WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89,I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,—"A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to lookUpon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book!A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,—The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be;And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine,When I was broke in London in the fall of '89!Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day,A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,—A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago,Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know).A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,—That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob;But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine,When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore,And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store.Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command,But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand.Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,—It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot;Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline?For I was broke in London in the fall of '89.Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heapThat Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap;And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass,And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass!And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates,The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates!Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mineWhen I was broke in London in the fall of '89.O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,—The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the eye,—The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime,The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time,The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play,And other costly relics of malodorous decay,—Ye only can appreciate what agony was mineWhen I was broke in London in the fall of '89.When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward,Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record;Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue,Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung;But in plain Anglo-Saxon—that he may know who seeksWhat agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks—Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line:"Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89."
WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89,I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign,—"A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to lookUpon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book!A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see,—The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be;And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine,When I was broke in London in the fall of '89!Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day,A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may,—A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago,Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know).A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob,—That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob;But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine,When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore,And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store.Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command,But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand.Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,—It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot;Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline?For I was broke in London in the fall of '89.Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heapThat Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap;And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass,And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass!And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates,The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates!Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mineWhen I was broke in London in the fall of '89.O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,—The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the eye,—The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime,The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time,The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play,And other costly relics of malodorous decay,—Ye only can appreciate what agony was mineWhen I was broke in London in the fall of '89.When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward,Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record;Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue,Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung;But in plain Anglo-Saxon—that he may know who seeksWhat agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks—Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line:"Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89."
BAMBINO in his cradle slept;And by his side his grandam grimBent down and smiled upon the child,And sung this lullaby to him,—This "ninna and anninia":"When thou art older, thou shalt mindTo traverse countries far and wide,And thou shalt go where roses blowAnd balmy waters singing glide—So ninna and anninia!"And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points,A famous jacket edged in red,And, more than that, a peaked hat,All decked in gold, upon thy head—Ah! ninna and anninia!"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife.Nor shall the soldiers bully thee;Perchance, beset by wrong or debt,A mighty bandit thou shalt be—So ninna and anninia!"No woman yet of our proud raceLived to her fourteenth year unwed;The brazen churl that eyed a girlBought her the ring or paid his head—So ninna and anninia!"But once came spies (I know the thieves!)And brought disaster to our race;God heard us when our fifteen menWere hanged within the market-place—But ninna and anninia!"Good men they were, my babe, and true,—Right worthy fellows all, and strong;Live thou and be for them and meAvenger of that deadly wrong—So ninna and anninia!"
BAMBINO in his cradle slept;And by his side his grandam grimBent down and smiled upon the child,And sung this lullaby to him,—This "ninna and anninia":"When thou art older, thou shalt mindTo traverse countries far and wide,And thou shalt go where roses blowAnd balmy waters singing glide—So ninna and anninia!"And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points,A famous jacket edged in red,And, more than that, a peaked hat,All decked in gold, upon thy head—Ah! ninna and anninia!"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife.Nor shall the soldiers bully thee;Perchance, beset by wrong or debt,A mighty bandit thou shalt be—So ninna and anninia!"No woman yet of our proud raceLived to her fourteenth year unwed;The brazen churl that eyed a girlBought her the ring or paid his head—So ninna and anninia!"But once came spies (I know the thieves!)And brought disaster to our race;God heard us when our fifteen menWere hanged within the market-place—But ninna and anninia!"Good men they were, my babe, and true,—Right worthy fellows all, and strong;Live thou and be for them and meAvenger of that deadly wrong—So ninna and anninia!"
NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter toneThan ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known.When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my headSuggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed;When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside,And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a buffalo hide,—How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fallAt the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall!Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name,That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame?Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire,That presently by combustion setteth us all afire?Or is it the cheery magnum?—nay, I'll not chide the cupThat makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up:Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,—Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for all.I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame,And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same;And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desireTo vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire;I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and screamed,—In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human dreamed:But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a winkWhen the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink.Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup?Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up!See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly stroveTo reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen stove!The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and through:An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.!And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fretThat its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat.May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drinkThat happens along at fivea. m.with its rapturous clinkety-clink!I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throatBut what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote;So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gemFor the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at fivea. m.,But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrallOf the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall.
NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter toneThan ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known.When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my headSuggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed;When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside,And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a buffalo hide,—How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fallAt the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall!Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name,That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame?Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire,That presently by combustion setteth us all afire?Or is it the cheery magnum?—nay, I'll not chide the cupThat makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up:Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,—Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for all.I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame,And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same;And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desireTo vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire;I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and screamed,—In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human dreamed:But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a winkWhen the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink.Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup?Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up!See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly stroveTo reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen stove!The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and through:An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.!And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fretThat its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat.May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drinkThat happens along at fivea. m.with its rapturous clinkety-clink!I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throatBut what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote;So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gemFor the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at fivea. m.,But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrallOf the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall.
WHAT though the radiant thoroughfareTeems with a noisy throng?What though men bandy everywhereThe ribald jest and song?Over the din of oaths and criesBroodeth a wondrous calm,And mid that solemn stillness riseThe bells of Notre Dame."Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say,"Thy weak and erring child;And thou, O gentle Mother, prayThat God be reconciled;And on mankind, O Christ, our King,Pour out Thy gracious balm,"—'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing,Those bells of Notre Dame.And so, methinks, God, bending downTo ken the things of earth,Heeds not the mockery of the townOr cries of ribald mirth;For ever soundeth in His earsA penitential psalm,—'T is thy angelic voice He hears,O bells of Notre Dame!Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voiceMay still forever beAn intercession to rejoiceBenign divinity;And that thy tuneful grace may fallLike dew, a quickening balm,Upon the arid hearts of all,O bells of Notre Dame!
WHAT though the radiant thoroughfareTeems with a noisy throng?What though men bandy everywhereThe ribald jest and song?Over the din of oaths and criesBroodeth a wondrous calm,And mid that solemn stillness riseThe bells of Notre Dame."Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say,"Thy weak and erring child;And thou, O gentle Mother, prayThat God be reconciled;And on mankind, O Christ, our King,Pour out Thy gracious balm,"—'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing,Those bells of Notre Dame.And so, methinks, God, bending downTo ken the things of earth,Heeds not the mockery of the townOr cries of ribald mirth;For ever soundeth in His earsA penitential psalm,—'T is thy angelic voice He hears,O bells of Notre Dame!Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voiceMay still forever beAn intercession to rejoiceBenign divinity;And that thy tuneful grace may fallLike dew, a quickening balm,Upon the arid hearts of all,O bells of Notre Dame!
SAINT JO, Buchanan County,Is leagues and leagues away;And I sit in the gloom of this rented room,And pine to be there to-day.Yes, with London fog around meAnd the bustling to and fro,I am fretting to be across the seaIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.I would have a brown-eyed maidenGo driving once again;And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along,That I sung to that maiden then:I purposely say, "as wesnailedalong,"For a proper horse goes slowIn those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles,In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.From her boudoir in the aldersWould peep a lynx-eyed thrush,And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way,To the noisy cricket, "Hush!"To think that the curious creatureShould crane her neck to knowThe various things one says and singsIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!But the maples they should shield usFrom the gossips of the place;Nor should the sun, except by pun,Profane the maiden's face;And the girl should do the driving,For a fellow can't, you know,Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectfulIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.Ah! sweet the hours of springtime,When the heart inclines to woo,And it's deemed all right for the callow wightTo do what he wants to do;But cruel the age of winter,When the way of the world says noTo the hoary men who would woo againIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!In the Union Bank of LondonAre forty pounds or more,Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end,In an antiquarian store;But I'd give it all, and gladly,If for an hour or soI could feel the grace of a distant place,—Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.Let us sit awhile, beloved,And dream of the good old days,—Of the kindly shade which the maples madeRound the stanch but squeaky chaise;With your head upon my shoulder,And my arm about you so,Though exiles, we shall seem to beIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.
SAINT JO, Buchanan County,Is leagues and leagues away;And I sit in the gloom of this rented room,And pine to be there to-day.Yes, with London fog around meAnd the bustling to and fro,I am fretting to be across the seaIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.I would have a brown-eyed maidenGo driving once again;And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along,That I sung to that maiden then:I purposely say, "as wesnailedalong,"For a proper horse goes slowIn those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles,In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.From her boudoir in the aldersWould peep a lynx-eyed thrush,And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way,To the noisy cricket, "Hush!"To think that the curious creatureShould crane her neck to knowThe various things one says and singsIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!But the maples they should shield usFrom the gossips of the place;Nor should the sun, except by pun,Profane the maiden's face;And the girl should do the driving,For a fellow can't, you know,Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectfulIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.Ah! sweet the hours of springtime,When the heart inclines to woo,And it's deemed all right for the callow wightTo do what he wants to do;But cruel the age of winter,When the way of the world says noTo the hoary men who would woo againIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!In the Union Bank of LondonAre forty pounds or more,Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end,In an antiquarian store;But I'd give it all, and gladly,If for an hour or soI could feel the grace of a distant place,—Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.Let us sit awhile, beloved,And dream of the good old days,—Of the kindly shade which the maples madeRound the stanch but squeaky chaise;With your head upon my shoulder,And my arm about you so,Though exiles, we shall seem to beIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.
