the mouth of the harbor. The fishermen knew that a storm was threatening, but still they were going to sea, for their families were large and their earnings had of late been small. Yet they were sad at heart, and as they sailed away they thought of the dear wives left behind, and of the dear children watching them out of the town.The women were so anxious that they could not rest at home, so they went up to the lighthouse to trim the lamps and peer out into the darkness. The storm came on even sooner than was expected. A huge billow caught the fishermen’s boat and sank it, and the tide carried their dead bodies to the shore.By morning the storm had passed, and the rising sun shone on the wet sand and on three poor women wringing their hands over the corpses of their husbands.

The women were so anxious that they could not rest at home, so they went up to the lighthouse to trim the lamps and peer out into the darkness. The storm came on even sooner than was expected. A huge billow caught the fishermen’s boat and sank it, and the tide carried their dead bodies to the shore.

By morning the storm had passed, and the rising sun shone on the wet sand and on three poor women wringing their hands over the corpses of their husbands.

Note that in this prose rendering there is no attempt to preserve the poetry. Attention has been paid to the story only, and that has been told in the simplest manner. I here append a cluster of poems to be turned into prose.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee!”The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came up and hid the land,And never home came she.Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—A tress of golden hair,Of drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes of Dee!They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea;But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee.—Charles Kingsley.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands of Dee!”The western wind was wild and dark with foam,And all alone went she.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee!”

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came up and hid the land,And never home came she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o’er and o’er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came up and hid the land,

And never home came she.

Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—A tress of golden hair,Of drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes of Dee!

Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—

A tress of golden hair,

Of drownèd maiden’s hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,

Among the stakes of Dee!

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea;But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee.—Charles Kingsley.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee.—Charles Kingsley.

There’s always a river to cross,Always an effort to make,If there’s anything good to win,Any rich prize to take.Yonder’s the fruit we crave,Yonder the charming scene;But deep and wide, with a troubled tide,Is the river that lies between.

There’s always a river to cross,

Always an effort to make,

If there’s anything good to win,

Any rich prize to take.

Yonder’s the fruit we crave,

Yonder the charming scene;

But deep and wide, with a troubled tide,

Is the river that lies between.

Press on! there’s no such word as fail;Press nobly on! the goal is near;Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!Look upward, onward—never fear!Press on!if once, and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try;From him who never dreads to meetDanger and death, they’re sure to fly.To coward ranks the bullet speeds;While ontheirbreasts who never quail,Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,Bright courage, like a coat of mail.Press on!if fortune play thee falseTo-day, to-morrow she’ll be true;Whom now she sinks, she now exalts,Taking old gifts and granting new.The wisdom of the present hourMakes up for follies past and gone;To weakness strength succeeds, and powerFrom frailty springs:—Press on!Press on!—Park Benjamin.

Press on! there’s no such word as fail;Press nobly on! the goal is near;Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!Look upward, onward—never fear!

Press on! there’s no such word as fail;

Press nobly on! the goal is near;

Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!

Look upward, onward—never fear!

Press on!if once, and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try;From him who never dreads to meetDanger and death, they’re sure to fly.

Press on!if once, and twice thy feet

Slip back and stumble, harder try;

From him who never dreads to meet

Danger and death, they’re sure to fly.

To coward ranks the bullet speeds;While ontheirbreasts who never quail,Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,Bright courage, like a coat of mail.

To coward ranks the bullet speeds;

While ontheirbreasts who never quail,

Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,

Bright courage, like a coat of mail.

Press on!if fortune play thee falseTo-day, to-morrow she’ll be true;Whom now she sinks, she now exalts,Taking old gifts and granting new.

Press on!if fortune play thee false

To-day, to-morrow she’ll be true;

Whom now she sinks, she now exalts,

Taking old gifts and granting new.

The wisdom of the present hourMakes up for follies past and gone;To weakness strength succeeds, and powerFrom frailty springs:—Press on!Press on!—Park Benjamin.

The wisdom of the present hour

Makes up for follies past and gone;

To weakness strength succeeds, and power

From frailty springs:—Press on!Press on!—Park Benjamin.

A wounded chieftain, lyingBy the Danube’s leafy side,Thus faintly said, in dying,“Oh! bear, thou foaming tide,This gift to my lady bride.”’Twas then, in life’s last quiver,He flung the scarf he woreInto the foaming river,Which, ah, too quickly, boreThat pledge of one no more!With fond impatience burning,The chieftain’s lady stood,To watch her love returningIn triumph down the flood,From that day’s field of blood.But, field, alas! ill-fated,The lady saw, insteadOf the bark whose speed she waited,Her hero’s scarf, all redWith the drops his heart had shed.One shriek—and all was over—Her life-pulse ceased to beat;The gloomy waves now coverThat bridal flower so sweet,And the scarf is her winding-sheet.—Thomas Moore.

A wounded chieftain, lyingBy the Danube’s leafy side,Thus faintly said, in dying,“Oh! bear, thou foaming tide,This gift to my lady bride.”

