It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown.Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten,A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.)But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wiseTo look at strange young sorters with expressive purpleeyes;So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed."Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not?To discover that I was a most disreputable lot!Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?""I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad.I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear—And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear—It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece."Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind;Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six.""Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;But oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies;He passes by it every day as certain as can be—I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!""For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my wordThis is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your handTo a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!They are the most remunerative customers I know;For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors,I never knew so criminal a family as yours!"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhoodHave nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;And if you marry any one respectable at all,Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown;To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well,He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits."I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two,Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fallWhen she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware;He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind,Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty handOn the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
W. S. Gilbert.
Strike the concertina's melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!Let the piano's martial blastRouse the Echoes of the Past,For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:His gentle spirit rollsIn the melody of souls—Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.He would diligently playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;Oh, Allah be obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rageI shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in;Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.And when (as snobs would say)They had "put it all away,"He requested them to tune up and begin.Though its icy horror chill you to the core,I will tell you what I never told before,—The consequences trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the keyhole in the door!They played him a sonata—let me see!"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent from a most ingenious little fount,More beer, in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.Now follows the dim horror of my taleAnd I feel I'm growing gradually pale,For, even at this day,Though its sting has passed away,When I venture to remember it, I quail!The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,All-overish it made me for to feel;"Oh, Prince," he says, says he,"If a Prince indeed you be,I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,As you fancy that we be;For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"Beth gave a fearful shriek—But before he'd time to speakI was mercilessly collared from behind.In number ten or twelve, or even more,They fastened me full length upon the floor.On my face extended flat,I was walloped with a catFor listening at the keyhole of a door.Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a will.They branded me and broke me on a wheel,And they left me in an hospital to heal;And, upon my solemn word,I have never never heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page.
W. S. Gilbert.
Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,A muscular knight,Ever ready to fight,A very determined invader,And Dickey de Lion's delight.Lenore was a Saracen maiden,Brunette, statuesque,The reverse of grotesque;Her pa was a bagman from Aden,Her mother she played in burlesque.Acoryphée, pretty and loyal,In amber and red,The ballet she led;Her mother performed at the Royal,Lenore at the Saracen's Head.Of face and of figure majestic,She dazzled the cits—Ecstaticised pits;—Her troubles were only domestic,But drove her half out of her wits.Her father incessantly lashed her,On water and breadShe was grudgingly fed;Whenever her father he thrashed her,Her mother sat down on her head.Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason,For beauty so brightSent him mad with delight;He purchased a stall for the seasonAnd sat in it every night.His views were exceedingly proper,He wanted to wed,So he called at her shedAnd saw her progenitor whop her—Her mother sit down on her head."So pretty," said he, "and so trusting!You brute of a dad,You unprincipled cad,Your conduct is really disgusting,Come, come, now admit it's too bad!"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant—Your daughter LenoreI intensely adore,And I cannot help feeling indignant,A fact that I hinted before;To see a fond father employingA deuce of a knoutFor to bang her about,To a sensitive lover's annoying."Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."Says Guy, "Shall a warrior ladenWith a big spiky knobSit in peace on his cob,While a beautiful Saracen maidenIs whipped by a Saracen snob?"To London I'll go from my charmer."Which he did, with his loot(Seven hats and a flute),And was nabbed for his Sydenham armourAt Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter;Her pa, in a rage,Died (don't know his age);His daughter she married the prompter,Grew bulky and quitted the stage.
