Basking in peace in the warm spring sun,South Hill smiled upon Burlington.The breath of May! and the day was fair,And the bright motes danced in the balmy air.And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breezeKissed the fragrant blooms on the apple-trees.His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned,As he stood with a carriage whip in his hand.And he laughed as he doffed his bobtail coat,And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop,And said she'd tell him when to stop.So he pounded away till the dinner-bellGave him a little breathing spell.But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one,And she said the carpet wasn't done.But he lovingly put in his biggest licks,And he pounded like mad till the clock struck six.And she said, in a dubious sort of way,That she guessed he could finish it up next day.Then all that day, and the next day, too,That fuzz from the dirtless carpet flew.And she'd give it a look at eventide,And say, "Now beat on the other side."And the new days came as the old days went,And the landlord came for his regular rent.And the neighbors laughed at the tireless broom,And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom.Till at last, one cheerless winter day,He kicked at the carpet and slid away.Over the fence and down the street,Speeding away with footsteps fleet.And never again the morning sunSmiled on him beating his carpet-drum.And South Hill often said with a yawn,"Where's the carpet-martyr gone?"Years twice twenty had come and passedAnd the carpet swayed in the autumn blast.For never yet, since that bright spring-time,Had it ever been taken down from the line.Over the fence a gray-haired manCautiously clim, clome, clem, clum, clamb.He found him a stick in the old woodpile,And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile,A flush passed over his face forlornAs he gazed at the carpet, tattered and torn.And he hit it a most resounding thwack,Till the startled air gave his echoes back.And out of the window a white face leaned,And a palsied hand the pale face screened.She knew his face; she gasped, and sighed,"A little more on the other side."Right down on the ground his stick he throwed,And he shivered and said, "Well, I am blowed!"And he turned away, with a heart full sore,And he never was seen not more, not more.
Robert J. Burdette.
"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you againThe five unmistakable marksBy which you may know, wheresoever you go,The warranted genuine Snarks."Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,With a flavor of Will-o'-the-wisp."Its habit of getting up late you'll agreeThat it carries too far when I sayThat it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,And dines on the following day.
"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,Which it constantly carries about,And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes—A sentiment open to doubt."The fifth is ambition. It next will be rightTo describe each particular batch;Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,From those that have whiskers, and scratch."For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,Yet I feel it my duty to saySome are Boojums—" The Bellman broke off in alarm,For the Baker had fainted away.They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—They roused him with mustard and cress—They roused him with jam and judicious advice—They set him conundrums to guess.When at length he sat up and was able to speak,His sad story he offered to tell;And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"And excitedly tingled his bell.There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,Scarcely even a howl or a groan,As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe.In an antediluvian tone."My father and mother were honest, though poor—""Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste,"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark,We have hardly a minute to waste!""I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,"And proceed without further remarkTo the day when you took me aboard of your shipTo help you in hunting the Snark."A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)Remarked, when I bade him farewell—""Oh, skip your dear uncle," the Bellman exclaimed,As he angrily tingled his bell."He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,"'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right;Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greensAnd it's handy for striking a light."'You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;You may hunt it with forks and hope;You may threaten its life with a railway-share;You may charm it with smiles and soap—"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,If your Snark be a Boojum! For thenYou will softly and suddenly vanish awayAnd never be met with again!'"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,When I think of my uncle's last words:And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowlBrimming over with quivering curds!"I engage with the Snark—every night after dark—In a dreamy delirious fight:I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,And I use it for striking a light:"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,In a moment (of this I am sure),I shall softly and suddenly vanish away—And the notion I cannot endure!"
Lewis Carroll.