A wounded chieftain, lying

By the Danube’s leafy side,

Thus faintly said, in dying,

“Oh! bear, thou foaming tide,

This gift to my lady bride.”

’Twas then, in life’s last quiver,He flung the scarf he woreInto the foaming river,Which, ah, too quickly, boreThat pledge of one no more!

’Twas then, in life’s last quiver,

He flung the scarf he wore

Into the foaming river,

Which, ah, too quickly, bore

That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,The chieftain’s lady stood,To watch her love returningIn triumph down the flood,From that day’s field of blood.

With fond impatience burning,

The chieftain’s lady stood,

To watch her love returning

In triumph down the flood,

From that day’s field of blood.

But, field, alas! ill-fated,The lady saw, insteadOf the bark whose speed she waited,Her hero’s scarf, all redWith the drops his heart had shed.

But, field, alas! ill-fated,

The lady saw, instead

Of the bark whose speed she waited,

Her hero’s scarf, all red

With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek—and all was over—Her life-pulse ceased to beat;The gloomy waves now coverThat bridal flower so sweet,And the scarf is her winding-sheet.—Thomas Moore.

One shriek—and all was over—

Her life-pulse ceased to beat;

The gloomy waves now cover

That bridal flower so sweet,

And the scarf is her winding-sheet.—Thomas Moore.

I know a funny little boy,The happiest ever born;His face is like a beam of joy,Although his clothes are torn.I saw him tumble on his nose,And waited for a groan;But how he laughed! Do you supposeHe struck his funny bone?There’s sunshine in each word he speaks;His laugh is something grand;Its ripples overrun his cheeksLike waves on snowy sand.He laughs the moment he awakes,And till the day is done,The school-room for a joke he takes,His lessons are but fun.No matter how the day may go,You cannot make him cry.He’s worth a dozen boys I know,Who pout and mope and sigh.

I know a funny little boy,The happiest ever born;His face is like a beam of joy,Although his clothes are torn.

I know a funny little boy,

The happiest ever born;

His face is like a beam of joy,

Although his clothes are torn.

I saw him tumble on his nose,And waited for a groan;But how he laughed! Do you supposeHe struck his funny bone?

I saw him tumble on his nose,

And waited for a groan;

But how he laughed! Do you suppose

He struck his funny bone?

There’s sunshine in each word he speaks;His laugh is something grand;Its ripples overrun his cheeksLike waves on snowy sand.

There’s sunshine in each word he speaks;

His laugh is something grand;

Its ripples overrun his cheeks

Like waves on snowy sand.

He laughs the moment he awakes,And till the day is done,The school-room for a joke he takes,His lessons are but fun.

He laughs the moment he awakes,

And till the day is done,

The school-room for a joke he takes,

His lessons are but fun.

No matter how the day may go,You cannot make him cry.He’s worth a dozen boys I know,Who pout and mope and sigh.

No matter how the day may go,

You cannot make him cry.

He’s worth a dozen boys I know,

Who pout and mope and sigh.

As pussy sat washing her face by the gate,A nice little dog came to have a good chat;And after some talk about matters of state,Said, with a low bow, “My dear Mrs. Cat,I really do hope you’ll not think I am rude;I am curious, I know, and that you may say—Perhaps you’ll be angry; but no, you’re too good—Pray why do you wash in that very odd way?“Now I every day rush away to the lake,And in the clear water I dive and I swim;I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake,And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin.But you any day in the sun may be seen,Just rubbing yourself with your red little tongue;I admire the grace with which it is done—But really, now, are you sure you get yourself clean?”The cat, who sat swelling with rage and surpriseAt this, could no longer her fury contain,For she had always supposed herself rather precise,And of her sleek neatness had been somewhat vain;So she flew at poor doggy and boxed both his ears,Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his face,And sent him off yelping; from which it appearsThose who ask prying questions may meet with disgrace.

As pussy sat washing her face by the gate,

A nice little dog came to have a good chat;

And after some talk about matters of state,

Said, with a low bow, “My dear Mrs. Cat,

I really do hope you’ll not think I am rude;

I am curious, I know, and that you may say—

Perhaps you’ll be angry; but no, you’re too good—

Pray why do you wash in that very odd way?

“Now I every day rush away to the lake,And in the clear water I dive and I swim;I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake,And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin.But you any day in the sun may be seen,Just rubbing yourself with your red little tongue;I admire the grace with which it is done—But really, now, are you sure you get yourself clean?”

“Now I every day rush away to the lake,

And in the clear water I dive and I swim;

I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake,

And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin.

But you any day in the sun may be seen,

Just rubbing yourself with your red little tongue;

I admire the grace with which it is done—

But really, now, are you sure you get yourself clean?”

The cat, who sat swelling with rage and surpriseAt this, could no longer her fury contain,For she had always supposed herself rather precise,And of her sleek neatness had been somewhat vain;So she flew at poor doggy and boxed both his ears,Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his face,And sent him off yelping; from which it appearsThose who ask prying questions may meet with disgrace.