W. S. Gilbert.
Kitty wants to write! Kitty intellectual!What has been effectual to turn her stockings blue?Kitty's seventh season has brought sufficient reason,She has done 'most everything that there is left to do!Half of them to laugh about and half of them to rue,—Now we wait in terror for Kitty's wildest error.What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!Kitty wants to write! Débutante was Kitty,Frivolous and witty as ever bud that blew.Kitty lacked sobriety, yet she ran society,A leader whom the chaperons indulged a year or two;Corner-men, eligibles, dancing-dolls she knew,—Kitty then was slighted, ne'er again invited;What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!Kitty wants to write! At the Social SettlementGirls of Kitty's mettle meant a mission for a few;Men to teach the classes, men to mould the masses,Men to follow Kitty to adventures strange and new.Some of her benevolence was hidden out of view!—A patroness offended, Kitty's slumming ended.What is there to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a mystic,Deep from cabalistic lore many hints she drew!Freaks of all description, Hindoo and Egyptian,Prattled in her parlor—such a wild and hairy crew!Many came for money, and one or two to woo—Kitty's pet astrologer wanted to acknowledge her!What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a doctor;Nothing ever shocked her, though they hazed a little, too!Kitty learned of medicos how a heart unsteady goes,Besides a score of secrets that are secrets still to you.Kitty's course in medicine gave her many a clue—Much of modern history now is less a mystery.What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!Kitty wants to write! Everybody's writing!Won't it be exciting, the panic to ensue?We who all have known her, think what we have shown her!Read it in the magazines! Which half ofthisis true?Where did she getthatidea? Is it him, or who?—Kitty's wretched enemies now will learn what venom is!What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!
Gelett Burgess.
Dighton is engaged! Think of it and tremble!Two-and-twenty ladies who have known him must dissemble;Two-and-twenty ladies in a panic must repeat,"Dighton is a gentleman; will Dighton be discreet?"All the merry maidens who have known him at his bestWonder what the girl is like, and if he has confessed.Dighton the philanderer, will he prove a slanderer?A man gets confidential ere the honeymoon has sped—Dighton was a rover then, Dighton lived in clover then;Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Corinna!Watch and see his fiancée smile on you at dinner!Watch and hear his fiancée whisper, "That'sthe one?"Try and raise a blush for what you said was "only fun."Long have you been wedded; have you then forgot?If you have, I'll venture that a certain man has not!Dighton had a way with him; did you ever play with him?Now that dream is over and the episode is dead.Dighton never harried you after Charlie married you;Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Bettina!Did you ever love him when the sport was rather keener?Did you ever kiss him as you sat upon the stairs?Did you ever tell him of your former love affairs?Think of it uneasily and wonder if his wifeSoon will know the amatory secrets of your life!Dighton was impressible, you were quite accessible—The bachelor who marries late is apt to lose his head.Dighton wouldn't hurt you; does it disconcert you?Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!Dighton is engaged! Tremble, Mrs. Alice!When he comes no longer will you bear the lady malice?Now he comes to dinner, and he smokes cigars with Clint,But he never makes a blunder and he never drops a hint;He's a universal uncle, with a welcome everywhere,He adopts his sweetheart's children and he lets 'em pull his hair.Dighton has a memory bright and sharp as emery,Hecouldtell them fairy stories that would make you rather red!Dighton can be trusted, though; Dighton's readjusted, though!Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!
Gelett Burgess.
Which I wish to remark—And my language is plain—That for ways that are dark,And for tricks that are vain,The heathen Chinee is peculiar,Which the same I would rise to explain.Ah Sin was his name;And I will not denyIn regard to the sameWhat that name might imply;But his smile it was pensive and childlike,As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.It was August the third;And quite soft was the skies:Which it might be inferredThat Ah Sin was likewise;Yet he played it that day upon WilliamAnd me in a way I despise.Which we had a small game,And Ah Sin took a hand.It was Euchre. The sameHe did not understand;But he smiled as he sat by the table,With a smile that was childlike and bland.Yet the cards they were stockedIn a way that I grieve,And my feelings were shockedAt the state of Nye's sleeve:Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,And the same with intent to deceive.But the hands that were playedBy that heathen Chinee,And the points that he made,Were quite frightful to see—Till at last he put down a right bower,Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.Then I looked up at Nye,And he gazed upon me;And he rose with a sigh,And said, "Can this be?We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour—"And he went for that heathen Chinee.In the scene that ensuedI did not take a hand;But the floor it was strewedLike the leaves on the strandWith the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,In the game "he did not understand."In his sleeves, which were long,He had twenty-four packs—Which was coming it strong,Yet I state but the facts;And we found on his nails, which were taper,What is frequent in tapers—that's wax.Which is why I remark,And my language is plain,That for ways that are dark,And for tricks that are vain,The heathen Chinee is peculiar—Which the same I am free to maintain.
