THE QUARREL.When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun.No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it funTo have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way,Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by dayHe proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean,Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seenA person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart,And since he is—well, what he is—'tis better that they should part.Now, no man enjoys this performance—he has his faults, well and good,He doesn't want to hear them named—this ought to be understood.Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgotTo bring some flowers I'd promised—as though it mattered a lot;But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive,But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live.A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth!For Mary got in a temper—I did the same, of a truth.I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind—But answered back in a manner that left me away behind.It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days,Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways.And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white,Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight,Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above,Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun.Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done.The voice of my brother waked me, crying, "Quickly arise and come;Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!"'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek,The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speakSome of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest,Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, "Jim, who do you love the best?"But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own,And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone.And it came to me I could never—never, since Mary was dead—Say, "Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said."Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and the brightness take their place,Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.Not a fault could I remember—she'd been perfect all her days,With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways.Dead—dead in her fresh young beauty—oh, I had an anguished heartAt thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way,'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a dayWhen one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake,The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break.It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said—The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead.We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know,But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below."Mary," I whispered, "my Mary, no flowers to you I gave,But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave."A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head,And I awoke, awoke, awoke—I'ddreamedthat Mary was dead!I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud.There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud,But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears—Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years.I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forgetThat dream in the blossoming orchard—I hear of it often yet.If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: "Oh, you're going to saveYour roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?"And if I lose my temper—a common weakness of men—The sweetest voice in the world says: "You'll have to get dreaming again."
When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun.No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it funTo have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way,Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by dayHe proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean,Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seenA person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart,And since he is—well, what he is—'tis better that they should part.
Now, no man enjoys this performance—he has his faults, well and good,He doesn't want to hear them named—this ought to be understood.Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgotTo bring some flowers I'd promised—as though it mattered a lot;But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive,But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live.
A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth!For Mary got in a temper—I did the same, of a truth.I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind—But answered back in a manner that left me away behind.
It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days,Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways.And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white,Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight,Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above,Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun.Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done.The voice of my brother waked me, crying, "Quickly arise and come;Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!"
'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek,The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speakSome of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest,Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, "Jim, who do you love the best?"
But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own,And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone.And it came to me I could never—never, since Mary was dead—Say, "Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said."Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and the brightness take their place,Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.Not a fault could I remember—she'd been perfect all her days,With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways.Dead—dead in her fresh young beauty—oh, I had an anguished heartAt thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!