THERE are happenings in life that are destined to riseLike dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes;And the passage of years shall not dim in the leastThe glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,—The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,—My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh,And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea.There are cynics who say with invidious zestThat a crumpet's a thing that will never digest;But I happen toknowthat a crumpet is primeFor digestion, if only you give it its time.Or if, by a chance, it shouldnotquite agree,Why, who would begrudge a physician his feeFor plying his trade upon crumpets and tea?To toast crumpets quiteà la mode, I requireA proper long fork and a proper quick fire;And when they are browned, without further ado,I put on the butter, that soaks through and through.And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh,Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three;And so we sit down to our crumpets—and tea.A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,—Confound those Italians! I wish they would quitInterrupting our feast with their dolorous airs,Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs.(It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree,That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when weSit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!)The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speakQuite answers its purpose the rest of the week;Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bellAnnouncing the man who has crumpets to sell;Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee,And purchase for sixpence enough for us three,Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea.But soon—ah! too soon—I must bid a farewellTo joys that succeed to the sound of that bell,Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shoreThat's filled me with colic and—yearnings for more!Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless seaShall bear me afar from Teresa and LeighAnd the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea.Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyesThat Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise.My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change,Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range;But, oh, how my palate will hanker to beIn London again with Teresa and Leigh,Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea!
THERE are happenings in life that are destined to riseLike dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes;And the passage of years shall not dim in the leastThe glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast,—The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us three,—My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh,And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea.There are cynics who say with invidious zestThat a crumpet's a thing that will never digest;But I happen toknowthat a crumpet is primeFor digestion, if only you give it its time.Or if, by a chance, it shouldnotquite agree,Why, who would begrudge a physician his feeFor plying his trade upon crumpets and tea?To toast crumpets quiteà la mode, I requireA proper long fork and a proper quick fire;And when they are browned, without further ado,I put on the butter, that soaks through and through.And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh,Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three;And so we sit down to our crumpets—and tea.A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit,—Confound those Italians! I wish they would quitInterrupting our feast with their dolorous airs,Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs.(It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree,That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when weSit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!)The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speakQuite answers its purpose the rest of the week;Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bellAnnouncing the man who has crumpets to sell;Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee,And purchase for sixpence enough for us three,Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea.But soon—ah! too soon—I must bid a farewellTo joys that succeed to the sound of that bell,Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shoreThat's filled me with colic and—yearnings for more!Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless seaShall bear me afar from Teresa and LeighAnd the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea.Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyesThat Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise.My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change,Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range;But, oh, how my palate will hanker to beIn London again with Teresa and Leigh,Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea!
THROUGH all my life the poor shall findIn me a constant friend;And on the meek of every kindMy mercy shall attend.The dumb shall never call on meIn vain for kindly aid;And in my hands the blind shall seeA bounteous alms displayed.In all their walks the lame shall knowAnd feel my goodness near;And on the deaf will I bestowMy gentlest words of cheer.'Tis by such pious works as these,Which I delight to do,That men their fellow-creatures please,And please their Maker too.
THROUGH all my life the poor shall findIn me a constant friend;And on the meek of every kindMy mercy shall attend.The dumb shall never call on meIn vain for kindly aid;And in my hands the blind shall seeA bounteous alms displayed.In all their walks the lame shall knowAnd feel my goodness near;And on the deaf will I bestowMy gentlest words of cheer.'Tis by such pious works as these,Which I delight to do,That men their fellow-creatures please,And please their Maker too.
WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,—Once as these children were hard at play,An old man, hoary and tottering, cameAnd watched them playing their pretty game.He seemed to wonder, while standing there,What the meaning thereof could be.Aha, but the old man yearned to shareOf the little children's innocent glee,As they circled around with laugh and shout,And told this rhyme at counting out:"Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,Apple-seed and apple-thorn,Wire, brier, limber, lock,Twelve geese in a flock;Some flew east, some flew west,Some flew over the cuckoo's nest."Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,—Ah, the mirth of that summer day!'Twas Father Time who had come to shareThe innocent joy of those children there.He learned betimes the game they played,And into their sport with them went he,—Howcouldthe children have been afraid,Since little they recked who he might be?They laughed to hear old Father TimeMumbling that curious nonsense rhymeOf intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,Apple-seed and apple-thorn,Wire, brier, limber, lock,Twelve geese in a flock;Some flew east, some flew west,Some flew over the cuckoo's nest.Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,And joy of summer,—where are they?The grim old man still standeth near,Crooning the song of a far-off year;And into the winter I come alone,Cheered by that mournful requiem,Soothed by the dolorous monotoneThat shall count me off as it counted them,—The solemn voice of old Father Time,Chanting the homely nursery rhymeHe learned of the children a summer morn,When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn,"Life was full of the dulcet cheerThat bringeth the grace of heaven anear:The sound of the little ones hard at play,—Willie and Bess, Georgie and May.