Bret Harte.
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the rowThat broke up our society upon the Stanislow.But first I would remark, that it is not a proper planFor any scientific man to whale his fellow-man,And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to seeThan the first six months' proceedings of that same society,Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bonesThat he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault,It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gentTo say another is an ass—at least, to all intent;Nor should the individual who happens to be meantReply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, whenA chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.For, in less time than I write it, every member did engageIn a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age;And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.And this is all I have to say of these improper gamesFor I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the rowThat broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
Bret Harte.
Say there! P'r'apsSome on you chapsMight know Jim Wild!Well,—no offence:Thar ain't no senseIn gittin' riled!Jim was my chumUp on the Bar:That's why I comeDown from up yar,Lookin' for Jim.Thank ye, sir!youAin't of that crew,—Blest if you are!Money?—Not much;That ain't my kind:I ain't no such.Rum?—I don't mind,Seein' it's you.Well, this yer Jim,Did you know him?—Jess 'bout your size;Same kind of eyes;—Well, that is strange:Why, it's two yearSince he came here,Sick, for a change.Well, here's to us:Eh?The h——, you say!Dead?That little cuss?What makes you star,—You over thar?Can't a man drop's glass 'n yer shopBut you must rar'?It wouldn't takeD—— much to breakYou and your bar.Dead!Poor—little—Jim!—Why, thar was me,Jones, and Bob Lee,Harry and Ben,—No—account men:Then to takehim!Well, thar—Good-bye—No more, sir,—I—Eh?What's that you say?—Why, dern it!—sho!—No? Yes! By Jo!Sold!Sold! Why, you limb!You ornery,Derned oldLong-legged Jim!
Bret Harte.
They called him Bill, the hired man,But she, her name was Mary Jane,The Squire's daughter; and to reignThe belle from Ber-she-be to DanHer little game. How lovers rashGot mittens at the spelling school!How many a mute, inglorious foolWrote rhymes and sighed and died—mustache!This hired man had loved her long,Had loved her best and first and last,Her very garments as she passedFor him had symphony and song.So when one day with sudden frownShe called him "Bill," he raised his head,He caught her eye and, faltering, said,"I love you; and my name is Brown."She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept;You would have thought the house on fire.She told her sire, the portly squire,Then smelt her smelling-salts, and slept.Poor William did what could be done;He swung a pistol on each hip,He gathered up a great ox-whip,And drove toward the setting sun.He crossed the great back-bone of earth,He saw the snowy mountains rolledLike mighty billows; saw the goldOf awful sunsets; felt the birthOf sudden dawn that burst the nightLike resurrection; saw the faceOf God and named it boundless spaceRinged round with room and shoreless light.Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs,They sought for bigger game; somehowThey seemed to see above her browThe forky sign of turkey tracks.The teter-board of life goes up,The teter-board of life goes down,The sweetest face must learn to frown;The biggest dog has been a pup.O maidens! pluck not at the air;The sweetest flowers I have foundGrow rather close unto the ground,And highest places are most bare.Why, you had better win the graceOf our poor cussed Af-ri-can,Than win the eyes of every manIn love alone with his own face.At last she nursed her true desire.She sighed, she wept for William Brown,She watched the splendid sun go downLike some great sailing ship on fire,Then rose and checked her trunk right on;And in the cars she lunched and lunched,And had her ticket punched and punched,Until she came to Oregon.She reached the limit of the lines,She wore blue specs upon her nose,Wore rather short and manly clothes,And so set out to reach the mines.Her pocket held a parasolHer right hand held a Testament,And thus equipped right on she went,Went water-proof and water-fall.She saw a miner gazing down,Slow stirring something with a spoon;"O, tell me true and tell me soon,What has become of William Brown?"He looked askance beneath her specs,Then stirred his cocktail round and round.Then raised his head and sighed profound,And said, "He's handed in his checks."Then care fed on her damaged cheek,And she grew faint, did Mary Jane,And smelt her smelling-salts in vain,She wandered, weary, worn, and weak.At last, upon a hill alone.She came, and there she sat her down;For on that hill there stood a stone,And, lo! that stone read, "William Brown.""O William Brown! O William Brown!And here you rest at last," she said,"With this lone stone above your head,And forty miles from any town!I will plant cypress trees, I will,And I will build a fence around,And I will fertilise the groundWith tears enough to turn a mill."She went and got a hired man,She brought him forty miles from town,And in the tall grass squatted downAnd bade him build as she should plan.But cruel cow-boys with their bandsThey saw, and hurriedly they ranAnd told a bearded cattle manSomebody builded on his lands.He took his rifle from the rack,He girt himself in battle pelt,He stuck two pistols in his belt,And, mounting on his horse's back,He plunged ahead. But when they showedA woman fair, about his eyesHe pulled his hat, and he likewisePulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.At last he gat him down and spake:"O lady dear, what do you here?""I build a tomb unto my dear,I plant sweet flowers for his sake."The bearded man threw his two handsAbove his head, then brought them downAnd cried, "Oh, I am William Brown,And this the corner-stone of my lands!"
Joaquin Miller.
I don't go much on religion,I never ain't had no show;But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,On a handful o' things I know.I don't pan out on the prophetsAnd free-will and that sort of thing—But I be'lieve in God and the angels,Ever sence one night last spring.I come into town with some turnips,And my little Gabe come along—No four-year-old in the countyCould beat him for pretty and strong—Peart and chipper and sassy,Always ready to swear and fight—And I'd larnt him to chaw terbackerJest to keep his milk-teeth white.The snow come down like a blanketAs I passed by Taggart's store;I went in for a jug of molassesAnd left the team at the door.They scared at something and started—I heard one little squall,And hell-to-split over the prairie!Went team, Little Breeches, and all.Hell-to-split over the prairie!I was almost froze with skeer;But we rousted up some torches,And sarched for 'em far and near.At last we struck hosses and wagon,Snowed under a soft white mound,Upsot, dead beat, but of little GabeNo hide nor hair was found.And hero all hope soured on meOf my fellow-critter's aid;I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.
By this, the torches was played out,And me and Isrul ParrWent off for some wood to a sheepfoldThat he said was somewhar thar.We found it at last, and a little shedWhere they shut up the lambs at night;We looked in and seen them huddled thar,So warm and sleepy and white;And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,As peart as ever you see,"I want a chaw of terbacker,And that's what's the matter of me."How did he git thar? Angels.He could never have walked in that storm:They jest scooped down and toted himTo whar it was safe and warm.And I think that saving a little child,And fotching him to his own,Is a derned sight better businessThan loafing around the Throne.
John Hay.
The King was sick. His cheek was red,And his eye was clear and bright;He ate and drank with a kingly zest,And peacefully snored at night.But he said he was sick, and a king should know,And doctors came by the score.They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,And sent to the schools for more.At last two famous doctors came,And one was as poor as a rat,—He had passed his life in studious toil,And never found time to grow fat.The other had never looked in a book;His patients gave him no trouble:If they recovered, they paid him well;If they died, their heirs paid double.Together they looked at the royal tongue,As the King on his couch reclined;In succession they thumped his august chest,But no trace of disease could find.The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut.""Hang him up," roared the King in a gale—In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;The other leech grew a shade pale;But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,And thus his prescription ran—The King will be well, if he sleeps one nightIn the Shirt of a Happy Man.
Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,And fast their horses ran,And many they saw, and to many they spoke,But they found no Happy Man.They found poor men who would fain be rich,And rich who thought they were poor;And men who twisted their waist in stays,And women that shorthose wore.They saw two men by the roadside sit,And both bemoaned their lot;For one had buried his wife, he said,And the other one had not.At last they came to a village gate,A beggar lay whistling there;He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled,On the grass in the soft June air.The weary couriers paused and lookedAt the scamp so blithe and gay;And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend!You seem to be happy to-day.""O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,And his voice rang free and glad;"An idle man has so much to doThat he never has time to be sad.""This is our man," the courier said;"Our luck has lead us aright.I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,For the loan of your shirt to-night."The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,And laughed till his face was black;"I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun,"But I haven't a shirt to my back."
Each day to the King the reports came inOf his unsuccessful spies,And the sad panorama of human woesPassed daily under his eyes.And he grew ashamed of his useless life,And his maladies hatched in gloom;He opened his windows and let the airOf the free heaven into his room.And out he went in the world, and toiledIn his own appointed way;And the people blessed him, the land was glad,And the King was well and gay.
John Hay.
Wal, no! I can't tell whar he lives,Because he don't live, you see;Leastways, he's got out of the habitOf livin' like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three yearsThat you haven't heard folks tellHow Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks,The night of the Prairie Belle?He weren't no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,And another one here in Pike.A keerless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward man in a row—But he never flunked, and he never lied;I reckon he never knowed how.And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engines well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the pilot's bell;And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,A thousand times he swore,He'd hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.All boats have their day on the Mississip,And her day come at last.The Movastar was a better boat,But the Belle she wouldn't be passed;And so come tearin' along that night,—The oldest craft on the line,With a nigger squat on her safety valve,And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.The fire bust out as she clared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeTo that willer-bank on the right.There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled outOver all the infernal roar,"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot's ashore."Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boatJim Bludso's voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And know he would keep his word.And, sure's you're born, they all got offAfore the smokestacks fell,—And Bludso's ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of the Prairie Belle.He weren't no saint—but at jedgmentI'd run my chance with Jim,'Longside of some pious gentlemenThat wouldn't shook hands with him.He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing—And went for it thar and then:And Christ ain't a going to be too hardOn a man that died for men.
John Hay.
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,De win' she blow, blow, blow,An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"Got scar't an' run below;For de win' she blow lak hurricane,Bimeby she blow some more,An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,Wan arpent from de shore.De Captinne walk on de fronte deck,An' walk de hin' deck, too—He call de crew from up de holeHe call de cook also.De cook she's name was Rosie,She come from Montreal,Was chambre maid on lumber barge,On de Grande Lachine Canal.De win' she blow from nor'—eas'—wes'De sout' win' she blow, too,W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne,Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre,But still de scow she dreef,De crew he can't pass on de shore,Becos' he los' hees skeef.De night was dark, lak' one black cat,De wave run high an' fas',Wen de Captinne tak' de Rosie girlAn' tie her to de mas'.Den he also tak' de life preserve,An' jomp off on de lak',An' say, "Good by, ma Rosie dear,I go drown for your sak'."Nex' morning very early,'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—De Captinne, scow, an' de poor RosieWas corpses on de shore;For he win' she blow lak' hurricaneBimeby she blow some more,An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now, all good wood scow sailor manTak' warning by dat storm,An' go an' marry some nice French girlAn' leev on wan beeg farm;De win' can blow lak' hurricane,An' s'pose she blow some more,You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre,So long you stay on shore.
William Henry Drummond.
Many a long, long year ago,Nantucket skippers had a planOf finding out, though "lying low,"How near New York their schooners ran.They greased the lead before it fell,And then, by sounding through the night,Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,They always guessed their reckoning right.A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,Could tell, bytasting, just the spot,And so below he'd "dowse the glim"—After, of course, his "something hot."Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,This ancient skipper might be found;No matter how his craft would rock,He slept—for skippers' naps are sound!The watch on deck would now and thenRun down and wake him, with the lead;He'd up, and taste, and tell the menHow many miles they went ahead.One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch,A curious wag—the peddler's son—And so he mused (the wanton wretch),"To-night I'll have a grain of fun."We're all a set of stupid foolsTo think the skipper knows bytastingWhat ground he's on—Nantucket schoolsDon't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"And so he took the well-greased leadAnd rubbed it o'er a box of earthThat stood on deck—a parsnip-bed—And then he sought the skipper's berth."Where are we now, sir? Please to taste."The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,Then ope'd his eyes in wondrous haste,And then upon the floor he sprung!The skipper stormed and tore his hair,Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,"Nantucket's sunk, and here we areRight over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
James Thomas Fields.
By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat.
On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.
The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat;
And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.
The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat;
And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat.
His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat;
So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat.
Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman sat;
So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig, and hat.
His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his fat;
And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat.
George Canning.
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,When opening his toothpick-case, one said,"It was not until lately that I knewThatanchoviesonterrâ firmâgrew.""Grow!" cried the other, "yes, theygrow, indeed,Like other fish, but not upon the land;You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,Or in the Strand!""Why, sir," returned the irritated other,"My brother,When at CalcuttaBeheld thembonâ fidegrowing;He wouldn't utterA lie for love or money, sir; so inThis matter you are thoroughly mistaken.""Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no creditTo the assertion—none e'er saw or read it;Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.""Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you arePerverse—in short—""Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar,And then his port—"If you will say impossibles are true,You may affirm just anything you please—That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!Only you must notforceme to believeWhat's propagated merely to deceive.""Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool,"Return'd the bragger.Language like this no man can suffer cool:It made the listener stagger;So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,"The travelerliedWho had the impudence to tell it you;""Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my faceThat anchoviesdon'tgrow like cloves and mace?""Ido!"Disputants often after hot debatesLeave the contention as they found it—bone,And take to duelling or thumpingtêtes;Thinking by strength of artery to atoneFor strength of argument; and he who wincesFrom force of words, with force of arms convinces!With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading(Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to showIt might be better they shook hands—but no;When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right,Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight!And theydidfight: from six full measured pacesThe unbeliever pulled his trigger first;And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces,The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst,Ran up, and with aduelisticfear(His ire evanishing like morning vapors),Found him possess'd of one remaining ear,Who in a manner sudden and uncouth,Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth;For while the surgeon was applying lint,He, wriggling, cried—"The deuce is in't—Sir, Imeant—CAPERS!"
William Basil Wake.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;Dey had biano-blayin':I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,Her name was Madilda Yane.She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,Her eyes vas himmel-plue,Und ven dey looket indo mine,Dey shplit mine heart in two.Hans Breitmann gife a barty:I vent dere, you'll pe pound.I valtzet mit Madilda YaneUnd vent shpinnen round und round.De pootiest Fräulein in de house,She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,Und efery dime she gife a shoompShe make de vindows sound.Hans Breitmann gife a barty:I dells you it cost him dear.Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecksOf foost-rate Lager Beer,Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket inDe Deutschers gifes a cheer.I dinks dat so vine a bartyNefer coom to a het dis year.Hans Breitmann gife a barty;Dere all vas Souse und Brouse;Ven de sooper comed in, de gompanyDid make demselfs to house.Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost,De Bratwurst und Braten fine,Und vash der Abendessen downMit four parrels of Neckarwein.Hans Breitmann gife a barty.We all cot troonk ash bigs.I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier,Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs.Und denn I gissed Madilda YaneUnd she shlog me on de kop,Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecksDill be coonshtable made oos shtop.Hans Breitmann gife a barty—Where ish dat barty now!Where ish de lofely golden cloudDat float on de moundain's prow?Where ish de himmelstrablende Stern—De shtar of de shpirit's light?All goned afay mit de Lager Beer—Afay in de Ewigkeit!
Charles Godfrey Leland.
Der noble Ritter HugoVon SchwillensaufensteinRode out mit shpeer and helmet,Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.Und oop dere rose a meermaid,Fot hadn't got nodings on,Und she say, "Oh, Ritter Hugo,Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?"And he says, "I ride in de creenwood,Mit helmet und mit shpeer,Till I cooms into em Gasthaus,Und dere I trinks some beer."Und den outshpoke the maidenVot hadn't got nodings on:"I ton't tink mooch of beopleshDat goes mit demselfs alone."You'd petter coom down in de wasser,Vhere deres heaps of dings to see,Und hafe a shplendid tinnerUnd drafel along mit me."Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin',Und you catches dem efery von:"—So sang dis wasser maiden,Vot hadn't got nodings on."Dere ish drunks all full mit moneyIn ships dat vent down of old;Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!To shimmerin' crowns of gold."Shoost look at these shpoons and vatches!Shoost see dese diamant rings!Coom down and fill your pockets,And I'll giss you like efery dings."Vot you vanst mit your schnapps and lager?Come down into der Rhine!Der ish pottles de Kaiser CharlemagneVonce filled mit gold-red wine!"Datfetched him—she shtood all shpell-pound;She pooled his coat-tails down;She drawed him oonder der wasser,De maiden mit nodings on.
Charles Godfrey Leland.
Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis,Hush up your teasin' and listen to this:'Tain't much of a jingle, 'tain't much of a tune,But it's spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon.The thund'rinest fireman Lord ever madeWas Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose;When the 'larm rung he'd start, sis, a-sheddin' his clothes,—Slung cote and slung wes'cote and kicked off his shoes,A-runnin' like fun, for he'd no time to lose.And he'd howl down the ro'd in a big cloud of dust,For he made it his brag he was allus there fust.—Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout,And he never shut up till the fire was out.And he'd knock out the winders and save all the doors,And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the floors,For he allus allowed 'twas a tarnation sinTo 'low 'em to burn, for you'd want 'em agin.He gen'rally stirred up the most of his touseIn hustling to save the outside of the house.And after he'd wrassled and hollered and pried,He'd let up and tackle the stuff 'twas inside.To see him you'd think he was daft as a loon,But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.Row diddy-iddy, my little sis,Now see what ye think of a doin' like this:The time of the fire at Jenkins' old placeIt got a big start—was a desprit case;The fambly they didn't know which way to turn.And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn.But Chester Cahoon—oh, that Chester Cahoon,He sailed to the roof like a reg'lar balloon;Donno how he done it, but done it he did,—Went down through the scuttle and shet down the lid.And five minutes later that critter he cameTo the second floor winder surrounded by flame.He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed,And balanced a bureau right square on his head.His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff,China and glass; as if that warn't enough,He'd rolls of big quilts round his neck like a wreath,And carried Mis' Jenkins' old aunt with his teeth.You're right—gospel right, little sis,—didn't seemThe critter'd git down, but he called for the stream,And when it come strong and big round as my wrist;He stuck out his legs, sis, and give 'em a twist;And he hooked round the water jes' if 'twas a rope,And down he come easin' himself on the slope,—So almighty spry that he made that 'ere streamAs fit for his pupp'us' as if 'twas a beam.Oh, the thund'rinest fireman Lord ever madeWas Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.
Holman F. Day.
Go 'way, fiddle; folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'—
Keep silence fur yo' betters!—don't you heah de banjo talkin'?
About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!—
About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':
"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn—
Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column—
An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches,
An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamahNatchez.
Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin';
An' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin';
But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen:
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es—
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle—
An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.
Den sech anoder fall ob rain!—it come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—'cep' Noah an' de critters,
An' men he'd hired to work de boat—an' one to mix de bitters.
De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin',an'a-sailin';
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin',
You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' round' an' cussin'.
Now, Ham, he only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c'u'dn't stan' de racket;
An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it,
An' soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.
He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an aprin;
An' fitted in a proper neck—'twas berry long and tap'rin';
He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;
An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?
De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin';
De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin';
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces;
An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—'twus "Nebber min' de wedder,"—
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder;
Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers;
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!
Now, sence dat time—it's mighty strange—dere's not de slightes' showin'
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin';
An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em—
Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!
Irwin Russell.