Old man never had much to say—'Ceptin' to Jim,—And Jim was the wildest boy he had—And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!Never heerd him speak but onceEr twice in my life,—and first time wasWhen the army broke out, and Jim he went,The Old man backin' him, fer three months.—And all 'at I heerd the Old man sayWas, jes' as we turned to start away,—"Well; good-bye, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"'Peard-like, he was more satisfiedJes'lookin'at Jim,And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?—'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!And over and over I mind the dayThe Old man come and stood round in the wayWhile we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim—And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say,—"Well; good-bye, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"Never was nothin' about the farmDisting'ished Jim;—Neighbours all ust to wonder whyThe Old man 'peared wrapped up in him:But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back,'At Jim was the bravest boy we hadIn the whole dern rigiment, white er black,And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad—'At he had led, with a bullet cleanBored through his thigh, and carried the flagThrough the bloodiest battle you ever seen,—The Old man wound up a letter to him'At Cap. read to us, 'at said,—"Tell JimGood-bye;And take keer of hisse'f."Jim come back jes' long enoughTo take the whim'At he'd like to go back in the cavelry—And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!—Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.And the Old man give him a colt he'd raisedAnd follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,And laid around fer a week er so,Watchin' Jim on dress-parade—Tel finally he rid away,And last he heerd was the Old man say,—"Well; good-bye, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"Tuk the papers, the Old man did,A-watchin' fer Jim—Fully believin' he'd make his markSomeway—jes' wrapped up in him!—And many a time the word 'u'd come'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum—At Petersburg, fer instance, whereJim rid right into their cannons there,And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,And socked it home to the boys in grey,As they skooted fer timber, and on and on—Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone,And the Old man's words in his mind all day,—"Well; good-bye, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"Think of a private, now, perhaps,We'll say like Jim,'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps—And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!Think of him—with the war plum' through,And the glorious old Red-White-and-BlueA-laughin' the news down over Jim,And the Old man, bendin' over him—The surgeon turnin' away with tears'At hadn't leaked fer years and years—As the hand of the dyin' boy clung toHis father's, the old voice in his ears,—"Well; good-bye, Jim:Take keer of yourse'f!"
James Whitcomb Riley.
This is the tale that was told to me,By a battered and shattered son of the sea—To me and my messmate, Silas Green,When I was a guileless young marine."'Twas the good shipGyascutus,All in the China seas,With the wind a-lee and the capstan freeTo catch the summer breeze."'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck,To his mate in the mizzen hatch,While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold,Was winding the larboard watch."'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night!How heads our gallant craft?''Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N.,And the binnacle lies abaft!'"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate,And how does the sextant stand?''Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point,And the quadrant's lost a hand!'"'Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand,And the sextant falls so low,It's our bodies and bones to Davy JonesThis night are bound to go!"'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake!And reef the spanker boom;Bend a studding sail on the martingale,To give her weather room."'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard holdWhat water do you find?''Four foot and a half by the royal gaffAnd rather more behind!'"'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikesAnd each belaying pin;Come stir your stumps, and spike the pumps,Or more will be coming in!'"They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps,They spliced the mizzen brace;Aloft and alow they worked, but oh!The water gained apace."They bored a hole above the keelTo let the water out;But, strange to say, to their dismay,The water in did spout."Then up spoke the Cook, of our gallant ship,And he was a lubber brave:'I have several wives in various ports,And my life I'd orter save.'"Then up spoke the Captain of Marines,Who dearly loved his prog:'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry,And I move we pipe to grog.'"Oh, then 'twas the noble second mateWhat filled them all with awe;The second mate, as bad men hate,And cruel skipper's jaw."He took the anchor on his back,And leaped into the main;Through foam and spray he clove his way,And sunk and rose again!"Through foam and spray, a league awayThe anchor stout he bore;Till, safe at last, he made it fastAnd warped the ship ashore!"'Taint much of a job to talk about,But a ticklish thing to see,And suth'in to do, if I say it, too,For that second mate was me!"Such was the tale that was told to meBy that modest and truthful son of the sea,And I envy the life of a second mate,Though captains curse him and sailors hate,For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen,As would go and lie to a poor marine.
James Jeffrey Roche.