The cat, who sat swelling with rage and surprise

At this, could no longer her fury contain,

For she had always supposed herself rather precise,

And of her sleek neatness had been somewhat vain;

So she flew at poor doggy and boxed both his ears,

Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit in his face,

And sent him off yelping; from which it appears

Those who ask prying questions may meet with disgrace.

Around the fire, one wintry night,The farmer’s rosy children sat;The fagot lent its blazing light,And jokes went round, and careless chat;When, hark! a gentle hand they hearLow tapping at the bolted door;And thus, to gain their willing ear,A feeble voice was heard implore:—“Cold blows the blast across the moor,The sleet drives hissing in the wind;Yon toilsome mountain lies before,A dreary, treeless waste behind.“My eyes are weak and dim with age,No road, no path can I descry;And these poor rags ill stand the rageOf such a keen, inclement sky.“So faint I am, these tottering feetNo more my palsied frame can bear;My freezing heart forgets to beat,And drifting snows my tomb prepare.“Open your hospitable door,And shield me from the biting blast:Cold, cold it blows across the moor,The weary moor that I have passed!”With hasty steps the farmer ran,And close beside the fire they placeThe poor half-frozen beggar man,With shaking limbs and pale-blue face.The little children flocking came,And chafed his frozen hands in theirs;And busily the good old dameA comfortable mess prepares.Their kindness cheered his drooping soul;And slowly down his wrinkled cheekThe big round tear was seen to roll,Which told the thanks he could not speak.The children then began to sigh,And all their merry chat was o’er;And yet they felt, they knew not why,More glad than they had done before.—Aiken.

Around the fire, one wintry night,The farmer’s rosy children sat;The fagot lent its blazing light,And jokes went round, and careless chat;

Around the fire, one wintry night,

The farmer’s rosy children sat;

The fagot lent its blazing light,

And jokes went round, and careless chat;

When, hark! a gentle hand they hearLow tapping at the bolted door;And thus, to gain their willing ear,A feeble voice was heard implore:—

When, hark! a gentle hand they hear

Low tapping at the bolted door;

And thus, to gain their willing ear,

A feeble voice was heard implore:—

“Cold blows the blast across the moor,The sleet drives hissing in the wind;Yon toilsome mountain lies before,A dreary, treeless waste behind.

“Cold blows the blast across the moor,

The sleet drives hissing in the wind;

Yon toilsome mountain lies before,

A dreary, treeless waste behind.

“My eyes are weak and dim with age,No road, no path can I descry;And these poor rags ill stand the rageOf such a keen, inclement sky.

“My eyes are weak and dim with age,

No road, no path can I descry;

And these poor rags ill stand the rage

Of such a keen, inclement sky.

“So faint I am, these tottering feetNo more my palsied frame can bear;My freezing heart forgets to beat,And drifting snows my tomb prepare.

“So faint I am, these tottering feet

No more my palsied frame can bear;

My freezing heart forgets to beat,

And drifting snows my tomb prepare.

“Open your hospitable door,And shield me from the biting blast:Cold, cold it blows across the moor,The weary moor that I have passed!”

“Open your hospitable door,

And shield me from the biting blast:

Cold, cold it blows across the moor,

The weary moor that I have passed!”

With hasty steps the farmer ran,And close beside the fire they placeThe poor half-frozen beggar man,With shaking limbs and pale-blue face.

With hasty steps the farmer ran,

And close beside the fire they place

The poor half-frozen beggar man,

With shaking limbs and pale-blue face.

The little children flocking came,And chafed his frozen hands in theirs;And busily the good old dameA comfortable mess prepares.

The little children flocking came,

And chafed his frozen hands in theirs;

And busily the good old dame

A comfortable mess prepares.

Their kindness cheered his drooping soul;And slowly down his wrinkled cheekThe big round tear was seen to roll,Which told the thanks he could not speak.

Their kindness cheered his drooping soul;

And slowly down his wrinkled cheek

The big round tear was seen to roll,

Which told the thanks he could not speak.

The children then began to sigh,And all their merry chat was o’er;And yet they felt, they knew not why,More glad than they had done before.—Aiken.

The children then began to sigh,

And all their merry chat was o’er;

And yet they felt, they knew not why,

More glad than they had done before.—Aiken.

Quoth Dermot (a lodger at Mrs. O’Flynn’s),“How queerly my shower-bath feels!It shocks like a posse of needles and pins,Or a shoal of electrical eels.”Quoth Murphy, “Then mend it, and I’ll tell you howIt’s all your own fault, my good fellow:I used to be bothered as you are, but nowI’m wiser—I take my umbrella.”—James Smith.

Quoth Dermot (a lodger at Mrs. O’Flynn’s),“How queerly my shower-bath feels!It shocks like a posse of needles and pins,Or a shoal of electrical eels.”

Quoth Dermot (a lodger at Mrs. O’Flynn’s),

“How queerly my shower-bath feels!

It shocks like a posse of needles and pins,

Or a shoal of electrical eels.”