When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way,'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a dayWhen one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake,The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break.It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said—The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead.We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know,But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below."Mary," I whispered, "my Mary, no flowers to you I gave,But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave."A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head,And I awoke, awoke, awoke—I'ddreamedthat Mary was dead!I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud.There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud,But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears—Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years.I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forgetThat dream in the blossoming orchard—I hear of it often yet.If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: "Oh, you're going to saveYour roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?"
And if I lose my temper—a common weakness of men—The sweetest voice in the world says: "You'll have to get dreaming again."
IN SUNFLOWER TIME.In the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John,With only the sunflowers looking on.A farmhouse kitchen is scarce the placeFor knight or lady of courtly grace.But this is just an everyday pairThat hold the kitchen this morning fair.A saucy, persistent thorn-tree limbHad sacrificed a part of the brimOf the youth's straw hat. His face was brown,And his well-shaped forehead wore a frown.His boots were splashed with mud and clayFrom marshland pasture over the way.Where alderbushes and spicewood grew,And frogs croaked noisily all night through.'Neath muslin curtains, snowy and thin,The homely sunflowers nodded in.Nan was a picture. Her muslin gownHad maybe a bit old-fashioned grown.But fitted the slender shape so well.In its low-cut neck the soft lace fell.Sleeves, it had none from the elbows down;In length—well, you see, the maid had grown.A labor of love her homely task—To share it none need hope nor ask,For Nan was washing each trace of dirtFrom fluted bodice and ruffled skirt.Now, few that will, and fewer that can,Bend over a tub like pretty Nan.The frail soap bubbles sailed high in airAs she drew each piece from frothy lair,And rubbed with cruel yet tender handAs only a woman could, understand.Then wrung with twist of the wrist so strong,Examined with care, shook well and long,Flung in clear water to lie in state—Each dainty piece met the same hard fate."'Tis done!" with a look of conscious prideAt the rinsing bucket deep and wide.Wiping the suds from each rounded arm,She turned to John with a smile so warm:"I've kept you waiting—excuse me, please,The soapsuds ruin such goods as these.""You're over fond of finery, Nan,Dresses and furbelows," he began."Maybe I am, of a truth," she said.Each sunflower nodded its yellow head."Ned Brown's growing rich"—John's words came slow—"That he loves you well you doubtless know."My house and acres, I held them fast,Was stubborn over them to the last,"For when my father was carried forth,And men were asking 'What was he worth?'"I saw them look and nod and smileAs they whispered together all the while,"'A fine old homestead, but mortgaged so,A foolish thing for a man to do!'"I said, 'My father's dead and gone,But he's left behind a strong-armed son.'"My heart was hot with a purpose setTo clear that mortgage, to pay that debt."I've worked, heaven knows, like any slave,I've learned the lesson of scrimp and save,"Kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown—And I've not a dollar to call my own."I'm beaten—well beaten; yesterdayEverything went to Ned Brown from me."My woods, my meadows, my tasseled corn,The orchard planted when I was born,"The old rose garden my mother loved,My chestnut mare—can't help feeling moved,"For I'm a beggar, Nan, you see—Don't think me begging for sympathy."The world is wide, I don't care—much.Thank God, health's a thing the law can't touch."The happiest man I ever knewWas born a beggar, and died one, too."Each sunflower, nodding its yellow head,Listened to every word that was said,As Nan in her slow and easy way,In the farmhouse kitchen that summer day,Set a great and weighty problem forth,One that no scholar on this green earthHas been able to solve since things beganWith Adam—a lone and lonesome man.Yet very coolly she set it forth:"Tell me the truth, how much amIworth?"The sunbeams kissing her golden hair,Her cheeks, her round arms dimpled and bare,Seemed stamping value of mighty wealthOn youth, and love, and the bloom of health.John looked and looked till his eyes grew dim,Then tilted the hat with worthless brim.To hide what he would not have her see—"You are worth the whole world, Nan," said he."Then you're no beggar," said sweet, bold Nan,"You're the whole world richer than any man."A girl queen wearing a crown of goldSet a precedent, the tale is told,But no royal prince this world has seenEver felt so proud as John, I ween,As he clasped her hands in new-born hope—And never noticed they smelt of soap.Only the sunflowers looking on,So he kissed the maid—oh, foolish John!As he went out through the garden gateNed Brown was coming to learn his fate.He was riding John's own chestnut mare,But, somehow, John didn't seem to care.The two men met at top of the hill,And eyed each other as rivals will.Ned thought of the home he'd won from John,"Poor beggar!" he said, as he rode on.John thought of all he had won from Ned,"You poor, poor beggar!" was what he said.Why? Under the heavens clear and blueOnly our John and the sunflowers knew.
In the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John,With only the sunflowers looking on.
A farmhouse kitchen is scarce the placeFor knight or lady of courtly grace.
But this is just an everyday pairThat hold the kitchen this morning fair.
A saucy, persistent thorn-tree limbHad sacrificed a part of the brim
Of the youth's straw hat. His face was brown,And his well-shaped forehead wore a frown.
His boots were splashed with mud and clayFrom marshland pasture over the way.
Where alderbushes and spicewood grew,And frogs croaked noisily all night through.
'Neath muslin curtains, snowy and thin,The homely sunflowers nodded in.
Nan was a picture. Her muslin gownHad maybe a bit old-fashioned grown.
But fitted the slender shape so well.In its low-cut neck the soft lace fell.
Sleeves, it had none from the elbows down;In length—well, you see, the maid had grown.
A labor of love her homely task—To share it none need hope nor ask,
For Nan was washing each trace of dirtFrom fluted bodice and ruffled skirt.
Now, few that will, and fewer that can,Bend over a tub like pretty Nan.
The frail soap bubbles sailed high in airAs she drew each piece from frothy lair,
And rubbed with cruel yet tender handAs only a woman could, understand.
Then wrung with twist of the wrist so strong,Examined with care, shook well and long,
Flung in clear water to lie in state—Each dainty piece met the same hard fate.
"'Tis done!" with a look of conscious prideAt the rinsing bucket deep and wide.