Upon an island, all alone,They lived, in the Pacific;Somewhere within the Torrid Zone,Where heat is quite terrific.'Twould shock you were I to declareThe many things they did not wear,Altho' no doubtOne's best withoutSuch things in heat terrific.Though cannibals by birth were they,Yet, since they'd first existed,Their simple menu day by dayOf such-like things consisted:Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams,And stews from freshly-gathered clams,Such things as theseWere,—if you please,—Of what their fare consisted.But after dinner they'd converse,Nor did their topic vary;Wild tales of gore they would rehearse,And talk ofmissionary.They'd gaze upon each other's joints,And indicate the tender points.Said one: "For us'Tis dangerousTothinkofmissionary."Well, on a day, upon the shore,As flotsam, or as jetsam,Some wooden cases,—ten, or more,—Were cast up. "Let us get some,And see, my friend, what they contain;The chance may not occur again,"Said good Who-zoo.Said Tum-tum, "Do;We'll both wade out and get some."The cases held,—what do you think?—"Prime Missionary—tinned."Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink—The man who made it sinned:He thus had labelled bloater-pasteTo captivate the native taste.He hoped, of course,This fraud to forceOn them. In this he sinned.Our simple friends knew naught of sin;They thought that this confectionWasmissionary in a tinAccording to direction.For very joy they shed salt tears."'Tis what we've waited for, for years,"Said they. "Hooray!We'll feast to-dayAccording to direction.""'Tis very tough," said one, for heThe tin and all had eaten."Too salt," the other said, "for me;The flavour might be beaten."It was enough. Soon each one sworeHe'd missionary eat no more:Their tastes were cured,They felt assuredThis flavour might be beaten.And, should a missionary callTo-day, he'd find them gentle,With no perverted tastes at all,And manners ornamental;He'd be received, I'm bound to say,In courteous and proper way;Nor need he fearTo taste their cheerHowever ornamental.
G. E. Farrow.
I may as wellProceed to tellAbout a Mister Higgs,Who grew quite richIn trade—the whichWas selling pork and pigs.From trade retired,He much desiredTo rank with gentlefolk,So bought a placeHe called "The Chase,"And furnished it—old oak.Ancestors got(Twelve pounds the lot,In Tottenham Court Road);A pedigree—For nine pounds three,—The Heralds' Court bestowed.Within the hall,And on the wall,Hung armour bright and strong."To Ethelbred"—The label read—"De Higgs, this did belong."'Twasquitecomplete,This country seat,Yet neighbours stayed away.Nobody called,—Higgs was blackballed,—Which caused him great dismay."Whycanit be?"One night said heWhen thinking of it o'er.There came a knock('Twas twelve o'clock)Upon his chamber door.Higgs cried, "Come in!"A vapour thinThe keyhole wandered through.Higgs rubbed his eyesIn mild surprise:A ghost appeared in view."I beg," said he,"You'll pardon me,In calling rather late.A family ghost,I seek a post,With wage commensurate."I'll serve you well;My 'fiendish yell'Is certain sure to please.'Sepulchral tones,'And 'rattling bones,'I'mverygood at these."Five bob I chargeTo roam at large,With 'clanking chains'ad lib.;I do such thingsAs 'gibberings'At one-and-three per gib."Or, by the week,I merely seekTwo pounds—which is not dear;Because I need,Of course,nofeed,Nowashing, andnobeer."Higgs thought it o'erA bit, beforeHe hired the family ghost,But, finally,He did agreeTo give to him the post.It got about—You know, no doubt,How quickly such news flies—Throughout the place,From "Higgses Chase"Proceeded ghostly cries.The rumour spread,Folks shook their head,But dropped in one by one.A bishop came(Forget his name),And then the thing was done.For afterwardsAllleft their cards,"Because," said they, "you see,One who can boastA family ghostRespectablemustbe."When it was due,The "ghostes's" screwHiggs raised—as was but right—They often play,In friendly way,A game of cards at night.
G. E. Farrow.
Of all the rides since the birth of time,Told in story or sung in rhyme,—On Apuleius's Golden Ass,Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,Witch astride of a human back,Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,—The strangest ride that ever was spedWas Ireson's, out from Marblehead!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Body of turkey, head of owl,Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,Feathered and ruffled in every part,Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.Scores of women, old and young,Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chaseBacchus round some antique vase,Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,Over and over the Mænads sang:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Small pity for him!—He sailed awayFrom a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,—Sailed away from a sinking wreck,With his own town's-people on her deck!"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.Back he answered, "Sink or swim!Brag of your catch of fish again!"And off he sailed through the fog and rain!Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Fathoms deep in dark ChaleurThat wreck shall lie forevermore.Mother and sister, wife and maid,Looked from the rocks of MarbleheadOver the moaning and rainy sea,—Looked for the coming that might not be!What did the winds and the sea-birds sayOf the cruel captain who sailed away?—Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Through the street, on either side,Up flew windows, doors swung wide;Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,Hulks of old sailors run aground,Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!"Sweetly along the Salem roadBloom of orchard and lilac showed.Little the wicked skipper knewOf the fields so green and the sky so blue.Riding there in his sorry trim,Like an Indian idol glum and grim,Scarcely he seemed the sound to hearOf voices shouting, far and near:"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrtBy the women o' Morble'ead!""Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—"What to me is this noisy ride?What is the shame that clothes the skinTo the nameless horror that lives within?Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,And hear a cry from a reeling deck!Hate me and curse me,—I only dreadThe hand of God and the face of the dead!"Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!Then the wife of the skipper lost at seaSaid, "God has touched him! Why should we?"Said an old wife, mourning her only son:"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"So with soft relentings and rude excuse,Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,And gave him a cloak to hide him in,And left him alone with his shame and sin.Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,Tarred and feathered and carried in a cartBy the women of Marblehead!
J. G. Whittier.
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,Wise or otherwise, good or bad,Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jumpWith flapping arms from stake or stump,Or, spreading the tailOf his coat for a sail,Take a soaring leap from post or rail,And wonder whyHe couldn't fly,And flap and flutter and wish and try—If ever you knew a country dunceWho didn't try that as often as once,All I can say is, that's a signHe never would do for a hero of mine.An aspiring genius was D. Green:The son of a farmer, age fourteen;His body was long and lank and lean—Just right for flying, as will be seen;He had two eyes as bright as a bean,And a freckled nose that grew between,A little awry—for I must mentionThat he had riveted his attentionUpon his wonderful invention,Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,And working his face as he worked the wings,And with every turn of gimlet and screwTurning and screwing his mouth round too,Till his nose seemed bentTo catch the scent,Around some corner, of new-baked pies,And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyesGrew puckered into a queer grimace,That made him look very droll in the face,And also very wise.And wise he must have been, to do moreThan ever a genius did before,Excepting Dædalus of yoreAnd his son Icarus, who woreUpon their backsThose wings of waxHe had read of in the old almanacs.Darius was clearly of the opinionThat the air is also man's dominion,And that, with paddle or fin or pinion,We soon or late shall navigateThe azure as now we sail the sea.The thing looks simple enough to me;And if you doubt it,Hear how Darius reasoned about it."The birds can fly an' why can't I?Must we give in," says he with a grin."That the bluebird an' phœbeAre smarter'n we be?Jest fold our hands an' see the swallerAn' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren,No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men?Just show me that!Ur prove 't the batHez got more brains than's in my hat.An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"He argued further: "Nur I can't seeWhat's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me;—Ain't my businessImportant's his'n is?That IcarusMade a perty muss—Him an' his daddy DædalusThey might 'a' knowed wings made o' waxWouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks.I'll make mine o' luther,Ur suthin' ur other."And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned:"But I ain't goin' to show my handTo mummies that never can understandThe fust idee that's big an' grand."So he kept his secret from all the rest,Safely buttoned within his vest;And in the loft above the shedHimself he locks, with thimble and threadAnd wax and hammer and buckles and screwsAnd all such things as geniuses use;—Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;Some wire, and several old umbrellas;A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;A piece of harness; and straps and strings;And a big strong box,In which he locksThese and a hundred other things.His grinning brothers, Reuben and BurkeAnd Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurkAround the corner to see him work—Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,And boring the holes with a comical quirkOf his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.But vainly they mounted each other's backs,And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;With wood from the pile and straw from the stacksHe plugged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks;And a dipper of water, which one would thinkHe had brought up into the loft to drinkWhen he chanced to be dry,Stood always nigh,For Darius was sly!And whenever at work he happened to spyAt chink or crevice a blinking eye,He let the dipper of water fly."Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep,Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"And he sings as he locksHis big strong box:—"The weasel's head is small an' trim,An' he is little an' long an' slim,An' quick of motion an' nimble of limbAn' ef you'll beAdvised by me,Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!"So day after dayHe stitched and tinkered and hammered away,Till at last 'twas done—The greatest invention under the sun!"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fur some fun!"'Twas the Fourth of July,And the weather was dry,And not a cloud was on all the sky,Save a few light fleeces, which here and thereHalf mist, half air,Like foam on the ocean went floating by—Just as lovely a morning as ever was seenFor a nice little trip in a flying-machine.Thought cunning Darius: "Now I shan't goAlong 'ith the fellers to see the show.I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off,I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing,An' practise a little on the wing.""Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"Says brother Nate. "No; botheration!I've got sich a cold—a toothache—I—My gracious!—feel's though I should fly!"Said Jotham, "Sho!Guess ye better go."But Darius said, "No!Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though,'Long 'bout noon, ef I git redO' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head."For all the while to himself he said:—"I tell ye what!I'll fly a few times around the lot,To see how 't seems, then soon's I've gotThe hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,I'll astonish the nation,An' all creation,By flyin' over the celebration!Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull:I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple;I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people!I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow;An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,'What world's this 'ereThat I've come near?'Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon;An' I'll try to race 'ith their ol' balloon!"He crept from his bed;And, seeing the others were gone, he said,"I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head."And away he sped,To open the wonderful box in the shed.His brothers had walked but a little way,When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,"What is the feller up to, hey!""Don'o'—the 's suthin' ur other to pay,Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-day."Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye!Henever 'd missed a Fo'th-o'-July,Ef he hedn't got some machine to try."Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn,An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!""Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep backAlong by the fences, behind the stack,And one by one, through a hole in the wall,In under the dusty barn they crawl,Dressed in their Sunday garments all;And a very astonishing sight was that,When each in his cobwebbed coat and hatCame up through the floor like an ancient ratAnd there they hid;And Reuben slidThe fastenings back, and the door undid."Keep dark!" said he,"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."As knights of old put on their mail—From head to foot an iron suit,Iron jacket and iron boot,Iron breeches, and on the headNo hat, but an iron pot instead,And under the chin the bail,(I believe they called the thing a helm,)Then sallied forth to overwhelmThe dragons and pagans that plagued the earthSo thismodernknightPrepared for flight,Put on his wings and strapped them tightJointed and jaunty, strong and light—Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip;Ten feet they measured from tip to tipAnd a helm had he, but that he wore,Not on his head, like those of yore,But more like the helm of a ship."Hush!" Reuben said,"He's up in the shed!He's opened the winder—I see his head!He stretches it out, an' pokes it about,Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,An' nobody near;—Guess he don' o' who's hid in here!He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!He's a climbin' out now—Of all the things!What's he got on? I vum, it's wings!An' that 'tother thing? I vum, it's a tail!An' there he sits like a hawk on a rail!Steppin' careful, he travels the lengthOf his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;Peeks over his shoulder; this way an' that,Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by;But the' 's on'y a caf an' goslin nigh.Theyturn up at him a wonderin' eye,To see— The dragon! he's goin' to fly!Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!Flop—flop—an' plumpTo the ground with a thump!Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin' all 'n a lump!"As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,Heels over head, to his proper sphere—Heels over head, and head over heels,Dizzily down the abyss he wheels—So fell Darius. Upon his crown,In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down,In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,Broken braces and broken springs.Broken tail and broken wings,Shooting-stars, and various things;Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff,And much that wasn't so sweet by half.Away with a bellow fled the calf,And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door,And he hears the voice of Jotham crying,"Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?"Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,Darius just turned and looked that way,As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff."Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"He said; "but the' ain't such a thunderin' sightO' fun in 't when ye come to light."I just have room for themoralhere:And this is the moral—Stick to your sphere.Or if you insist, as you have the right,On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,The moral is—Take care how you light.
John Townsend Trowbridge.
"There was a man in ArkansawAs let his passions rise,And not unfrequently picked outSome other varmint's eyes."His name was Tuscaloosa SamAnd often he would say,'There's not a cuss in ArkansawI can't whip any day.'"One morn, a stranger passin' by,Heard Sammy talkin' so,And down he scrambled from his hoss,And off his coat did go."He sorter kinder shut one eye,And spit into his hand,And put his ugly head one side,And twitched his trowsers' band."'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief,Whomever you may be,That I kin make you screech, and smellPertiklor agony.'"I'm thar,' said Tuscaloosa Sam,And chucked his hat away;'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned upAs far as buttons may."He thundered on the stranger's mug,The stranger pounded he;And oh! the way them critters fitWas beautiful to see."They clinched like two rampageous bears,And then went down a bit;They swore a stream of six-inch oathsAnd fit, and fit, and fit."When Sam would try to work away,And on his pegs to git,The stranger'd pull him back; and so,They fit, and fit, and fit!"Then like a pair of lobsters, bothUpon the ground were knit,And yet the varmints used their teeth,And fit, and fit, and fit!!"The sun of noon was high above,And hot enough to split,But only riled the fellers more,That fit, and fit, and fit!!!"The stranger snapped at Samy's nose,And shortened it a bit;And then they both swore awful hard,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark,And all the litenins lit;But still them critters rolled about,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!"First Sam on top, then t'other chap;When one would make a hit,The other'd smell the grass; and soThey fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!"The night came on, the stars shone outAs bright as wimmen's wit;And still them fellers swore and gouged,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!"The neighbours heard the noise they made,And thought an earthquake lit;Yet all the while 'twas him and SamAs fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!"For miles around the noise was heard;Folks couldn't sleep a bit,Because them two rantankerous chapsStill fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!"But jist at cock-crow, suddenly,There came an awful pause,And I and my old man run outTo ascertain the cause."The sun was rising in the yeast,And lit the hull concern;But not a sign of either chapWas found at any turn."Yet, in the region where they fit,We found, to our surprise,One pint of buttons, two big knives,Some whiskers, and four, eyes!"
Robert Henry Newell.
Oh! 'twas Dermot O'Nolan M'Figg,That could properly handle a twig,He wint to the fair, and kicked up a dust there,In dancing a Donnybrook jig—with his twig.Oh! my blessing to Dermot M'Figg.Whin he came to the midst of the fair,He was all in a paugh for fresh air,For the fair very soon, was as full—as the moon,Such mobs upon mobs as were there, oh rare!So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.But Dermot, his mind on love bent,In search of his sweetheart he went,Peep'd in here and there, as he walked through the fair,And took a small drop in each tent—as he went,—Oh! on whisky and love he was bent.And who should he spy in a jig,With a meal-man so tall and so big,But his own darling Kate, so gay and so nate?Faith! her partner he hit him a dig—the pig,He beat the meal out of his wig.The piper, to keep him in tune,Struck up a gay lilt very soon;Until an arch wag cut a hole in the bag,And at once put an end to the tune—too soon—Och! the music flew up to the moon.The meal-man he looked very shy,While a great big tear stood in his eye,He cried, "Lord, how I'm kilt, all alone for that jilt;With her may the devil fly high in the sky,For I'm murdered, and don't know for why.""Oh!" says Dermot, and he in the dance,Whilst a step to'ards his foe did advance,"By the Father of Men, say but that word again,And I'll soon knock you back in a trance—to your dance,For with me you'd have but small chance.""But," says Kitty, the darlint, says she,"If you'll only just listen to me,It's myself that will show that he can't be your foe,Though he fought for his cousin—that's me," says she,"For sure Billy's related to me."For my own cousin-jarmin, Anne Wild,Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first child;And Biddy's step-son, sure he married Bess Dunn,Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild a childAs ever at mother's breast smiled."And may be you don't know Jane Brown,Who served goat's-whey in Dundrum's sweet town?'Twas her uncle's half-brother, who married my mother,And bought me this new yellow gown, to go downWhen the marriage was held in Milltown.""By the powers, then," says Dermot, "'tis plain,Like the son of that rapscallion Cain,My best friend I have kilt, though no blood is spilt,But the devil a harm did I mane—that's plain;And by me he'll be ne'er kilt again."
Viscount Dillon.