Quoth Murphy, “Then mend it, and I’ll tell you howIt’s all your own fault, my good fellow:I used to be bothered as you are, but nowI’m wiser—I take my umbrella.”—James Smith.

Quoth Murphy, “Then mend it, and I’ll tell you how

It’s all your own fault, my good fellow:

I used to be bothered as you are, but now

I’m wiser—I take my umbrella.”—James Smith.

After a youth by woes o’ercast,After a thousand sorrows past,The lovely Mary once againSet foot upon her native plain;Knelt on the pier with modest grace,And turned to heaven her beauteous face.’Twas then the caps in air were blended,A thousand thousand shouts ascended,Shivered the breeze around the throng,Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;And every tongue gave thanks to heaven,That Mary to their hopes was given.Her comely form and graceful mienBespoke the lady and the queen;The woes of one so fair and youngMoved every heart and every tongue.Driven from her home, a helpless child,To brave the winds and billows wild;An exile bred in realms afar,Amid commotions, broils, and war.In one short year, her hopes all crossedA parent, husband, kingdom, lost!And all ere eighteen years had shedTheir honors o’er her royal head.For such a queen, the Stuart’s heir,—A queen so courteous, young, and fair,—Who would not every foe defy?Who would not stand—who would not die?Light on her airy steed she sprung,Around with golden tassels hung;No chieftain there rode half so free,Or half so light and gracefully.How sweet to see her ringlets paleWide waving in the southland gale,Which through the broomwood blossoms flew,To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!Whene’er it heaved her bosom’s screen,What beauties in her form were seen!And when her courser’s mane it swung,A thousand silver bells were rung.A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,A Scot shall never see again!—Hogg.

After a youth by woes o’ercast,

After a thousand sorrows past,

The lovely Mary once again

Set foot upon her native plain;

Knelt on the pier with modest grace,

And turned to heaven her beauteous face.

’Twas then the caps in air were blended,

A thousand thousand shouts ascended,

Shivered the breeze around the throng,

Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;

And every tongue gave thanks to heaven,

That Mary to their hopes was given.

Her comely form and graceful mienBespoke the lady and the queen;The woes of one so fair and youngMoved every heart and every tongue.Driven from her home, a helpless child,To brave the winds and billows wild;An exile bred in realms afar,Amid commotions, broils, and war.In one short year, her hopes all crossedA parent, husband, kingdom, lost!And all ere eighteen years had shedTheir honors o’er her royal head.For such a queen, the Stuart’s heir,—A queen so courteous, young, and fair,—Who would not every foe defy?Who would not stand—who would not die?

Her comely form and graceful mien

Bespoke the lady and the queen;

The woes of one so fair and young

Moved every heart and every tongue.

Driven from her home, a helpless child,

To brave the winds and billows wild;

An exile bred in realms afar,

Amid commotions, broils, and war.

In one short year, her hopes all crossed

A parent, husband, kingdom, lost!

And all ere eighteen years had shed

Their honors o’er her royal head.

For such a queen, the Stuart’s heir,—

A queen so courteous, young, and fair,—

Who would not every foe defy?

Who would not stand—who would not die?

Light on her airy steed she sprung,Around with golden tassels hung;No chieftain there rode half so free,Or half so light and gracefully.How sweet to see her ringlets paleWide waving in the southland gale,Which through the broomwood blossoms flew,To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!Whene’er it heaved her bosom’s screen,What beauties in her form were seen!And when her courser’s mane it swung,A thousand silver bells were rung.A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,A Scot shall never see again!—Hogg.

Light on her airy steed she sprung,

Around with golden tassels hung;

No chieftain there rode half so free,

Or half so light and gracefully.

How sweet to see her ringlets pale

Wide waving in the southland gale,

Which through the broomwood blossoms flew,

To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!

Whene’er it heaved her bosom’s screen,

What beauties in her form were seen!

And when her courser’s mane it swung,

A thousand silver bells were rung.

A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,

A Scot shall never see again!—Hogg.

In the air do I behold indeedAn eagle and a serpent wreathed in fight,And now, relaxing its impetuous flight,Before th’ aerial rock on which I stood,The eagle hovering wheeled to left and right,And hung with lingering wings over the flood,And startled with its yells the wide air’s solitude.A shaft of light upon its wings descended,And every golden feather gleamed therein,Feather and scale inextricably blended:The serpent’s mailed and many-colored skinShone through the plumes, its coils were twined within,With many a swoln and knotted fold; and highAnd far the neck receding lithe and thin,Sustained a crested head, which warilyShifted, and glanced before the eagle’s steadfast eye.Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling,With clang of wings and scream the eagle sailedIncessantly; sometimes on high concealingIts lessening orbs, sometimes as if it failed,Drooped through the air, and still it shrieked and wailed,And, casting back its eager head, with beakAnd talon unremittingly assailedThe wreathèd serpent, who did ever seekUpon his enemy’s heart a mortal wound to wreak.—Shelley.