WILLIE and Bess, Georgie and May,—Once as these children were hard at play,An old man, hoary and tottering, cameAnd watched them playing their pretty game.He seemed to wonder, while standing there,What the meaning thereof could be.Aha, but the old man yearned to shareOf the little children's innocent glee,As they circled around with laugh and shout,And told this rhyme at counting out:"Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,Apple-seed and apple-thorn,Wire, brier, limber, lock,Twelve geese in a flock;Some flew east, some flew west,Some flew over the cuckoo's nest."Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,—Ah, the mirth of that summer day!'Twas Father Time who had come to shareThe innocent joy of those children there.He learned betimes the game they played,And into their sport with them went he,—Howcouldthe children have been afraid,Since little they recked who he might be?They laughed to hear old Father TimeMumbling that curious nonsense rhymeOf intry-mintry, cutrey-corn,Apple-seed and apple-thorn,Wire, brier, limber, lock,Twelve geese in a flock;Some flew east, some flew west,Some flew over the cuckoo's nest.Willie and Bess, Georgie and May,And joy of summer,—where are they?The grim old man still standeth near,Crooning the song of a far-off year;And into the winter I come alone,Cheered by that mournful requiem,Soothed by the dolorous monotoneThat shall count me off as it counted them,—The solemn voice of old Father Time,Chanting the homely nursery rhymeHe learned of the children a summer morn,When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn,"Life was full of the dulcet cheerThat bringeth the grace of heaven anear:The sound of the little ones hard at play,—Willie and Bess, Georgie and May.
AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand,Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land;And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81,Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun,We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth,And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health.You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago;(An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!)Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a dealEz how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel.Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther goTo call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show."The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen,And I reckon there is more formein some other kind uv queen.""Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never findA pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind?You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more,An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score,Only to come down here among ustongan' say you feelYou'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!"But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play,With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both dekollytay.A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' wealthy,—She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy.She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind,And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kindUntil his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break,And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake."Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor,And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more.At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game,And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same.I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,—Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!"He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen,And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men;Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer,An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear;And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel,An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel.A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three,And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see.He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lickThree Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' CrickTo clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said.He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red,But good to helpless folks and weak,—a brave and manly heartA cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along,But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song."Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow,But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow;So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,—Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,—I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow nightTo the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white,Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true,Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you,Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts,Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't noonter acts."I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shoutThat the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out."Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect,Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,—A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I comeOut West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum),Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to swayThe popular opinion in a most persuasive way."Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more,Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door.First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to goAnd see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low;An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock,An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block;John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write,And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight;Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too;And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do.Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then;Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again.I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in,A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!"I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,—They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break!An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base,I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face.I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrongIn throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long.I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,—And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day!I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again.She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then.An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill beAbout the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,—A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel;He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal;Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heartA cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along,But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song.
AFORE we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand,Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land;And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81,Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun,We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth,And hadn't struck that altitood entirely for our health.You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago;(An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to know!)Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a dealEz how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel.Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther goTo call on Charley Sampson than frequent a opry show."The queen uv tradegy," sez he, "is wot I've never seen,And I reckon there is more formein some other kind uv queen.""Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never findA pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind?You've set around in Casey's restawraw a year or more,An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score,Only to come down here among ustongan' say you feelYou'd ruther take in faro than a opry like 'Cameel'!"But it seems it wurn't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play,With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both dekollytay.A young chap sparks a gal, who's caught a dook that's old an' wealthy,—She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy.She says she has a record; but the young chap doesn't mind,And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kindUntil his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break,And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake."Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor,And says he ainter goin' to have no truck with her no more.At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "I'll chip into this game,And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same.I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt,—Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!"He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen,And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men;Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer,An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the rear;And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel,An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel.A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz six foot three,And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see.He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin'; and one night I seen him lickThree Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' CrickTo clean out Casey's restawraw an' do the town, they said.He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red,But good to helpless folks and weak,—a brave and manly heartA cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls along,But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song."Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I'll allow,But, bein' you're a woman, you'll git justice anyhow;So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight,—Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate,—I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow nightTo the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys'll treat you white,Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true,Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you,Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts,Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't noonter acts."I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shoutThat the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out."Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect,Ez I perduced a argument I thought they might respect,—A long an' harnsome weepon I'd pre-empted when I comeOut West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum),Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to swayThe popular opinion in a most persuasive way."Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I didn't say no more,Observin' that there wuz a ginral movement towards the door.First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to goAnd see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low;An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he'd jine the Dock,An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the block;John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write,And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight;Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too;And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do.Somehow or other every one wuz full of business then;Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and didn't bother us again.I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in,A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!"I reckollect that they allowed we'd made a big mistake,—They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break!An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base,I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face.I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrongIn throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long.I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay,—And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day!I haven't seen Modjesky since; I'm hopin' to again.She's goin' to show in Denver soon; I'll go to see her then.An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 'twill beAbout the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea,—A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel;He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him squeal;Good to the helpless and the weak; a brave an' manly heartA cyclone couldn't phase, but any child could rend apart;So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along,But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song.
