WHEN I wuz somewhat younger,I wuz reckoned purty gay;I had my fling at everythingIn a rollickin', coltish way.But times have strangely alteredSince sixty years ago—This age of steam an' things don't seemLike the age I used to know.Your modern innovationsDon't suit me, I confess,As did the ways of the good ol' days,—But I'm gettin' on, I guess.I set on the piazza,An' hitch round with the sun;Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap,Waitin' till school is done.An' then I tell the childrenThe things I done in youth,—An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man,I stick to the honest truth,—But the looks of them 'at listenSeem sometimes to expressThe remote idee that I'm gone—you see?—An' Iamgettin' on, I guess.I get up in the mornin',An', nothin' else to do,Before the rest are up an' dressed,I read the papers through.I hang round with the womenAll day an' hear 'em talk;An' while they sew or knit I showThe baby how to walk.An', somehow, I feel sorryWhen they put away his dressAn' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)—I'm gettin' on, I guess.Sometimes, with twilight round me,I see, or seem to see,A distant shore where friends of yoreLinger an' watch for me.Sometimes I've heered 'em callin'So tender-like 'nd lowThat it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed,Or an echo of long ago;An' sometimes on my foreheadThere falls a soft caress,Or the touch of a hand,—you understand,—I'm gettin' on, I guess.
WHEN I wuz somewhat younger,I wuz reckoned purty gay;I had my fling at everythingIn a rollickin', coltish way.But times have strangely alteredSince sixty years ago—This age of steam an' things don't seemLike the age I used to know.Your modern innovationsDon't suit me, I confess,As did the ways of the good ol' days,—But I'm gettin' on, I guess.I set on the piazza,An' hitch round with the sun;Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap,Waitin' till school is done.An' then I tell the childrenThe things I done in youth,—An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man,I stick to the honest truth,—But the looks of them 'at listenSeem sometimes to expressThe remote idee that I'm gone—you see?—An' Iamgettin' on, I guess.I get up in the mornin',An', nothin' else to do,Before the rest are up an' dressed,I read the papers through.I hang round with the womenAll day an' hear 'em talk;An' while they sew or knit I showThe baby how to walk.An', somehow, I feel sorryWhen they put away his dressAn' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!)—I'm gettin' on, I guess.Sometimes, with twilight round me,I see, or seem to see,A distant shore where friends of yoreLinger an' watch for me.Sometimes I've heered 'em callin'So tender-like 'nd lowThat it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed,Or an echo of long ago;An' sometimes on my foreheadThere falls a soft caress,Or the touch of a hand,—you understand,—I'm gettin' on, I guess.
FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way,Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day;You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly nightDo the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight;From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,—of that I'll not complain,—But from Hanover to Magdeburg—confound that schnellest train!The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster yet,—In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met!Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go,While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow;And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintainThat onecan'tknow what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest train!Fool that I was! I should have walked,—I had no time to waste;The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,—The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart,And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art,The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,—These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train.The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hearThe guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer);I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stopsRequired of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops,WhilstIcrouched in a corner, a monument to woe,And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow!And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that train,—The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain,Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy cartsBeside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts!The husbands strut in soldier garb,—indeedtheywere too vainTo let creation seethemwork from that creeping schnellest train!I found the German language all too feeble to conveyThe sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day;I had recourse to English, and exploded without stintSuch virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print,But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brainWhile snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train.The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro,The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O.,The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things,The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings,The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,—All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake!My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime,Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time;From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mileBy "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while;Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain,But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest train!
FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way,Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day;You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly nightDo the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight;From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough,—of that I'll not complain,—But from Hanover to Magdeburg—confound that schnellest train!The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster yet,—In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met!Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go,While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow;And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintainThat onecan'tknow what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest train!Fool that I was! I should have walked,—I had no time to waste;The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste,—The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart,And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art,The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain,—These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train.The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hearThe guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer);I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stopsRequired of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops,WhilstIcrouched in a corner, a monument to woe,And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow!And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that train,—The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain,Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy cartsBeside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts!The husbands strut in soldier garb,—indeedtheywere too vainTo let creation seethemwork from that creeping schnellest train!I found the German language all too feeble to conveyThe sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day;I had recourse to English, and exploded without stintSuch virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print,But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brainWhile snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train.The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro,The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O.,The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things,The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings,The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake,—All have I tried, and yet I'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake!My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime,Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time;From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mileBy "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while;Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain,But you'll break the third commandment if you take the schnellest train!
AS I was going to Bethlehem-town,Upon the earth I cast me downAll underneath a little treeThat whispered in this wise to me:"Oh, I shall stand on CalvaryAnd bear what burthen saveth thee!"As up I fared to Bethlehem-town,I met a shepherd coming down,And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sightHath spread before mine eyes this night,—An angel host most fair to see,That sung full sweetly of a treeThat shall uplift on CalvaryWhat burthen saveth you and me!"And as I gat to Bethlehem-town,Lo! wise men came that bore a crown."Is there," cried I, "in BethlehemA King shall wear this diadem?""Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is HeThat shall be lifted on the treeAnd freely shed on CalvaryWhat blood redeemeth us and thee!"Unto a Child in Bethlehem-townThe wise men came and brought the crown;And while the infant smiling slept,Upon their knees they fell and wept;But, with her babe upon her knee,Naught recked that Mother of the tree,That should uplift on CalvaryWhat burthen saveth all and me.Again I walk in Bethlehem-townAnd think on Him that wears the crown.I may not kiss His feet again,Nor worship Him as did I then;My King hath died upon the tree,And hath outpoured on CalvaryWhat blood redeemeth you and me!
AS I was going to Bethlehem-town,Upon the earth I cast me downAll underneath a little treeThat whispered in this wise to me:"Oh, I shall stand on CalvaryAnd bear what burthen saveth thee!"As up I fared to Bethlehem-town,I met a shepherd coming down,And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sightHath spread before mine eyes this night,—An angel host most fair to see,That sung full sweetly of a treeThat shall uplift on CalvaryWhat burthen saveth you and me!"And as I gat to Bethlehem-town,Lo! wise men came that bore a crown."Is there," cried I, "in BethlehemA King shall wear this diadem?""Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is HeThat shall be lifted on the treeAnd freely shed on CalvaryWhat blood redeemeth us and thee!"Unto a Child in Bethlehem-townThe wise men came and brought the crown;And while the infant smiling slept,Upon their knees they fell and wept;But, with her babe upon her knee,Naught recked that Mother of the tree,That should uplift on CalvaryWhat burthen saveth all and me.Again I walk in Bethlehem-townAnd think on Him that wears the crown.I may not kiss His feet again,Nor worship Him as did I then;My King hath died upon the tree,And hath outpoured on CalvaryWhat blood redeemeth you and me!
DEAREST, how hard it is to sayThat all is for the best,Since, sometimes, in a grievous wayGod's will is manifest.See with what hearty, noisy gleeOur little ones to-nightDance round and round our Christmas-treeWith pretty toys bedight.Dearest, one voice they may not hear,One face they may not see,—Ah, what of all this Christmas cheerCometh to you and me?Cometh before our misty eyesThat other little face;And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,That love in the old embrace.Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,Bringing His peace to men;And He bringeth to you and to me the lightOf the old, old years again:Bringeth the peace of long agoWhen a wee one clasped your kneeAnd lisped of the morrow,—dear one, you know,—And here come back is he!Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to sayThat all is for the best,For, often in a grievous way,God's will is manifest.But in the grace of this holy nightThat bringeth us back our child,Let us see that the ways of God are right,And so be reconciled.