In the air do I behold indeed

An eagle and a serpent wreathed in fight,

And now, relaxing its impetuous flight,

Before th’ aerial rock on which I stood,

The eagle hovering wheeled to left and right,

And hung with lingering wings over the flood,

And startled with its yells the wide air’s solitude.

A shaft of light upon its wings descended,And every golden feather gleamed therein,Feather and scale inextricably blended:The serpent’s mailed and many-colored skinShone through the plumes, its coils were twined within,With many a swoln and knotted fold; and highAnd far the neck receding lithe and thin,Sustained a crested head, which warilyShifted, and glanced before the eagle’s steadfast eye.

A shaft of light upon its wings descended,

And every golden feather gleamed therein,

Feather and scale inextricably blended:

The serpent’s mailed and many-colored skin

Shone through the plumes, its coils were twined within,

With many a swoln and knotted fold; and high

And far the neck receding lithe and thin,

Sustained a crested head, which warily

Shifted, and glanced before the eagle’s steadfast eye.

Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling,With clang of wings and scream the eagle sailedIncessantly; sometimes on high concealingIts lessening orbs, sometimes as if it failed,Drooped through the air, and still it shrieked and wailed,And, casting back its eager head, with beakAnd talon unremittingly assailedThe wreathèd serpent, who did ever seekUpon his enemy’s heart a mortal wound to wreak.—Shelley.

Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling,

With clang of wings and scream the eagle sailed

Incessantly; sometimes on high concealing

Its lessening orbs, sometimes as if it failed,

Drooped through the air, and still it shrieked and wailed,

And, casting back its eager head, with beak

And talon unremittingly assailed

The wreathèd serpent, who did ever seek

Upon his enemy’s heart a mortal wound to wreak.—Shelley.

“Oh, ’tis time I should talk to your mother,Sweet Mary,” says I;“Oh, don’t talk to my mother,” says Mary,Beginning to cry:“For my mother says men are deceivers,And never, I know, will consent;She says girls in a hurry who marry,At leisure repent.”“Then, suppose I would talk to your father,Sweet Mary,” says I;“Oh, don’t talk to my father,” says Mary,Beginning to cry:“For my father, he loves me so dearly,He’ll never consent I should go—If you talk to my father,” says Mary,“He’ll surely say ‘No.’”“Then how shall I get you, my jewel?Sweet Mary,” says I;“If your father and mother’s so cruel,Most surely I’ll die!”“Oh, never say die, dear,” says Mary;“A way now to save you I see;Since my parents are both so contrary—You’d better askme.”—Lover.

“Oh, ’tis time I should talk to your mother,

Sweet Mary,” says I;

“Oh, don’t talk to my mother,” says Mary,

Beginning to cry:

“For my mother says men are deceivers,

And never, I know, will consent;

She says girls in a hurry who marry,

At leisure repent.”

“Then, suppose I would talk to your father,Sweet Mary,” says I;“Oh, don’t talk to my father,” says Mary,Beginning to cry:“For my father, he loves me so dearly,He’ll never consent I should go—If you talk to my father,” says Mary,“He’ll surely say ‘No.’”

“Then, suppose I would talk to your father,

Sweet Mary,” says I;

“Oh, don’t talk to my father,” says Mary,

Beginning to cry:

“For my father, he loves me so dearly,

He’ll never consent I should go—

If you talk to my father,” says Mary,

“He’ll surely say ‘No.’”

“Then how shall I get you, my jewel?Sweet Mary,” says I;“If your father and mother’s so cruel,Most surely I’ll die!”“Oh, never say die, dear,” says Mary;“A way now to save you I see;Since my parents are both so contrary—You’d better askme.”—Lover.

“Then how shall I get you, my jewel?

Sweet Mary,” says I;

“If your father and mother’s so cruel,

Most surely I’ll die!”

“Oh, never say die, dear,” says Mary;

“A way now to save you I see;

Since my parents are both so contrary—

You’d better askme.”—Lover.

He left a load of anthraciteIn front of a poor widow’s doorWhen the deep snow, frozen and white,Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor—That was his deed:He did it well;“What was his creed?”I cannot tell.Blessed “in his basket and his store,”In sitting down and rising up;When more he got he gave the more,Withholding not the crust and cup;He took the leadIn each good task;“What was his creed?”I did not ask.His charity was like the snow,Soft, white, and silken in its fall;Not like the noisy winds that blowFrom shivering trees the leaves; a pallFor flower and weed,Dropping below;“What was his creed?”The poor may know.He had great faith in loaves of breadFor hungry people, young and old;And hope inspired, kind words he said,To those he sheltered from the cold,For he must feedAs well as pray;“What was his creed?”I cannot say.

He left a load of anthracite

In front of a poor widow’s door

When the deep snow, frozen and white,

Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor—

That was his deed:

He did it well;

“What was his creed?”

I cannot tell.

Blessed “in his basket and his store,”In sitting down and rising up;When more he got he gave the more,Withholding not the crust and cup;He took the leadIn each good task;“What was his creed?”I did not ask.