A captain bold from Halifax who dwelt in country quarters,Betrayed a maid who hanged herself one morning in her Garters.His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his Stomach daily,And took to drinking Ratafia while thinking of Miss Bailey.One night betimes he went to bed, for he had caught a Fever;Says he, "I am a handsome man, but I'm a gay Deceiver."His candle just at twelve o'clock began to burn quite palely,A Ghost stepped up to his bedside and said "Behold Miss Bailey!""Avaunt, Miss Bailey!" then he cries, "your Face looks white and mealy.""Dear Captain Smith," the ghost replied, "you've used me ungenteelly;The Crowner's 'Quest goes hard with me because I've acted frailly,And Parson Biggs won't bury me though I am dead Miss Bailey.""Dear Corpse!" said he, "since you and I accounts must once for all close,There really is a one pound note in my regimental Smallclothes;I'll bribe the sexton for your grave." The ghost then vanished gailyCrying "Bless you, Wicked Captain Smith, Remember poor Miss Bailey."
Unknown.
The last two stanzas were added by Miss Ferrier.
The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great;His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state;He wanted a wife his braw house to keep;But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,At his table-head he thought she'd look wellM'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee—A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree.His wig was well-pouther'd, as guid as when new,His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue:He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat—And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie—And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;"Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben:She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine;"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"She put off her apron, and on her silk gown,Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low;And what was his errand he soon let her know,Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na,And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie;And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."And now that the Laird his exit had made,Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;"Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten—I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green;Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.
Lady Nairne.
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been;Where I the rarest things have seen;Oh, things without compare!Such sights again can not be foundIn any place on English ground,Be it at wake or fair.At Charing Cross, hard by the wayWhere we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,There is a house with stairs;And there did I see coming downSuch folks as are not in our town;Vorty at least, in pairs.Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)Walk'd on before the rest;Our landlord looks like nothing to him;The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo himShould he go still so drest.At Course-a-park, without all doubt,He should have first been taken outBy all the maids i' th' town:Though lusty Roger there had been,Or little George upon the green,Or Vincent of the crown.But wot you what? The youth was goingTo make an end of all his woing;The parson for him staid:Yet by his leave, for all his haste,He did not so much wish all past,Perchance as did the maid.The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)For such a maid no Whitson-aleCould ever yet produce;No grape that's kindly ripe, could beSo round, so plump, so soft, as sheNor half so full of juyce.Her finger was so small, the ringWould not stay on which they did bring;It was too wide a peck:And, to say truth (for out it must),It look'd like the great collar (just)About our young colt's neck.Her feet beneath her petticoat,Like little mice, stole in and out,As if they fear'd the light:But oh! she dances such a way;No sun upon an Easter dayIs half so fine a sight.Her cheeks so rare a white was on,No daisie makes comparison(Who sees them is undone);For streaks of red were mingled there,Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,The side that's next the Sun.Her lips were red; and one was thin,Compared to that was next her chin(Some bee had stung it newly);But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,I durst no more upon them gaze,Than on a Sun in July.Her mouth so small, when she does speak,Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,That they might passage get;But she so handled still the matter,They came as good as ours, or better,And are not spent a whit.Passion, oh me! how I run on!There's that that would be thought upon,I trow, besides the bride.The business of the kitchen's great;For it is fit that men should eat,Nor was it there denied.Just in the nick the Cook knock'd thrice,And all the waiters in a triceHis summons did obey;Each serving man, with dish in hand,March'd boldly up like our train'd band,Presented, and away.When all the meat was on the table,What man of knife, or teeth, was ableTo stay to be entreated?And this the very reason was,Before the parson could say graceThe company was seated.Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;Healths first go round, and then the house,The bride's came thick and thick;And when 'twas named another's health,Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,(And who could help it, Dick?)O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance;Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:Then dance again, and kiss:Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,And ev'ry man wish'd his.By this time all were stol'n asideTo counsel and undress the bride;But that he must not know:But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,And did not mean to stay behindAbove an hour or so.
Sir John Suckling.