DEAREST, how hard it is to sayThat all is for the best,Since, sometimes, in a grievous wayGod's will is manifest.See with what hearty, noisy gleeOur little ones to-nightDance round and round our Christmas-treeWith pretty toys bedight.Dearest, one voice they may not hear,One face they may not see,—Ah, what of all this Christmas cheerCometh to you and me?Cometh before our misty eyesThat other little face;And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,That love in the old embrace.Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,Bringing His peace to men;And He bringeth to you and to me the lightOf the old, old years again:Bringeth the peace of long agoWhen a wee one clasped your kneeAnd lisped of the morrow,—dear one, you know,—And here come back is he!Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to sayThat all is for the best,For, often in a grievous way,God's will is manifest.But in the grace of this holy nightThat bringeth us back our child,Let us see that the ways of God are right,And so be reconciled.
IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth,And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth;And my careerFrom year to yearWas full of cheerAnd things,Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings;But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene!Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene:Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart,Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte.In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me,She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,—Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to t'other,The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother.Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouthWhich certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth.If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart,What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte?In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth,But now you seeRevealed in meThe gloomiest bard on earth.I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life,But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife.Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate,One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate:This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpartLong, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, Delsarte.Where'er she goes,She loves to pose,In classic attitudes,And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods;And she, my child,Who all so wild,So helpless and so sweet,That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet,Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands,Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands.Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start,And I utter one word—it is commonly heard—derogatory to Delsarte.In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man;Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began;But now these wiseFolks criticiseMy figure and my face,And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass.Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheekIs not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,—With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I partEre they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte.Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before,When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more.Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight;The old-time bardOf pork and lardIs plainly out of sight.All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop,While Lachesis brewsFor the poor old MuseA portion of scalding soup.Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart:"He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter learned Delsarte."
IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth,And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth;And my careerFrom year to yearWas full of cheerAnd things,Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings;But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene!Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene:Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart,Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter's learned Delsarte.In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me,She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,—Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to t'other,The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother.Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouthWhich certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth.If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart,What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte?In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth,But now you seeRevealed in meThe gloomiest bard on earth.I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life,But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife.Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate,One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate:This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpartLong, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, Delsarte.Where'er she goes,She loves to pose,In classic attitudes,And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods;And she, my child,Who all so wild,So helpless and so sweet,That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet,Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands,Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands.Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start,And I utter one word—it is commonly heard—derogatory to Delsarte.In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man;Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began;But now these wiseFolks criticiseMy figure and my face,And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass.Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheekIs not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,—With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I partEre they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte.Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before,When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more.Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight;The old-time bardOf pork and lardIs plainly out of sight.All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop,While Lachesis brewsFor the poor old MuseA portion of scalding soup.Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart:"He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter learned Delsarte."
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,—These three bloomed in a garden spot;And once, all merry with song and play,A little one heard three voices say:"Shine or shadow, summer or spring,O thou child with the tangled hairAnd laughing eyes, we three shall bringEach an offering, passing fair!"The little one did not understand;But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.Buttercup gambolled all day long,Sharing the little one's mirth and song;Then, stealing along on misty gleams,Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams,Playing and dreaming, that was all,Till once the sleeper would not awake;Kissing the little face under the pall,We thought of the words the third flower spake,And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot,The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.Buttercup shareth the joy of day,Glinting with gold the hours of play;Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose,When the hands would fold and the eyes would close.And after it all,—the play and the sleepOf a little life,—what cometh then?To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep,A wee flower bringeth God's peace again:Each one serveth its tender lot,—Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,—These three bloomed in a garden spot;And once, all merry with song and play,A little one heard three voices say:"Shine or shadow, summer or spring,O thou child with the tangled hairAnd laughing eyes, we three shall bringEach an offering, passing fair!"The little one did not understand;But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.Buttercup gambolled all day long,Sharing the little one's mirth and song;Then, stealing along on misty gleams,Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams,Playing and dreaming, that was all,Till once the sleeper would not awake;Kissing the little face under the pall,We thought of the words the third flower spake,And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot,The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.Buttercup shareth the joy of day,Glinting with gold the hours of play;Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose,When the hands would fold and the eyes would close.And after it all,—the play and the sleepOf a little life,—what cometh then?To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep,A wee flower bringeth God's peace again:Each one serveth its tender lot,—Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
Transcriber's Note:Page ix, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick)