When Father Time swings round his scythe,Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,So that its juices, red and blithe,May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.
"Elsewise with tears and bated breathShould I survey the life to be.But oh! How should I hail the deathThat brings that—vinous grace to me!"
So sung the dauntless Saracen,Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordainsThat, curst of Allah, loathed of men,The faithless one shall die in chains.
But one vile Christian slave that layA prisoner near that prisoner saith:"God willing, I will plant some dayA vine where liest thou in death."
Lo, over Abu Midjan's graveWith purpling fruit a vine-tree grows;Where rots the martyred Christian slaveAllah, and only Allah, knows!
Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion,You cudn't stop him any more'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean;For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it,You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to do it!So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wuzn't jokin'When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'.
Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday—Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in MondayA-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese crackerAn' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker;Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin'A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'."
But Ed—sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it—Jes' try the scheme yourselves, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it!It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beautyIn makin' sackerfices to the stern demands uv duty!So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession,I mortify the flesh 'nd smoke for the sake uv my perfession!"
Some men affect a likingFor the prim in face and mind,And some prefer the strikingAnd the loud in womankind;Wee Madge is wooed of many,And buxom Kate, as well,And Jennie—charming Jennie—Ah, Jennie doesn't tell!
What eyes so bright as Daisy's,And who as Maud so fair?Who does not sing the praisesOf Lucy's golden hair?There's Sophie—she is witty,A very sprite is Nell,And Susie's, oh, so pretty—But Jennie doesn't tell!
And now for my confession:Of all the virtues rare,I argue that discretionDoth most beseem the fair.And though I hear the manyExtol each other belle,I—I pronounce for Jennie,For Jennie doesn't tell!
Happy the man that, when his day is done,Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret—The battle he has fought may not be won—The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet;Folding at last his hands upon his breast,Happy is he, if hoary and forespent,He sinks into the last, eternal rest,Breathing these only works: "I am content."
But happier he, that, while his blood is warm,See hopes and friendships dead about him lie—Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm,Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny;And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate,Girt only in the armor God hath meantFor him who 'neath the buffetings of fateCan say to God and man: "I am content."
There is a certain Yankee phraseI always have revered,Yet, somehow, in these modern days,It's almost disappeared;It was the usage years ago,But nowadays it's gotTo be regarded coarse and lowTo answer: "I guess not!"
The height of fashion called the pinkAffects a British craze—Prefers "I fancy" or "I think"To that time-honored phrase;But here's a Yankee, if you please,That brands the fashion rot,And to all heresies like theseHe answers, "I—guess not!"—
When Chaucer, Wycliff, and the restExpress their meaning thus,I guess, if not the very best,It's good enough for us!Why! shall the idioms of our speechBe banished and forgotFor this vain trash which moderns teach?Well, no, sir; I guess not!
There's meaning in that homely phraseNo other words express—No substitute therefor conveysSuch unobtrusive stress.True Anglo-Saxon speech, it goesDirectly to the spot,And he who hears it always knowsThe worth of "I—guess—not!"
Good old days—dear old daysWhen my heart beat high and bold—When the things of earth seemed full of life,And the future a haze of gold!Oh, merry was I that winter night,And gleeful our little one's din,And tender the grace of my darling's faceAs we watched the new year in.But a voice—a spectre's, that mocked at love—Came out of the yonder hall;"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 't was the solemn clockThat ruefully croaked to all.Yet what knew we of the griefs to beIn the year we longed to greet?Love—love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dreamI fancied might never fleet!
But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom,And these were the words it spake,"Tick-tock, tick-tock"—and they seemed to mockA heart about to break.
'T is new-year's eve, and again I watchIn the old familiar place,And I'm thinking again of that old time whenI looked on a dear one's face.Never a little one hugs my kneeAnd I hear no gleeful shout—I am sitting alone by the old hearthstone,Watching the old year out.But I welcome the voice in yonder gloomThat solemnly calls to me:"Tick-tock, tick-tock!"—for so the clockTells of a life to be;"Tick-tock, tick-tock!"-'tis so the clockTells of eternity.
I'm thinking of the wooingThat won my maiden heartWhen he—he came pursuingA love unused to art.Into the drowsy riverThe moon transported flungHer soul that seemed to quiverWith the songs my lover sung.And the stars in rapture twinkledOn the slumbrous world below—You see that, old and wrinkled,I'm not forgetful—no!
He still should be repeatingThe vows he uttered then—Alas! the years, though fleeting,Are truer yet than men!The summer moonlight glistensIn the favorite trysting spotWhere the river ever listensFor a song it heareth not.And I, whose head is sprinkledWith time's benumbing snow,I languish, old and wrinkled,But not forgetful—no!
What though he elsewhere turnethTo beauty strangely bold?Still in my bosom burnethThe tender fire of old;And the words of love he told meAnd the songs he sung me thenCome crowding to uphold me,And I live my youth again!For when love's feet have tinkledOn the pathway women go,Though one be old and wrinkled,She's not forgetful—no!
To the willows of the brooksideThe mill wheel sings to-day—Sings and weeps,As the brooklet creepsWondering on its way;And here is the ringshegave meWith love's sweet promise then—It hath burst apartLike the trusting heartThat may never be soothed again!
Oh, I would be a minstrelTo wander far and wide,Weaving in song the merciless wrongDone by a perjured bride!Or I would be a soldier,To seek in the bloody frayWhat gifts of fate can compensateFor the pangs I suffer to-day!
Yet may this aching bosom,By bitter sorrow crushed,Be still and coldIn the churchyard mouldErethysweet voice be hushed;So sing, sing on forever,O wheel of the brookside mill,For you mind me againOf the old time whenI felt love's gracious thrill.
I hate the common, vulgar herd!Away they scamper when I "booh" 'em!But pretty girls and nice young menObserve a proper silence whenI chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.
The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'rExcites our homage and our wonder,Are precious small beside old Jove,The father of us all, who droveThe giants out of sight, by thunder!
This man loves farming, that man law,While this one follows pathways martial—What moots it whither mortals turn?Grim fate from her mysterious urnDoles out the lots with hand impartial.
Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sportsDelight the heart by care tormented;The mightiest monarch knoweth notThe peace that to the lowly cotSleep bringeth to the swain contented.
On him untouched of discontentCare sits as lightly as a feather;He doesn't growl about the crops,Or worry when the market drops,Or fret about the changeful weather.
Not so with him who, rich in fact,Still seeks his fortune to redouble;Though dig he deep or build he high,Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh—Relentless Care, relentless Trouble!
If neither palaces nor robesNor unguents nor expensive toddyInsure Contentment's soothing bliss,Why should I build an edificeWhere Envy comes to fret a body?
Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer,But rather sup my rustic pottage,While that sweet boon the gods bestow—The peace your mansions cannot know—Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage.
Now lithe and listen, gentles all,Now lithe ye all and harkUnto a ballad I shall singAbout Buena Park.
Of all the wonders happening thereThe strangest hap befellUpon a famous Aprile morn,As I you now shall tell.
It is about the Taylor pupAnd of his mistress ekeAnd of the prankish time they hadThat I am fain to speak.
The pup was of as noble mienAs e'er you gazed upon;They called his mother LadyAnd his father was a Don.
And both his mother and his sireWere of the race Bernard—The family famed in historiesAnd hymned of every bard.
His form was of exuberant mold,Long, slim, and loose of joints;There never yet was pointer-dogSo full as he of points.
His hair was like to yellow fleece,His eyes were black and kind,And like a nodding, gilded plumeHis tail stuck up behind.
His bark was very, very fierce,And fierce his appetite,Yet was it only things to eatThat he was prone to bite.
But in that one particularHe was so passing trueThat never did he quit a mealUntil he had got through.
Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash,Joint, chop, or chicken limb—So long as it was edible,'T was all the same to him!
And frequently when Hunger's pangsAssailed that callow pup,He masticated boots and glovesOr chewed a door-mat up.
So was he much beholden ofThe folk that him did keep;They loved him when he was awakeAnd better still asleep.
Now once his master, lingering o'erHis breakfast coffee-cup,Observed unto his doting spouse:"You ought to wash the pup!"
"That shall I do this very day",His doting spouse replied;"You will not know the pretty thingWhen he is washed and dried.
"But tell me, dear, before you goUnto your daily work,Shall I use Ivory soap on him,Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"
"Odzooks, it matters not a whit—They all are good to use!Take Pearline, if it pleases you—Sapolio, if you choose!
"Take any soap, but take the pupAnd also water take,And mix the three discreetly upTill they a lather make.
"Then mixing these constituent parts,Let Nature take her way,"With which advice that sapient sirHad nothing more to say.
Then fared he to his daily toilAll in the Board of Trade,While Mistress Taylor for that bathDue preparation made.
She whistled gayly to the pupAnd called him by his name,And presently the guileless thingAll unsuspecting came.
But when she shut the bath-room door,And caught him as catch-can,And hove him in that odious tub,His sorrows then began.
How did that callow, yallow thingRegret that Aprile morn—Alas! how bitterly he ruedThe day that he was born!
Twice and again, but all in vainHe lifted up his wail;His voice was all the pup could lift,For thereby hangs this tale.
'Twas by that tail she held him down,And presently she spreadThe creamy lather on his back,His stomach, and his head.
His ears hung down in sorry wise,His eyes were, oh! so sad—He looked as though he just had lostThe only friend he had.
And higher yet the water rose,The lather still increased,And sadder still the countenanceOf that poor martyred beast!
Yet all the time his mistress spokeSuch artful words of cheerAs "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!"And "There's a patient dear!"
At last the trial had an end,At last the pup was free;She threw aside the bath-room door—"Now get you gone!" quoth she.
Then from that tub and from that roomHe gat with vast ado;At every hop he gave a shake,And—how the water flew!
He paddled down the winding stairsAnd to the parlor hied,Dispensing pools of foamy sudsAnd slop on every side.
Upon the carpet then he rolledAnd brushed against the wall,And, horror! whisked his lathery sidesOn overcoat and shawl.
Attracted by the dreadful din,His mistress came below—Who, who can speak her wonderment—Who, who can paint her woe!
Great smears of soap were here and there—Her startled vision metWith blobs of lather everywhere,And everything was wet!
Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriekLike one about to die:"Get out—get out, and don't you dareCome in till you are dry!"
With that she opened wide the doorAnd waved the critter through;Out in the circumambient airWith grateful yelps he flew.
He whisked into the dusty streetAnd to the Waller lot,Where bonnie Annie Evans playedWith charming Sissy Knott.
And with those pretty little dearsHe mixed himself all up—Oh, fie upon such boisterous play—Fie, fie, you naughty pup!
Woe, woe on Annie's India mull,And Sissy's blue percale!One got that pup's belathered flanks,And one his soapy tail!
Forth to the rescue of those maidsRushed gallant Willie Clow;His panties they were white and clean—Where are those panties now?
Where is the nicely laundered shirtThat Kendall Evans wore,And Robbie James' tricot coatAll buttoned up before?
The leaven, which, as we are told,Leavens a monstrous lump,Hath far less reaching qualitiesThan a wet pup on the jump.
This way and that he swung and swayed,He gambolled far and near,And everywhere he thrust himselfHe left a soapy smear.
That noon a dozen little dearsWere spanked and put to bedWith naught to stay their appetitesBut cheerless crusts of bread.
That noon a dozen hired girlsWashed out each gown and shirtWhich that exuberant Taylor pupHad frescoed o'er with dirt.
That whole day long the Aprile sunSmiled sweetly from aboveOn clotheslines flaunting to the breezeThe emblems mothers love.
That whole day long the Taylor pupThis way and that did hieUpon his mad, erratic course,Intent on getting dry.
That night when Mr. Taylor cameHis vesper meal to eat,He uttered things my pious penWould liefer not repeat.
Yet still that noble Taylor pupSurvives to romp and barkAnd stumble over folks and thingsIn fair Buena Park.
Good sooth, I wot he should be calledBuena's favorite sonWho's sired of such a noble sireAnd dammed by every one!
My books are on their shelves againAnd clouds lie low with mist and rain.Afar the Arno murmurs lowThe tale of fields of melting snow.List to the bells of times agoneThe while I wait me for the dawn.
Beneath great Giotto's CampanileThe gray ghosts throng; their whispers stealFrom poets' bosoms long since dust;They ask me now to go. I trustTheir fleeter footsteps where againThey come at night and live as men.
The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates;The big drops hang on purple dates;And yet beneath the ilex-shades—Dear trysting-place for boys and maids—There comes a form from days of old,With Beatrice's hair of gold.
The breath of lands or lilied streamsFloats through the fabric of my dreams;And yonder from the hills of song,Where psalmists brood and prophets throng,The lone, majestic Dante leadsHis love across the blooming meads.
Along the almond walks I treadAnd greet the figures of the dead.Mirandula walks here with himWho lived with gods and seraphim;Yet where Colonna's fair feet goThere passes Michael Angelo.
In Rome or Florence, still with herStands lone and grand her worshipper.In Leonardo's brain there moveChrist and the children of His love;And Raphael is touching now,For the last time, an angel's brow.
Angelico is praying yetWhere lives no pang of man's regret,And, mixing tears and prayers withinHis palette's wealth, absolved from sin,He dips his brush in hues divine;San Marco's angel faces shine.
Within Lorenzo's garden green,Where olives hide their boughs between,The lovers, as they read betimesTheir love within Petrarca's lines,Stand near the marbles found at Rome,Lost shades that search in vain for home.
They pace the paths along the stream,Dark Vallombrosa in their dream.They sing, amidst the rain-drenched pines,Of Tuscan gold that ruddier shinesBehind a saint's auroral faceThat shows e'en yet the master's trace.
But lo, within the walls of gray,E're yet there falls a glint of day,And far without, from hill to vale,Where honey-hearted nightingaleOr meads of pale anemonesMake sweet the coming morning breeze—
I hear a voice, of prophet tone,A voice of doom, like his aloneThat once in Gadara was heard;The old walls trembled—lo, the birdHas ceased to sing, and yonder waitsLorenzo at his palace gates.
Some Romola in passing byTurns toward the ruler, and his sighWanders amidst the myrtle bowersOr o'er the city's mantled towers,For she is Florence! "Wilt thou hearSan Marco's prophet? Doom is near."
"Her liberties," he cries, "restore!This much for Florence—yea, and moreTo men and God!" The days are gone;And in an hour of perfect dawnI stand beneath the cypress treesThat shiver still with words like these.
The stars are twinkling in the skies,The earth is lost in slumbers deep;So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes,And let me lull thy soul to sleep.Compose thy dimpled hands to rest,And like a little birdling lieSecure within thy cozy nestUpon my loving mother breast,And slumber to my lullaby,So hushaby—O hushaby.
The moon is singing to a starThe little song I sing to you;The father sun has strayed afar,As baby's sire is straying too.And so the loving mother moonSings to the little star on high;And as she sings, her gentle tuneIs borne to me, and thus I croonFor thee, my sweet, that lullabyOf hushaby—O hushaby.
There is a little one asleepThat does not hear his mother's song;But angel watchers—as I weep—Surround his grave the night-tide long.And as I sing, my sweet, to you,Oh, would the lullaby I sing—The same sweet lullaby he knewWhile slumb'ring on this bosom too—Were borne to him on angel's wing!So hushaby—O hushaby.
JEST as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'dAppears a meanin' hid from other eyes,So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend,A power o' tearful, sweet seggestion lies.We see it all—the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear—The homestead in New England far away,An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hearThe voices that were heshed but yesterday.
Ah, who'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood timeWould sleep through all the changeful, bitter yearsTo waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chimeAn' to claim the ready tribute of our tears!Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond,The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves,The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond,An' the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves—They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day,An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zestOf the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play,With nary thought of "livin' way out West"!
God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts,With this music an' these memories o' youth—God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts,The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth!
Sing, Christmas bells!Say to the earth this is the mornWhereon our Saviour-King is born;Sing to all men—the bond, the free,The rich, the poor, the high, the low—The little child that sports in glee—The aged folk that tottering go—Proclaim the mornThat Christ is born,That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host!Sing of the star that God has placedAbove the manger in the east;Sing of the glories of the night,The virgin's sweet humility,The Babe with kingly robes bedight—Sing to all men where'er they beThis Christmas morn,For Christ is born,That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth!O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!God liveth, and we have a King!The curse is gone, the bond are free—By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed,By all the heavenly signs that be,We know that Israel is redeemed—That on this mornThe Christ is bornThat saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart!Sing thou in rapture this dear mornWhereon the blessed Prince is born!And as thy songs shall be of love,So let my deeds be charity—By the dear Lord that reigns above,By Him that died upon the tree,By this fair mornWhereon is bornThe Christ that saveth all and me!
There fell a star from realms above—A glittering, glorious star to see!Methought it was the star of love,So sweetly it illumined me.
And from the apple branches fellBlossoms and leaves that time in June;The wanton breezes wooed them wellWith soft caress and amorous tune.
The white swan proudly sailed alongAnd vied her beauty with her note—The river, jealous of her song,Threw up its arms to clasp her throat.
But now—oh, now the dream is past—The blossoms and the leaves are dead,The swan's sweet song is hushed at last,And not a star burns overhead.
The gods let slip that fiendish gripUpon me last week Sunday—No fiercer storm than racked my formE'er swept the Bay of Fundy;But now, good-byTo drugs, say I—Good-by to gnawing sorrow;I am up to-day,And, whoop, hooray!I'm going out to-morrow!
What aches and pain in bones and brainI had I need not mention;It seemed to me such pangs must beOld Satan's own invention;Albeit IWas sure I'd die,The doctor reassured me—And, true enough,With his vile stuff,He ultimately cured me.
As there I lay in bed all day,How fair outside looked to me!A smile so mild old Nature smiledIt seemed to warm clean through me.In chastened moodThe scene I viewed,Inventing, sadly solus,Fantastic rhymesBetween the timesI had to take a bolus.
Of quinine slugs and other drugsI guess I took a million—Such drugs as serve to set each nerveTo dancing a cotillon;The doctors sayThe only wayTo rout the grip instanterIs to pour inAll kinds of sin—Similibus curantur!
'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forgetThose ills and cures distressing;One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skiesWhen one is convalescing!So now, good-byTo drugs say I—Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow!I am up to-day,And, whoop, hooray!I'm going out to-morrow.
My baby slept—how calm his rest,As o'er his handsome face a smileLike that of angel flitted, whileHe lay so still upon my breast!
My baby slept—his baby headLay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud:I did not weep or cry aloud—I only wished I, too, were dead!
My baby sleeps—a tiny mound,All covered by the little flowers,Woos me in all my waking hours,Down in the quiet burying-ground.
And when I sleep I seem to beWith baby in another land—I take his little baby hand—He smiles and sings sweet songs to me.
Sleep on, O baby, while I keepMy vigils till this day be passed!Then shall I, too, lie down at last,And with my baby darling sleep.
In yonder old cathedralTwo lovely coffins lie;In one, the head of the state lies dead,And a singer sleeps hard by.
Once had that King great powerAnd proudly ruled the land—His crown e'en now is on his browAnd his sword is in his hand.
How sweetly sleeps the singerWith calmly folded eyes,And on the breast of the bard at restThe harp that he sounded lies.
The castle walls are fallingAnd war distracts the land,But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spotThere in that dead king's hand.
But with every grace of natureThere seems to float along—To cheer again the hearts of menThe singer's deathless song.
In the market of Clare, so cheery the glareOf the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;That I take a delight on a Saturday nightIn walking that way and in viewing the sight.For it's here that one sees all the objects that please—New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,And baubles galore while discretion enjoys—But here I forbear, for I really despairOf naming the wealth of the market of Clare.
A rich man comes down from the elegant townAnd looks at it all with an ominous frown;He seems to despise the grandiloquent criesOf the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;And sniffing he goes through the lanes that discloseMuch cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;And free of the crowd, he admits he is proudThat elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed;He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the gloom of the slumIs charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies,And they seem to grow green and protrude with surpriseAt the goodies they vend and the toys without end—And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend!But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amazeAt treasures that glitter and torches that blaze—What sense of despair in this world can compareWith that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday night, when my custom invitesA stroll in old London for curious sights,I am likely to stray by a devious wayWhere goodies are spread in a motley array,The things which some eyes would appear to despiseImpress me as pathos in homely disguise,And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);And the urchin shall share in my joy and declareThat there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.
I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the waysWhich people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase—The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lieAnd listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's callWhere he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all;And by my side should be a friend—a trusty, genial friend,With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend;Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring—ForthenI'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King!
How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we floatUpon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat—Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be,As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee;Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs,And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs;The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair(This latter metaphoric—we've no fimbriae to spare!);And I—transported by the bliss—shan't do a plaguey thingBut cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!
Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like,While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike;I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim—But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with himIn grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks,And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books—To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and outThe while he is discoursing of the things we talk about;A fountain-head refreshing—a clear, perennial springIs the genial conversation of John Lyle King!
Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite—In other words, should we return all bootless home at night,I'd back him up in anything he had a mind to sayOf mighty bass he'd left behind or lost upon the way;I'd nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game—I'd cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same;For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out—And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about!Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would flingO'er perjuries committed for John Lyle King.
At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame,He'd bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same;No diabolic engine this—no instrument of sin—No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin!But a godly hoosier fiddle—a quaint archaic thingFull of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing;With "Bonnie Doon," and "Nellie Gray," and "Sitting on the Stile,""The Heart Bowed Down," the "White Cockade," and "Charming Annie Lisle"Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ringBeneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King.
The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more—Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore;The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight—Andnotthe scaly game that flies in darkness of the night!Let those who are so minded pursue this latter gameBut not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same;For an example to you all one paragon should serve—He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve;No bob-tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wringA groan of desperation from John Lyle King!
A truce to badinage—I hope far distant is the dayWhen from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away!We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land,To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand;We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth,His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth,For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind,For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind—That's why we folks who know him best so reverently cling(And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King.
And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme—I do remand thee to the shades until that happier timeWhen fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere,And there's a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air;When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls,And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls;When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springsTwo hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things—Thencome again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to singThe glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King!
Into the woods three huntsmen came,Seeking the white stag for their game.
They laid them under a green fir-treeAnd slept, and dreamed strange things to see.
I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush,When out popped the noble stag—hush, hush!
As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang,I pelted him hard in the hide—piff, bang!
And as that stag lay dead I blewOn my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo!
So speak the three as there they layWhen lo! the white stag sped that way,
Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three,Then leagues o'er hill and dale was he—Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo!
I used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck—It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck;But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind, an' now proclaimThat luck's a kind uv science—same as any other game;It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80 whenSalty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days,An', natural-like, he fell into the good ol' Tribune ways;So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the gameWhich in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name;An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose, he woreInvariably less wealth about his person than before.
But once there came a powerful change; one sollum Sunday nightOccurred the tidal wave that put ol' Salty out o' sight.He win on deuce an' ace an' Jack—he win on king an' queen—Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen.An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers whenHe said he teched a humpback to win out ten.
There must be somethin' in it, for he never win afore,An' when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they swore!For every sport allows it is a losin' game to luckAgin the science uv a man who's teched a hump f'r luck;And there is no denyin' luck wuz nowhere in it whenSalty teched a humpback an' win out ten.
I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to doThe thing that luck apparently intended f'r me to;Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard,An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard;But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again:You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten!
So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allowThat luck, for luck, agin a hump aint nowhere in it now!An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintainThere must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain;For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty whenSalty teched a humpback an' win out ten!