Blessed “in his basket and his store,”

In sitting down and rising up;

When more he got he gave the more,

Withholding not the crust and cup;

He took the lead

In each good task;

“What was his creed?”

I did not ask.

His charity was like the snow,Soft, white, and silken in its fall;Not like the noisy winds that blowFrom shivering trees the leaves; a pallFor flower and weed,Dropping below;“What was his creed?”The poor may know.

His charity was like the snow,

Soft, white, and silken in its fall;

Not like the noisy winds that blow

From shivering trees the leaves; a pall

For flower and weed,

Dropping below;

“What was his creed?”

The poor may know.

He had great faith in loaves of breadFor hungry people, young and old;And hope inspired, kind words he said,To those he sheltered from the cold,For he must feedAs well as pray;“What was his creed?”I cannot say.

He had great faith in loaves of bread

For hungry people, young and old;

And hope inspired, kind words he said,

To those he sheltered from the cold,

For he must feed

As well as pray;

“What was his creed?”

I cannot say.

Mid the brown-haired and the black-haired men,With ruddy faces aglow,The old man stood in the harvest field,With a head as white as snow.“Let me cut a sheaf, my boys,” he said,“Before it is time to go.”They put the sickle within his hand:He bowed to the windy wheat;Pleasantly fell the golden ears,With the corn flowers at his feet.He lifted a handful, thoughtfully;It was ripe and full and sweet.“Many and many a sheaf,” he said,“I have cut in the years gone past;And many and many a sheaf these armsOn the harvest wains have cast.But, children dear, I am weary now,And I think this is—the last.“Let me rest awhile beneath the tree;For I like to watch you go,With sickles bright, through the ripe, full wheat,And to feel the fresh wind blow.”And they spread their working coats for him’Mong the grasses sweet and low.When the sun grew high they came again,For a drink and their bread and meat;And in the shadow he sleeping lay,With sunshine on his feet.Like a child at night, outspent with play,He lay in slumber sweet.

Mid the brown-haired and the black-haired men,

With ruddy faces aglow,

The old man stood in the harvest field,

With a head as white as snow.

“Let me cut a sheaf, my boys,” he said,

“Before it is time to go.”

They put the sickle within his hand:He bowed to the windy wheat;Pleasantly fell the golden ears,With the corn flowers at his feet.He lifted a handful, thoughtfully;It was ripe and full and sweet.

They put the sickle within his hand:

He bowed to the windy wheat;

Pleasantly fell the golden ears,

With the corn flowers at his feet.

He lifted a handful, thoughtfully;

It was ripe and full and sweet.

“Many and many a sheaf,” he said,“I have cut in the years gone past;And many and many a sheaf these armsOn the harvest wains have cast.But, children dear, I am weary now,And I think this is—the last.

“Many and many a sheaf,” he said,

“I have cut in the years gone past;

And many and many a sheaf these arms

On the harvest wains have cast.

But, children dear, I am weary now,

And I think this is—the last.

“Let me rest awhile beneath the tree;For I like to watch you go,With sickles bright, through the ripe, full wheat,And to feel the fresh wind blow.”And they spread their working coats for him’Mong the grasses sweet and low.

“Let me rest awhile beneath the tree;

For I like to watch you go,

With sickles bright, through the ripe, full wheat,

And to feel the fresh wind blow.”

And they spread their working coats for him

’Mong the grasses sweet and low.

When the sun grew high they came again,For a drink and their bread and meat;And in the shadow he sleeping lay,With sunshine on his feet.Like a child at night, outspent with play,He lay in slumber sweet.

When the sun grew high they came again,

For a drink and their bread and meat;

And in the shadow he sleeping lay,

With sunshine on his feet.

Like a child at night, outspent with play,

He lay in slumber sweet.

The boat, impatient of delay,With spreading, white wings flew away,Pushed its bold venture more and more.Left far behind the fading shore,And glided on, swan-like and free,A thing of life, sylph of the sea.The speed grew swift, each eager sailSwelled as it caught the gentle gale,And so, with canvas all unfurled,Around the prow the waters curled,And wreaths of spray, formed one by one,Made rainbows in the shining sun.The lively breeze then stiffer grew,The sail-boat leaped and darted throughEach billow as it struck her breast,Or, mounting upward, skimmed the crest,Plunged down into the hollow graves,Made by the fast advancing waves,Then rose again with graceful bound,Wet with the white-caps splashing round,And in her frolicsome advance,Moved like a maiden in the dance.Careening low upon her side,No bird that cuts the air could glideMore deftly than she gaily flew,Light-hearted, o’er the waters blue.And just as gay were those on board,Their youthful spirits in accord.As well-tuned strings wake with a thrill,Touched by the harpist’s facile skill,So these young hearts were in attune,And carolled like the birds of June.The pleasure-seekers, side by side,Rode with the wind, rode with the tide,While sparkling jest and blithesome song,And bursts of laughter loud and long,Spontaneous mirth and shouts of glee,Went floating o’er the ruffled sea.—Davenport.