Wiping the suds from each rounded arm,She turned to John with a smile so warm:
"I've kept you waiting—excuse me, please,The soapsuds ruin such goods as these."
"You're over fond of finery, Nan,Dresses and furbelows," he began.
"Maybe I am, of a truth," she said.Each sunflower nodded its yellow head.
"Ned Brown's growing rich"—John's words came slow—"That he loves you well you doubtless know.
"My house and acres, I held them fast,Was stubborn over them to the last,
"For when my father was carried forth,And men were asking 'What was he worth?'
"I saw them look and nod and smileAs they whispered together all the while,
"'A fine old homestead, but mortgaged so,A foolish thing for a man to do!'
"I said, 'My father's dead and gone,But he's left behind a strong-armed son.'
"My heart was hot with a purpose setTo clear that mortgage, to pay that debt.
"I've worked, heaven knows, like any slave,I've learned the lesson of scrimp and save,
"Kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown—And I've not a dollar to call my own.
"I'm beaten—well beaten; yesterdayEverything went to Ned Brown from me.
"My woods, my meadows, my tasseled corn,The orchard planted when I was born,
"The old rose garden my mother loved,My chestnut mare—can't help feeling moved,
"For I'm a beggar, Nan, you see—Don't think me begging for sympathy.
"The world is wide, I don't care—much.Thank God, health's a thing the law can't touch.
"The happiest man I ever knewWas born a beggar, and died one, too."
Each sunflower, nodding its yellow head,Listened to every word that was said,
As Nan in her slow and easy way,In the farmhouse kitchen that summer day,
Set a great and weighty problem forth,One that no scholar on this green earth
Has been able to solve since things beganWith Adam—a lone and lonesome man.
Yet very coolly she set it forth:"Tell me the truth, how much amIworth?"
The sunbeams kissing her golden hair,Her cheeks, her round arms dimpled and bare,
Seemed stamping value of mighty wealthOn youth, and love, and the bloom of health.
John looked and looked till his eyes grew dim,Then tilted the hat with worthless brim.
To hide what he would not have her see—"You are worth the whole world, Nan," said he.
"Then you're no beggar," said sweet, bold Nan,"You're the whole world richer than any man."
A girl queen wearing a crown of goldSet a precedent, the tale is told,
But no royal prince this world has seenEver felt so proud as John, I ween,
As he clasped her hands in new-born hope—And never noticed they smelt of soap.
Only the sunflowers looking on,So he kissed the maid—oh, foolish John!
As he went out through the garden gateNed Brown was coming to learn his fate.
He was riding John's own chestnut mare,But, somehow, John didn't seem to care.
The two men met at top of the hill,And eyed each other as rivals will.
Ned thought of the home he'd won from John,"Poor beggar!" he said, as he rode on.
John thought of all he had won from Ned,"You poor, poor beggar!" was what he said.
Why? Under the heavens clear and blueOnly our John and the sunflowers knew.
THE WOOING O' KATIE.McLeod of Dare called his son to him.McLeod of Dare looked stern and grim,For he was sending on mission graveHis son, and though he knew him braveThe old man trembled lest he should makeIn heedless youth a grave mistake.'Twas not for the country, nor for the king,Nay, 'twas a more important thingThan country, or clan, or feud, or strife,The young man went to woo a wife.He listened, did Neil, with scanty grace,Haughty gloom on his handsome face,While the old man told him where to go,And what to say, and what to do."The morrow ye'll go for a lang, lang stayWi' your rich uncle, Donald Gray."He'll gie ye a welcome wairm and true,And mate his only child wi' you."She's weel worth winning, for in her handShe hauds the deed o' a' his land."She's far frae haun'some—a homely lass,As you will see—but let that pass.""Why should I wed a woman that's plain?You didn't yourself." McLeod was vain.He smiled and he smirked, "Ah, true, Neil, true,But I was haun'somer nor you."Juist coort this cousin, and never mindSquint or freckle, since luve is blind—"Or ought tae be in sic case as this—'Tis no a chance I'd hae ye miss."Jane's na sae braw as her cousin Kate,But 'tis wi' Jane I'd hae ye mate;"For Kate, poor lassie, she hasna land—Her face is her fortune, understand."Gie her guid day when ye chance tae meet,But Jane, remember, your fain tae greet"Wi' warmer words, and a gallant