OUT of the house where the slumberer layGrandfather came one summer day,And under the pleasant orchard treesHe spake this wise to the murmuring bees:"The clover-bloom that kissed her feetAnd the posie-bed where she used to playHave honey store, but none so sweetAs ere our little one went away.O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low;For she is gone who loved you so."A wonder fell on the listening beesUnder those pleasant orchard trees,And in their toil that summer dayEver their murmuring seemed to say:"Child, O child, the grass is cool,And the posies are waking to hear the songOf the bird that swings by the shaded pool,Waiting for one that tarrieth long."'Twas so they called to the little one then,As if to call her back again.O gentle bees, I have come to sayThat grandfather fell asleep to-day,And we know by the smile on grandfather's faceHe has found his dear one's biding-place.So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low,As over the honey-fields you sweep,—To the trees abloom and the flowers ablowSing of grandfather fast asleep;And ever beneath these orchard treesFind cheer and shelter, gentle bees.
OUT of the house where the slumberer layGrandfather came one summer day,And under the pleasant orchard treesHe spake this wise to the murmuring bees:"The clover-bloom that kissed her feetAnd the posie-bed where she used to playHave honey store, but none so sweetAs ere our little one went away.O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low;For she is gone who loved you so."A wonder fell on the listening beesUnder those pleasant orchard trees,And in their toil that summer dayEver their murmuring seemed to say:"Child, O child, the grass is cool,And the posies are waking to hear the songOf the bird that swings by the shaded pool,Waiting for one that tarrieth long."'Twas so they called to the little one then,As if to call her back again.O gentle bees, I have come to sayThat grandfather fell asleep to-day,And we know by the smile on grandfather's faceHe has found his dear one's biding-place.So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low,As over the honey-fields you sweep,—To the trees abloom and the flowers ablowSing of grandfather fast asleep;And ever beneath these orchard treesFind cheer and shelter, gentle bees.
MY lady has a tea-gownThat is wondrous fair to see,—It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed,As a tea-gown ought to be;And I thought she must be jestingLast night at supper whenShe remarked, by chance, that it came from France,And had cost but two pounds ten.Had she told me fifty shillings,I might (and wouldn't you?)Have referred to that dress in a way folks expressBy an eloquent dash or two;But the guileful little creatureKnew well her tactics whenShe casually said that that dream in redHad cost but two pounds ten.Yet our home is all the brighterFor that dainty, sensient thing,That floats away where it properly may,And clings where it ought to cling;And I count myself the luckiestOf all us married menThat I have a wife whose joy in lifeIs a gown at two pounds ten.It isn't the gown compels meCondone this venial sin;It's the pretty face above the lace,And the gentle heart within.And with her arms about meI say, and say again,"'Twas wondrous cheap,"—and I think a heapOf that gown at two pounds ten!
MY lady has a tea-gownThat is wondrous fair to see,—It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed,As a tea-gown ought to be;And I thought she must be jestingLast night at supper whenShe remarked, by chance, that it came from France,And had cost but two pounds ten.Had she told me fifty shillings,I might (and wouldn't you?)Have referred to that dress in a way folks expressBy an eloquent dash or two;But the guileful little creatureKnew well her tactics whenShe casually said that that dream in redHad cost but two pounds ten.Yet our home is all the brighterFor that dainty, sensient thing,That floats away where it properly may,And clings where it ought to cling;And I count myself the luckiestOf all us married menThat I have a wife whose joy in lifeIs a gown at two pounds ten.It isn't the gown compels meCondone this venial sin;It's the pretty face above the lace,And the gentle heart within.And with her arms about meI say, and say again,"'Twas wondrous cheap,"—and I think a heapOf that gown at two pounds ten!