The boat, impatient of delay,

With spreading, white wings flew away,

Pushed its bold venture more and more.

Left far behind the fading shore,

And glided on, swan-like and free,

A thing of life, sylph of the sea.

The speed grew swift, each eager sail

Swelled as it caught the gentle gale,

And so, with canvas all unfurled,

Around the prow the waters curled,

And wreaths of spray, formed one by one,

Made rainbows in the shining sun.

The lively breeze then stiffer grew,The sail-boat leaped and darted throughEach billow as it struck her breast,Or, mounting upward, skimmed the crest,Plunged down into the hollow graves,Made by the fast advancing waves,Then rose again with graceful bound,Wet with the white-caps splashing round,And in her frolicsome advance,Moved like a maiden in the dance.Careening low upon her side,No bird that cuts the air could glideMore deftly than she gaily flew,Light-hearted, o’er the waters blue.

The lively breeze then stiffer grew,

The sail-boat leaped and darted through

Each billow as it struck her breast,

Or, mounting upward, skimmed the crest,

Plunged down into the hollow graves,

Made by the fast advancing waves,

Then rose again with graceful bound,

Wet with the white-caps splashing round,

And in her frolicsome advance,

Moved like a maiden in the dance.

Careening low upon her side,

No bird that cuts the air could glide

More deftly than she gaily flew,

Light-hearted, o’er the waters blue.

And just as gay were those on board,Their youthful spirits in accord.As well-tuned strings wake with a thrill,Touched by the harpist’s facile skill,So these young hearts were in attune,And carolled like the birds of June.The pleasure-seekers, side by side,Rode with the wind, rode with the tide,While sparkling jest and blithesome song,And bursts of laughter loud and long,Spontaneous mirth and shouts of glee,Went floating o’er the ruffled sea.—Davenport.

And just as gay were those on board,

Their youthful spirits in accord.

As well-tuned strings wake with a thrill,

Touched by the harpist’s facile skill,

So these young hearts were in attune,

And carolled like the birds of June.

The pleasure-seekers, side by side,

Rode with the wind, rode with the tide,

While sparkling jest and blithesome song,

And bursts of laughter loud and long,

Spontaneous mirth and shouts of glee,

Went floating o’er the ruffled sea.—Davenport.

A little bird once met another bird,And whistled to her, “Will you be my mate?”With fluttering wings she twittered, “How absurd!Oh, what a silly pate!”And off into a distant tree she flew,To find concealment in the shady cover;And passed the hours in slily peeping throughAt her rejected lover.The jilted bird, with drooping heart and wing,Poured forth his grief all day in plaintiff songs;Telling in sadness to the ear of springThe story of his wrongs.But little thought he, while each nook and dellWith the wild music of his plaint was thrilling,That scornful breast with sighs began to swell—Half-pitying and half-willing.Next month I walked the same sequestered way,When close together on a twig I spied them;And in a nest half-hid with leaves there layFour little birds beside them.Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop:When lover’s hopes within their hearts you prison,Fly out of sight and hearing; do not stopTo look behind and listen.—Soule.

A little bird once met another bird,And whistled to her, “Will you be my mate?”With fluttering wings she twittered, “How absurd!Oh, what a silly pate!”

A little bird once met another bird,

And whistled to her, “Will you be my mate?”

With fluttering wings she twittered, “How absurd!

Oh, what a silly pate!”

And off into a distant tree she flew,To find concealment in the shady cover;And passed the hours in slily peeping throughAt her rejected lover.

And off into a distant tree she flew,

To find concealment in the shady cover;

And passed the hours in slily peeping through

At her rejected lover.

The jilted bird, with drooping heart and wing,Poured forth his grief all day in plaintiff songs;Telling in sadness to the ear of springThe story of his wrongs.

The jilted bird, with drooping heart and wing,

Poured forth his grief all day in plaintiff songs;

Telling in sadness to the ear of spring

The story of his wrongs.

But little thought he, while each nook and dellWith the wild music of his plaint was thrilling,That scornful breast with sighs began to swell—Half-pitying and half-willing.

But little thought he, while each nook and dell

With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling,

That scornful breast with sighs began to swell—

Half-pitying and half-willing.

Next month I walked the same sequestered way,When close together on a twig I spied them;And in a nest half-hid with leaves there layFour little birds beside them.

Next month I walked the same sequestered way,

When close together on a twig I spied them;

And in a nest half-hid with leaves there lay

Four little birds beside them.

Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop:When lover’s hopes within their hearts you prison,Fly out of sight and hearing; do not stopTo look behind and listen.—Soule.

Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop:

When lover’s hopes within their hearts you prison,

Fly out of sight and hearing; do not stop

To look behind and listen.—Soule.

Cries little Miss Fret,In a very great pet:“I hate this warm weather; it’s horrid to tan.It scorches my nose,And blisters my toes,And wherever I go, I must carry a fan.”Chirps little Miss Laugh:“Why, I couldn’t tell halfThe fun I am having this bright summer day.I sing through the hours,I cull pretty flowers,And ride like a queen on the sweet smelling hay.”