Who, or why, or which, orwhat,Is the Ahkond of Swat?Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat,The Ahkond of Swat?Is he wise or foolish, young or old?Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat, or a Cot,The Ahkond of Swat?When he writes a copy in round-hand size,Does he cross his t's and finish his i's with a Dot,The Ahkond of Swat?Can he write a letter concisely clear,Without a speck or a smudge or smear or a Blot,The Ahkond of Swat?Do his people like him extremely well?Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or Plot,At the Ahkond of Swat?If he catches them then, either old or young,Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or Shot,The Ahkond of Swat?Do his people prig in the lanes or park?Or even at times, when days are dark, Garotte?Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?Does he study the wants of his own dominion?Or doesn't he care for public opinion a Jot,The Ahkond of Swat?To amuse his mind do his people show himPictures, or any one's last new poem, or What,For the Ahkond of Swat?At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a Lot,For the Ahkond of Swat?Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe or a Dot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he like to lie on his back in a boatLike the lady who lived in that isle remote, Shalott.The Ahkond of Swat?Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a Scot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a Grott,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a Pot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or Rot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a Knot,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or Not,The Ahkond of Swat?Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a Yacht,The Ahkond of Swat?Some one, or nobody knows I wotWho or which or why or whatIs the Ahkond of Swat!
Edward Lear.
"The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."—London Papers of Jan. 22, 1878.
What, what, what,What's the news from Swat?Sad news,Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean—he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!For the Ahkoond I mourn,Who wouldn't?He strove to disregard the message stern,But he Ahkoodn't.Dead, dead, dead:(Sorrow, Swats!)Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,Swats whom he hath often ledOnward to a gory bed,Or to victory,As the case might be.Sorrow, Swats!Tears shed,Shed tears like water.Your great Ahkoond is dead!That Swats the matter!Mourn, city of Swat,Your great Ahkoond is not,But laid 'mid worms to rot.His mortal part alone, his soul was caught(Because he was a good Ahkoond)Up to the bosom of Mahound.Though earthly walls his frame surround(Forever hallowed by the ground!)And skeptics mock the lowly moundAnd say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"His soul is in the skies—The azure skies that bend above his lovedMetropolis of Swat.He sees with larger, other eyes,Athwart all earthly mysteries—He knows what's Swat.Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith a noise of mourning and of lamentation!Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!Fallen is at lengthIts tower of strength;Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;Dead lies the great Ahkoond,The great Ahkoond of SwatIs not!
George Thomas Lanigan.
I
Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spotKotal—though where or whatOn earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot;Further than this indeed he knoweth not—It borders upon Swat!
II
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,But in battal-Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now liesUpon Kotal,On sad Kotal whose people ululateFor their loved Moolla late.Put away his little turban,And his narghileh embrowned,The lord of Kotal—rural urban—'S gone unto his last Akhoond,'S gone to meet his rival Swattan,'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.
III
His rival, but in what?Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of SwatKotal's lamented Moolla late,As it were, emulate?Was it in the tented fieldWith crash of sword on shield,While backward meaner champions reeledAnd loud the tom-tom pealed?Did they barter gash for scarWith the Persian scimetarOr the Afghanistee tulwar,While loud the tom-tom pealed—While loud the tom-tom pealed,And the jim-jam squealed,And champions less well heeledTheir war-horses wheeledAnd fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field?Was Kotal's proud citadel—Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned,Beaten down with shot and shellBy the guns of the Akhoond?Or were wails despairing caught, asThe burghers pale of SwatCried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas?"—Or what?Or made each in the cabinet his markKotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?Did they explain and render hazierThe policies of Central Asia?Did they with speeches from the throne,Wars dynastic,Entents cordiales,Between Swat and Kotal;Holy alliances,And other appliancesOf statesmen with morals and consciences plasticCome by much more than their own?Made they mots, as "There to-day isNo more Himalayehs,"Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day areNo more Himalaya?"Or, said the Akhoond, "Sah,L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?"Khabu, did there come great fearOn thy Khabuldozed AmeerAli Shere?Or did the Khan of farKashgarTremble at the menace hotOf the Moolla of Kotal,"I will extirpate thee, palOf my foe the Akhoond of Swat?"Who knowsOf Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes,And in their deaths not very much divided?If any one knows it,Let him disclose it!
George Thomas Lanigan.