air.Go, win a wife—and a warld o' care!"Neil listened closest to what was saidOf Kate, the poor but pretty maid.And when he reached his good uncle's place'Twas Kate that in his eyes found grace,The while Jane simpered with conscious pride,As if to say: "Behold your bride!"In this home he dwelt for many a day,A favorite, he, of Donald Gray.They walked together over the hill,Or through the valleys solemn and still,And the old man showed him acres wideThat would be Jane's dower as a bride,Then spoke of the cousin, poor but fair,Her eyes of blue and her golden hair."She'll hae na flocks, and she'll hae na laund,She'll hae na fortune rich and graund,"But gin she stood in her scanty dress,Would man o' mettle luve her less?The lad's heart warmed to the logic old.What worth has land? What worth has gold?Compared with the light in Katie's eyes,What worth was aught beneath the skies?Jane courted briskly day by day,If he walked out she walked his way.Did he sit him down to rest awhile,She looked his way with tender smile.Did he try to get a word with Kate,Jane was there like the hand of fate.One day it chanced, as he rode to mill,He met with Kate just under the hill.Would she mount beside him, ride along?Yes, if he felt 'twould not be wrong.He helped her up with a trembling arm;Surely the day is close and warm.Whoa, mare! steady! there's no need for hasteWith two soft arms about his waist.Neil—shame on him!—pressed Kate's finger-tips,Then turned about and pressed her lips.All over the road the blossoms whiteScattered themselves in sheer delight.A bird flew singing a tender rhymeOf meadow, mate, and nesting time.The world looked beautiful in the glowThat heaven flung on the hills below.Ah me, if that ride could but last a week,Her gold hair blowing against his cheek!The road to the mill, says worldly wise—Nay, nay, the road to Paradise!Travel it once if you wish to knowSomething of heaven here below.Though your eyes grow dim, and locks grow white,You'll not forget this journey—quite.But Neil must go to the old home place,Meet his stern father face to face.Altho' his cheek was a trifle pale,Boldly enough he told his tale.He would marry Kate—and Kate alone—He could not love the other one.Her eyes were crooked, her hair was red,Freckles over her face were spread,And the whole world held no lass for himBut Kate. Then laughed the old man grim."Your mither, she was a stubborn lass,Self-willed, handsome—but let that pass."In a' oor battles 'twas she who won,And Neil, you're juist your mither's son."But I hae na lived these mony daysWi'oot walking in wisdom's ways."I saw your Kate, and like't her weel—In luiks she's like your mither, Neil;"The same blue een, and the same gowd hair—But no sae fair, Neil, no sae fair."I tou'd your uncle to let Kate beThe lassie poor, o' low degree,"And gie ye at once to understand'Twas Jane who owned baith flocks and land."Why gie mysel' sic a senseless task?I wunner, lad, ye've hairt tae ask."Gin ye was driven ye wouldna' move,Too stubborn to even fa' in luve!"Like a' the Campbells, ye'll hae your way—Your mither has hers every day."'Tis prood ye should be, upon my word,Tak' time to yoursel' and thank the LordFor plans that gat ye a bonny bride—An' heaps o' wardly gear beside."Ah! thankful enough was Neil that day—Joy flashed in his eager eyes of gray.'Twas not for the land, not for the gold,Not for the flocks that slept in fold,Not for the wealth—the worldly gear—But something wonderful, sweet and dear."Thank heaven," he cried, with a glow and thrill,"Thank heaven for the day I rode to mill!"
McLeod of Dare called his son to him.McLeod of Dare looked stern and grim,
For he was sending on mission graveHis son, and though he knew him brave
The old man trembled lest he should makeIn heedless youth a grave mistake.
'Twas not for the country, nor for the king,Nay, 'twas a more important thing
Than country, or clan, or feud, or strife,The young man went to woo a wife.
He listened, did Neil, with scanty grace,Haughty gloom on his handsome face,
While the old man told him where to go,And what to say, and what to do.
"The morrow ye'll go for a lang, lang stayWi' your rich uncle, Donald Gray.
"He'll gie ye a welcome wairm and true,And mate his only child wi' you.
"She's weel worth winning, for in her handShe hauds the deed o' a' his land.
"She's far frae haun'some—a homely lass,As you will see—but let that pass."
"Why should I wed a woman that's plain?You didn't yourself." McLeod was vain.