Cries little Miss Fret,In a very great pet:“I hate this warm weather; it’s horrid to tan.It scorches my nose,And blisters my toes,And wherever I go, I must carry a fan.”

Cries little Miss Fret,

In a very great pet:

“I hate this warm weather; it’s horrid to tan.

It scorches my nose,

And blisters my toes,

And wherever I go, I must carry a fan.”

Chirps little Miss Laugh:“Why, I couldn’t tell halfThe fun I am having this bright summer day.I sing through the hours,I cull pretty flowers,And ride like a queen on the sweet smelling hay.”

Chirps little Miss Laugh:

“Why, I couldn’t tell half

The fun I am having this bright summer day.

I sing through the hours,

I cull pretty flowers,

And ride like a queen on the sweet smelling hay.”

We were not many, we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day;Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if but he couldHave with us been at Monterey.Now here, now there, the shot it hailedIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quailedWhen wounded comrades round him wailedTheir dying shout at Monterey.And on, still on, our column keptThrough walls of flame its wavering way;Where fell the dead, the living stepped,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.The foe himself recoiled aghast,When, striking where he strongest lay,We swooped his flanking batteries past,And braving full their murderous blast,Stormed home the towers of Monterey.Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play,Where orange-boughs above their grave,Keep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.We are not many, we who pressedBeside the brave who fell that day;But who of us has not confessedHe’d rather share their warrior restThan not have been at Monterey?—Hoffman.

We were not many, we who stoodBefore the iron sleet that day;Yet many a gallant spirit wouldGive half his years if but he couldHave with us been at Monterey.

We were not many, we who stood

Before the iron sleet that day;

Yet many a gallant spirit would

Give half his years if but he could

Have with us been at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailedIn deadly drifts of fiery spray,Yet not a single soldier quailedWhen wounded comrades round him wailedTheir dying shout at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed

In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quailed

When wounded comrades round him wailed

Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on, our column keptThrough walls of flame its wavering way;Where fell the dead, the living stepped,Still charging on the guns which sweptThe slippery streets of Monterey.

And on, still on, our column kept

Through walls of flame its wavering way;

Where fell the dead, the living stepped,

Still charging on the guns which swept

The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,When, striking where he strongest lay,We swooped his flanking batteries past,And braving full their murderous blast,Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay,

We swooped his flanking batteries past,

And braving full their murderous blast,

Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,And there our evening bugles play,Where orange-boughs above their grave,Keep green the memory of the braveWho fought and fell at Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play,

Where orange-boughs above their grave,

Keep green the memory of the brave

Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many, we who pressedBeside the brave who fell that day;But who of us has not confessedHe’d rather share their warrior restThan not have been at Monterey?—Hoffman.

We are not many, we who pressed

Beside the brave who fell that day;

But who of us has not confessed

He’d rather share their warrior rest

Than not have been at Monterey?—Hoffman.

Oh, I am a woman’s watch, am I,But I would that I were not;For if you knew, you would not denyThat mine is a sorry lot.She will let me rest for a great long while,Then all of a sudden seekTo twist me up so tight that I’llKeep going for a week.She leaves me open when she will,Till I’m sick of dirt and things;Of pins and hair I have got my fill,And of buttons, hooks and strings.There’s a four-leaf clover in me, too,And a piece of a photograph;I’m stuffed completely through and throughWith toothpicks, cloves and chaff.My hands are twisted to and fro,I’m thumped and jarred, alack!And then, if I fail to straightway go,I’m pounded front and back.With her hat-pin all my wheels she’ll pryTill she breaks them every one,And then she’ll say: “I don’t see whyThis mean old thing won’t run!”

Oh, I am a woman’s watch, am I,

But I would that I were not;

For if you knew, you would not deny

That mine is a sorry lot.

She will let me rest for a great long while,

Then all of a sudden seek

To twist me up so tight that I’ll

Keep going for a week.

She leaves me open when she will,Till I’m sick of dirt and things;Of pins and hair I have got my fill,And of buttons, hooks and strings.There’s a four-leaf clover in me, too,And a piece of a photograph;I’m stuffed completely through and throughWith toothpicks, cloves and chaff.

She leaves me open when she will,

Till I’m sick of dirt and things;

Of pins and hair I have got my fill,

And of buttons, hooks and strings.

There’s a four-leaf clover in me, too,

And a piece of a photograph;

I’m stuffed completely through and through

With toothpicks, cloves and chaff.

My hands are twisted to and fro,I’m thumped and jarred, alack!And then, if I fail to straightway go,I’m pounded front and back.With her hat-pin all my wheels she’ll pryTill she breaks them every one,And then she’ll say: “I don’t see whyThis mean old thing won’t run!”

My hands are twisted to and fro,

I’m thumped and jarred, alack!

And then, if I fail to straightway go,

I’m pounded front and back.

With her hat-pin all my wheels she’ll pry

Till she breaks them every one,

And then she’ll say: “I don’t see why

This mean old thing won’t run!”

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