'Tis quite the thing to say and singGross libels on the doctor,—To picture him an ogre grimOr humbug-pill concocter;Yet it's in quite another lightMy friendly pen would show him,Glad that it may with verse repaySome part of what I owe him.When one's all right, he's prone to spiteThe doctor's peaceful mission;But when he's sick, it's loud and quickHe bawls for a physician.With other things, the doctor bringsSweet babes, our hearts to soften:Though I have four, I pine for more,—Good doctor, pray come often!What though he sees death and diseaseRun riot all around him?Patient and true, and valorous too,Such have I always found him.Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes;And when skill's unavailing,And death is near, his words of cheerSupport our courage failing.In ancient days they used to praiseThe godlike art of healing,—An art that then engaged all menPossessed of sense and feeling.Why, Raleigh, he was glad to beFamed for a quack elixir;And Digby sold, as we are told,A charm for folk lovesick, sir.Napoleon knew a thing or two,And clearlyhewas partialTo doctors, for in time of warHe chose one for a marshal.In our great cause a doctor wasThe first to pass death's portal,And Warren's name at once becameA beacon and immortal.A heap, indeed, of what we readBy doctors is provided;For to those groves Apollo lovesTheir leaning is decided.Deny who may that RabelaisIs first in wit and learning,And yet all smile and marvel whileHis brilliant leaves they're turning.How Lever's pen has charmed all men!How touching Rab's short story!And I will stake my all that DrakeIs still the schoolboy's glory.A doctor-man it was beganGreat Britain's great museum,—The treasures there are all so rareIt drives me wild to see 'em!There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they areBig monuments to learning.To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!)We all are fondly turning.Tomes might be writ of that keen witWhich Abernethy's famed for;With bread-crumb pills he cured the illsMost doctors now get blamed for.In modern times the noble rhymesOf Holmes, a great physician,Have solace brought and wisdom taughtTo hearts of all condition.The sailor, bound for Puget Sound,Finds pleasure still unfailing,If he but troll the barcaroleOld Osborne wrote on Whaling.If there were need, I could proceedAd naus.with this prescription,But,inter nos, a larger doseMight give you fits conniption;Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friendI'd hold before these others,For he and I in years gone byHave chummed around like brothers.Together we have sung in gleeThe songs old Horace made forOur genial craft, together quaffedWhat bowls that doctor paid for!I love the rest, but love him best;And, were not times so pressing,I'd buy and send—you smile, old friend?Well, then, here goes my blessing.
'Tis quite the thing to say and singGross libels on the doctor,—To picture him an ogre grimOr humbug-pill concocter;Yet it's in quite another lightMy friendly pen would show him,Glad that it may with verse repaySome part of what I owe him.When one's all right, he's prone to spiteThe doctor's peaceful mission;But when he's sick, it's loud and quickHe bawls for a physician.With other things, the doctor bringsSweet babes, our hearts to soften:Though I have four, I pine for more,—Good doctor, pray come often!What though he sees death and diseaseRun riot all around him?Patient and true, and valorous too,Such have I always found him.Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes;And when skill's unavailing,And death is near, his words of cheerSupport our courage failing.In ancient days they used to praiseThe godlike art of healing,—An art that then engaged all menPossessed of sense and feeling.Why, Raleigh, he was glad to beFamed for a quack elixir;And Digby sold, as we are told,A charm for folk lovesick, sir.Napoleon knew a thing or two,And clearlyhewas partialTo doctors, for in time of warHe chose one for a marshal.In our great cause a doctor wasThe first to pass death's portal,And Warren's name at once becameA beacon and immortal.A heap, indeed, of what we readBy doctors is provided;For to those groves Apollo lovesTheir leaning is decided.Deny who may that RabelaisIs first in wit and learning,And yet all smile and marvel whileHis brilliant leaves they're turning.How Lever's pen has charmed all men!How touching Rab's short story!And I will stake my all that DrakeIs still the schoolboy's glory.A doctor-man it was beganGreat Britain's great museum,—The treasures there are all so rareIt drives me wild to see 'em!There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they areBig monuments to learning.To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!)We all are fondly turning.Tomes might be writ of that keen witWhich Abernethy's famed for;With bread-crumb pills he cured the illsMost doctors now get blamed for.In modern times the noble rhymesOf Holmes, a great physician,Have solace brought and wisdom taughtTo hearts of all condition.The sailor, bound for Puget Sound,Finds pleasure still unfailing,If he but troll the barcaroleOld Osborne wrote on Whaling.If there were need, I could proceedAd naus.with this prescription,But,inter nos, a larger doseMight give you fits conniption;Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friendI'd hold before these others,For he and I in years gone byHave chummed around like brothers.Together we have sung in gleeThe songs old Horace made forOur genial craft, together quaffedWhat bowls that doctor paid for!I love the rest, but love him best;And, were not times so pressing,I'd buy and send—you smile, old friend?Well, then, here goes my blessing.
BLITHE was the youth that summer day,As he smote at the ribs of earth,And he plied his pick with a merry click,And he whistled anon in mirth;And the constant thought of his dear one's faceSeemed to illumine that ghostly place.The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy,And she moved, and closed on his head:With no one nigh and with never a cryThe beautiful boy lay dead;And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fairCrumbled, and clung to his glorious hair.Fifty years is a mighty spaceIn the human toil for bread;But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath,A dream that is quickly sped,—Fifty years, and the fair lad layJust as he fell that summer day.At last came others in quest of gold,And hewed in that mountain place;And deep in the ground one time they foundThe boy with the smiling face:All uncorrupt by the pitiless air,He lay, with his crown of golden hair.They bore him up to the sun again,And laid him beside the brook,And the folk came down from the busy townTo wonder and prate and look;And so, to a world that knew him not,The boy came back to the old-time spot.Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,—Wrinkled and bowed was she,—And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh,"At last he is come to me!"And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there,And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair."Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one!And better it is 'tis so,Else thou mightst see how harsh with meDealt Life thou couldst not know:Kindlier Death has kepttheefair;The sorrow of Life hath beenmyshare."Barbara bowed her aged face,And fell on the breast of her dead;And the golden hair of her dear one thereCaressed her snow-white head.Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain;But sweeter the Death that joined those twain.
BLITHE was the youth that summer day,As he smote at the ribs of earth,And he plied his pick with a merry click,And he whistled anon in mirth;And the constant thought of his dear one's faceSeemed to illumine that ghostly place.The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy,And she moved, and closed on his head:With no one nigh and with never a cryThe beautiful boy lay dead;And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fairCrumbled, and clung to his glorious hair.Fifty years is a mighty spaceIn the human toil for bread;But to Love and to Death 'tis merely a breath,A dream that is quickly sped,—Fifty years, and the fair lad layJust as he fell that summer day.At last came others in quest of gold,And hewed in that mountain place;And deep in the ground one time they foundThe boy with the smiling face:All uncorrupt by the pitiless air,He lay, with his crown of golden hair.They bore him up to the sun again,And laid him beside the brook,And the folk came down from the busy townTo wonder and prate and look;And so, to a world that knew him not,The boy came back to the old-time spot.Old Barbara hobbled among the rest,—Wrinkled and bowed was she,—And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh,"At last he is come to me!"And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there,And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair."Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one!And better it is 'tis so,Else thou mightst see how harsh with meDealt Life thou couldst not know:Kindlier Death has kepttheefair;The sorrow of Life hath beenmyshare."Barbara bowed her aged face,And fell on the breast of her dead;And the golden hair of her dear one thereCaressed her snow-white head.Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain;But sweeter the Death that joined those twain.
THE Café Molineau is whereA dainty little minxServes God and man as best she canBy serving meats and drinks.Oh, such an air the creature has,And such a pretty face!I took delight that autumn nightIn hanging round the place.I know but very little French(I have not long been here);But when she spoke, her meaning brokeFull sweetly on my ear.Then, too, she seemed to understandWhatever I'd to say,Though most I knew was "oony poo,""Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."The female wit is always quick,And of all womankind'Tis here in France that you, perchance,The keenest wits shall find;And here you'll find that subtle gift,That rare, distinctive touch,Combined with grace of form and face,That glads men overmuch."Our girls at home," I mused aloud,"Lack either that or this;They don't combine the arts divineAs does the Gallic miss.Far be it from me to malignOur belles across the sea,And yet I'll swear none can compareWith this ideal She."And then I praised her dainty footIn very awful French,And parleyvood in guileful moodUntil the saucy wenchTossed back her haughty auburn head,And froze me with disdain:"There are on me no flies," said she,"For I come from Bangor, Maine!"