He smiled and he smirked, "Ah, true, Neil, true,But I was haun'somer nor you.
"Juist coort this cousin, and never mindSquint or freckle, since luve is blind—
"Or ought tae be in sic case as this—'Tis no a chance I'd hae ye miss.
"Jane's na sae braw as her cousin Kate,But 'tis wi' Jane I'd hae ye mate;
"For Kate, poor lassie, she hasna land—Her face is her fortune, understand.
"Gie her guid day when ye chance tae meet,But Jane, remember, your fain tae greet
"Wi' warmer words, and a gallant air.Go, win a wife—and a warld o' care!"
Neil listened closest to what was saidOf Kate, the poor but pretty maid.
And when he reached his good uncle's place'Twas Kate that in his eyes found grace,
The while Jane simpered with conscious pride,As if to say: "Behold your bride!"
In this home he dwelt for many a day,A favorite, he, of Donald Gray.
They walked together over the hill,Or through the valleys solemn and still,
And the old man showed him acres wideThat would be Jane's dower as a bride,
Then spoke of the cousin, poor but fair,Her eyes of blue and her golden hair.
"She'll hae na flocks, and she'll hae na laund,She'll hae na fortune rich and graund,
"But gin she stood in her scanty dress,Would man o' mettle luve her less?
The lad's heart warmed to the logic old.What worth has land? What worth has gold?
Compared with the light in Katie's eyes,What worth was aught beneath the skies?
Jane courted briskly day by day,If he walked out she walked his way.
Did he sit him down to rest awhile,She looked his way with tender smile.
Did he try to get a word with Kate,Jane was there like the hand of fate.
One day it chanced, as he rode to mill,He met with Kate just under the hill.
Would she mount beside him, ride along?Yes, if he felt 'twould not be wrong.
He helped her up with a trembling arm;Surely the day is close and warm.
Whoa, mare! steady! there's no need for hasteWith two soft arms about his waist.
Neil—shame on him!—pressed Kate's finger-tips,Then turned about and pressed her lips.
All over the road the blossoms whiteScattered themselves in sheer delight.
A bird flew singing a tender rhymeOf meadow, mate, and nesting time.
The world looked beautiful in the glowThat heaven flung on the hills below.
Ah me, if that ride could but last a week,Her gold hair blowing against his cheek!
The road to the mill, says worldly wise—Nay, nay, the road to Paradise!
Travel it once if you wish to knowSomething of heaven here below.
Though your eyes grow dim, and locks grow white,You'll not forget this journey—quite.
But Neil must go to the old home place,Meet his stern father face to face.
Altho' his cheek was a trifle pale,Boldly enough he told his tale.
He would marry Kate—and Kate alone—He could not love the other one.
Her eyes were crooked, her hair was red,Freckles over her face were spread,
And the whole world held no lass for himBut Kate. Then laughed the old man grim.
"Your mither, she was a stubborn lass,Self-willed, handsome—but let that pass.
"In a' oor battles 'twas she who won,And Neil, you're juist your mither's son.
"But I hae na lived these mony daysWi'oot walking in wisdom's ways.
"I saw your Kate, and like't her weel—In luiks she's like your mither, Neil;
"The same blue een, and the same gowd hair—But no sae fair, Neil, no sae fair.
"I tou'd your uncle to let Kate beThe lassie poor, o' low degree,
"And gie ye at once to understand'Twas Jane who owned baith flocks and land.
"Why gie mysel' sic a senseless task?I wunner, lad, ye've hairt tae ask.
"Gin ye was driven ye wouldna' move,Too stubborn to even fa' in luve!
"Like a' the Campbells, ye'll hae your way—Your mither has hers every day.
"'Tis prood ye should be, upon my word,Tak' time to yoursel' and thank the Lord
For plans that gat ye a bonny bride—An' heaps o' wardly gear beside."
Ah! thankful enough was Neil that day—Joy flashed in his eager eyes of gray.
'Twas not for the land, not for the gold,Not for the flocks that slept in fold,
Not for the wealth—the worldly gear—But something wonderful, sweet and dear.
"Thank heaven," he cried, with a glow and thrill,"Thank heaven for the day I rode to mill!"
THE OLD MAN'S VISIT.Joe lives on the farm, and Sam lives in the city,I haven't a daughter at all—more's the pity,For girls, to my mind, are much nicer and neater;Not such workers as boys, but cuter and sweeter.Sam has prospered in town, has riches a-plenty,Big house, fine library—books written by Henty,And Kipling, and Cooper, and all those big writers—Swell pictures and busts of great heroes and fighters.His home is a fine one from cellar to garret,But not to my notion—in fact, I can't bear it.I'm not hard to please, but of all things provokingIs a woman around who sniffs when you're smoking.Last springtime Sam said: "Now, Father, how is itI can't coax you oftener up on a visit?"I couldn't think up any plausible reason,So off I went with him to stop for a season.Sam said with a laugh as we stepped from the ferry,"You won't mind my wife; she's particular, very."It wasn't like home, that house in the city,Our Sam took his fun at the club—more's the pity.It is in his own house, when he has the leisure,A man should find comfort and freedom and pleasure.It wasn't so bad for me in the daytime,Sam took me all over and made it a playtime;But evenings were awful—we sat there so proper,While Sam's wife, if nobody came in to stop her,Read history to us, or, column by column,A housekeeping journal, or other dry volume.I used to wish someone would give me a prodding,My eyes would go shut and head fall a-nodding.She's an awful good housewife, nothing gets musty,Or littered about, or untidy, or dusty;But a little disorder never did fret me,And these perfect women they always upset me.I can stand her dusting, her shining, her poking,But wilt like a leaf when she sniffs when I'm smoking.I got so blamed homesick I couldn't be jolly;I wanted our Joe, and his little wife, Molly,My old corner at home, and all the old places;I wanted the youngsters—who cared if their facesWere smeared up a trifle? I didn't, a penny.Molly tends to 'em, though she has so many.I was tickled to death when I got a letterFrom Joe, which ran: "Dear Dad, I think you had betterGet back to the farm in pretty short order.Molly's papered your room and put on a border;The baby, she says, has two new teeth to show you—If you don't hustle back the dear thing won't know you.She says to inform you that Bob, Sue, and MaryAre good as can be, but your namesake's contrary,Wants granddaddy's story, and granddaddy's ditty—And granddaddy off on a trot to the city."I packed my belongings. They tried to dissuade me—Sam's wife said so proper: "I'm really afraid weHave not succeeded in our entertaining.""Oh, yes!" said I—some things won't stand much explaining.She really meant well, but of all things provokingIs a woman so perfect she sniffs when you're smoking.I was glad to get home; it made me quite sillyTo hear the loud whinny of Starling and Billy;And here was the farm with its orchards and meadows,The big maple trees all throwing their shadows,The stubble-fields yellow, the tall stacks of clover,The wag of the stub of a tail on old Rover.And here came dear Mary, her hat on her shoulder,With Sue trying hard to catch her and hold her;Here came Tommy and Joe, always foot in their classes,And Bob, with his features all crumbs and molasses,Carrying a basin with fishworms and dirt in—Oh, that scalawag, Bob, I'm morally certainIs a chip of the old block—it just seemed to strike meThey'd named the boy rightly, for he was so like me—All laughing and calling: "Here's grandpa to play with!"And Bob supplementing: "And sleep 'ith andstay'ith!"And then such a hugging, with Molly behind me,The tears came so fast that they threatened to blind me.My heart overflowed with sorrow and pityFor the boy I had left back there in the city.His lot is a hard one—indeed, I'm not joking—He lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking.The supper we had, sir, and when it was overThe walk round the homestead close followed by Rover,Who's most like a human. You'd fancy him saying:"See those stacks? Oh, yes, we have finished the haying!That colt should be broken. Old friend, I'd just mentionThis farm stands in need of our closest attention."And when, the lamp lighted, with Mary's beside me,The boys at my feet, and Bob up astride me,I felt like a king—I really can't write it—Molly must take my pipe and fill it and light it,Then plump herself down in her own little rockerFor a visit with me. Oh, she is a talkerWorth the listening to. The threshing was over,Joe had got ten dollars a ton for the clover,Deacon Hope had had a sharp tiff with the preacherOver immersion, and the pretty school-teacherIntended to marry—resigned her position.Yes, most of the church folks had signed the petitionAgainst granting a license to Baker's saloon,The Thanksgiving service would be coming on soon,The neighbors were hearty, had every one missed me—Right here Molly stood on her tip-toes and kissed me.Sho! Sam's wife is handsome and cultured and clever,But she's not the woman that Molly is—never.Molly's smile is so kind, and her hair is so glossy,Her brown eyes look at you so sweet and so saucy!Yes, Joe's richer than Sam, though Joe's but a farmer,For his home atmosphere is brighter and warmer.Sam has lots of money, there's no use denying;Has made himself wealthy, and that without trying;But what chance has a man—indeed, I'm not joking—Who lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking!