THE Café Molineau is whereA dainty little minxServes God and man as best she canBy serving meats and drinks.Oh, such an air the creature has,And such a pretty face!I took delight that autumn nightIn hanging round the place.I know but very little French(I have not long been here);But when she spoke, her meaning brokeFull sweetly on my ear.Then, too, she seemed to understandWhatever I'd to say,Though most I knew was "oony poo,""Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."The female wit is always quick,And of all womankind'Tis here in France that you, perchance,The keenest wits shall find;And here you'll find that subtle gift,That rare, distinctive touch,Combined with grace of form and face,That glads men overmuch."Our girls at home," I mused aloud,"Lack either that or this;They don't combine the arts divineAs does the Gallic miss.Far be it from me to malignOur belles across the sea,And yet I'll swear none can compareWith this ideal She."And then I praised her dainty footIn very awful French,And parleyvood in guileful moodUntil the saucy wenchTossed back her haughty auburn head,And froze me with disdain:"There are on me no flies," said she,"For I come from Bangor, Maine!"
HOLLY standeth in ye houseWhen that Noel draweth near;Evermore at ye doorStandeth Ivy, shivering soreIn ye night wind bleak and drear;And, as weary hours go by,Doth ye one to other cry."Sister Holly," Ivy quoth,"What is that within you see?To and fro doth ye glowOf ye yule-log flickering go;Would its warmth did cherish me!Where thou bidest is it warm;I am shaken of ye storm.""Sister Ivy," Holly quoth,"Brightly burns the yule-log here,And love brings beauteous things,While a guardian angel singsTo the babes that slumber near;But, O Ivy! tell me now,What without there seest thou?""Sister Holly," Ivy quoth,"With fair music comes ye Morn,And afar burns ye StarWhere ye wondering shepherds are,And the Shepherd King is born:'Peace on earth, good-will to men,'Angels cry, and cry again."Holly standeth in ye houseWhen that Noel draweth near;Clambering o'er yonder door,Ivy standeth evermore;And to them that rightly hearEach one speaketh of ye loveThat outpoureth from Above.
HOLLY standeth in ye houseWhen that Noel draweth near;Evermore at ye doorStandeth Ivy, shivering soreIn ye night wind bleak and drear;And, as weary hours go by,Doth ye one to other cry."Sister Holly," Ivy quoth,"What is that within you see?To and fro doth ye glowOf ye yule-log flickering go;Would its warmth did cherish me!Where thou bidest is it warm;I am shaken of ye storm.""Sister Ivy," Holly quoth,"Brightly burns the yule-log here,And love brings beauteous things,While a guardian angel singsTo the babes that slumber near;But, O Ivy! tell me now,What without there seest thou?""Sister Holly," Ivy quoth,"With fair music comes ye Morn,And afar burns ye StarWhere ye wondering shepherds are,And the Shepherd King is born:'Peace on earth, good-will to men,'Angels cry, and cry again."Holly standeth in ye houseWhen that Noel draweth near;Clambering o'er yonder door,Ivy standeth evermore;And to them that rightly hearEach one speaketh of ye loveThat outpoureth from Above.
WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fogGives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog;When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell,Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell;When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along,Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,—When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, and more,To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore,There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do:Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22.The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spendMy evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend.One seeschefs d'œuvreof masters in profusion on the walls,And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls;There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please,And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease:But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,—The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace;Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through,It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22.My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor;And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore.The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glareOn me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,—A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious deviceTo keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice,A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spiteOf Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light;But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will doFor winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22.Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit,And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit;And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse)Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse.And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars,He smokes his modest pipe, and I—I smoke his choice cigars!For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,—The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size;And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,—and so will you,If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22.But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived:'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived.A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and thenA cordial invitation to us both to come again.So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog,On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,—The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace,Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place;And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renewIn dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22.God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife;May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life;And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within,Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been.So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup;Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up,That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine,Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine:"May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dewUpon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!"
WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fogGives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog;When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell,Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell;When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along,Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,—When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, and more,To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore,There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do:Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22.The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spendMy evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend.One seeschefs d'œuvreof masters in profusion on the walls,And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls;There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please,And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease:But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,—The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace;Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through,It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22.My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor;And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore.The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glareOn me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,—A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious deviceTo keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice,A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spiteOf Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light;But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will doFor winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22.Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit,And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit;And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse)Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse.And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars,He smokes his modest pipe, and I—I smoke his choice cigars!For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,—The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size;And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,—and so will you,If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22.But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived:'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived.A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and thenA cordial invitation to us both to come again.So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog,On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,—The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace,Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place;And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renewIn dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22.God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife;May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life;And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within,Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been.So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup;Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up,That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine,Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine:"May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dewUpon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!"