Joe lives on the farm, and Sam lives in the city,I haven't a daughter at all—more's the pity,For girls, to my mind, are much nicer and neater;Not such workers as boys, but cuter and sweeter.Sam has prospered in town, has riches a-plenty,Big house, fine library—books written by Henty,And Kipling, and Cooper, and all those big writers—Swell pictures and busts of great heroes and fighters.His home is a fine one from cellar to garret,But not to my notion—in fact, I can't bear it.I'm not hard to please, but of all things provokingIs a woman around who sniffs when you're smoking.
Last springtime Sam said: "Now, Father, how is itI can't coax you oftener up on a visit?"I couldn't think up any plausible reason,So off I went with him to stop for a season.Sam said with a laugh as we stepped from the ferry,"You won't mind my wife; she's particular, very."It wasn't like home, that house in the city,Our Sam took his fun at the club—more's the pity.
It is in his own house, when he has the leisure,A man should find comfort and freedom and pleasure.It wasn't so bad for me in the daytime,Sam took me all over and made it a playtime;But evenings were awful—we sat there so proper,While Sam's wife, if nobody came in to stop her,Read history to us, or, column by column,A housekeeping journal, or other dry volume.I used to wish someone would give me a prodding,My eyes would go shut and head fall a-nodding.She's an awful good housewife, nothing gets musty,Or littered about, or untidy, or dusty;But a little disorder never did fret me,And these perfect women they always upset me.I can stand her dusting, her shining, her poking,But wilt like a leaf when she sniffs when I'm smoking.
I got so blamed homesick I couldn't be jolly;I wanted our Joe, and his little wife, Molly,My old corner at home, and all the old places;I wanted the youngsters—who cared if their facesWere smeared up a trifle? I didn't, a penny.Molly tends to 'em, though she has so many.I was tickled to death when I got a letterFrom Joe, which ran: "Dear Dad, I think you had betterGet back to the farm in pretty short order.Molly's papered your room and put on a border;The baby, she says, has two new teeth to show you—If you don't hustle back the dear thing won't know you.She says to inform you that Bob, Sue, and MaryAre good as can be, but your namesake's contrary,Wants granddaddy's story, and granddaddy's ditty—And granddaddy off on a trot to the city."I packed my belongings. They tried to dissuade me—Sam's wife said so proper: "I'm really afraid weHave not succeeded in our entertaining.""Oh, yes!" said I—some things won't stand much explaining.She really meant well, but of all things provokingIs a woman so perfect she sniffs when you're smoking.
I was glad to get home; it made me quite sillyTo hear the loud whinny of Starling and Billy;And here was the farm with its orchards and meadows,The big maple trees all throwing their shadows,The stubble-fields yellow, the tall stacks of clover,The wag of the stub of a tail on old Rover.And here came dear Mary, her hat on her shoulder,With Sue trying hard to catch her and hold her;Here came Tommy and Joe, always foot in their classes,And Bob, with his features all crumbs and molasses,Carrying a basin with fishworms and dirt in—Oh, that scalawag, Bob, I'm morally certainIs a chip of the old block—it just seemed to strike meThey'd named the boy rightly, for he was so like me—All laughing and calling: "Here's grandpa to play with!"And Bob supplementing: "And sleep 'ith andstay'ith!"And then such a hugging, with Molly behind me,The tears came so fast that they threatened to blind me.My heart overflowed with sorrow and pityFor the boy I had left back there in the city.His lot is a hard one—indeed, I'm not joking—He lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking.
The supper we had, sir, and when it was overThe walk round the homestead close followed by Rover,Who's most like a human. You'd fancy him saying:"See those stacks? Oh, yes, we have finished the haying!That colt should be broken. Old friend, I'd just mentionThis farm stands in need of our closest attention."And when, the lamp lighted, with Mary's beside me,The boys at my feet, and Bob up astride me,I felt like a king—I really can't write it—Molly must take my pipe and fill it and light it,Then plump herself down in her own little rockerFor a visit with me. Oh, she is a talkerWorth the listening to. The threshing was over,Joe had got ten dollars a ton for the clover,Deacon Hope had had a sharp tiff with the preacherOver immersion, and the pretty school-teacherIntended to marry—resigned her position.Yes, most of the church folks had signed the petitionAgainst granting a license to Baker's saloon,The Thanksgiving service would be coming on soon,The neighbors were hearty, had every one missed me—Right here Molly stood on her tip-toes and kissed me.Sho! Sam's wife is handsome and cultured and clever,But she's not the woman that Molly is—never.Molly's smile is so kind, and her hair is so glossy,Her brown eyes look at you so sweet and so saucy!Yes, Joe's richer than Sam, though Joe's but a farmer,For his home atmosphere is brighter and warmer.Sam has lots of money, there's no use denying;Has made himself wealthy, and that without trying;But what chance has a man—indeed, I'm not joking—Who lives with a woman who sniffs when he's smoking!
JACK.Jack's dead an' buried; it seems odd,A deep hole covered up with sodLyin' out there on the hill,An' Jack, as never could keep still,A sleepin' in it. Jack could race,And do it at a good old pace,Could sing a song, an' laugh so hardThat I could hear him in our yardWhen he was half a mile away.Why, not another boy could playLike him, or run, or jump so high,Or swim, no matter how he'd try;An' I can't get it through my headAt all, at all, that Jack is dead.Jack's mother didn't use to beSo awful good to him and me,For often when I'd go down thereOn Saturdays, when it was fair,To get him out to fish or skate,She'd catch me hangin' round the gateAnd look as cross as some old hen,An' tell me, "Go off home again.It's not the thing for boys," she'd say,"A hangin' round the creek all day;You go off home and do your task—No, Jack can't go, you needn't ask."And when he got in scrapes, why, sheWould up and lay it on to me,An' wish I lived so far awayJack couldn't see me every day.But last night when I'd done the choresIt seemed so queer-like out of doors,I kept a listenin' all the while,An' looking down the street a mile;I couldn't bear to go inside,The house is lonesome since he died.The robber book we read by turnsIs lyin' there—an' no boy learnsAll by himself, 'cause he can't tellHow many words he'll miss or spell,Unless there's some one lookin' onTo laugh at him when he gets done.An' neighbor women's sure to comeA visitin' a feller's home,An' talkin', when they look at me,'Bout how thick us two used to be,A stealin' off from school, an' such,An' askin' do I miss him much,'Till I sneak off out doors—you see,They just can't let a feller be!Well, I walked down the road a bit.Smith's dog came out. I throwed at it,An', do you know, it never howledSame as it always did, or growled;It seemed to say, "Why, Jim's alone!I wonder where's that other one?"Afore I knew it I was down'Way at the other end of town,A hangin' round in the old wayFor someone to come out and play.There wasn't no one there to look,So I slipped into our old nook.I found his knife down in the grassWhere we'd been Zulus at the pass.The can of bait, the hook and lineWere lyin' with the ball of twine,An' "Jim," I seemed to hear him say,"The fish will suffer some to-day."'Twas more than I could stand just then;I got up to go off home, whenSomeone kissed me on the cheek,An' hugged me so I couldn't speak.You wouldn't believe it, like as not,But 'twas Jack's mother, an' a lotOf great big tears came stealin' downRight on my face. She didn't frownA single bit—kept sayin' low,"My blue-eyed boy, I loved you so!"Of course, I knew just right awayThat she meant Jack. My eyes are gray,But Jack, he had the bluest eyes,Blue like you see up in the skies,An' shine that used to come and go—One misses eyes like his, you know.An' by-an'-by she up an' triedTo tell me that she'd cried an' criedA thinkin' of the times that sheHad scolded Jack an' scolded me,An' other things that I won't tellTo anyone, because—Oh, well,Boys can't do much, but they can holdTight on to secrets till they're old.She's Jack's relation, that's why sheFeels kind of lovin' like to me.But when she called me her own lad,Oh, say, I felt just awful bad;My head it went round in a whirl—I up an' cried just like a girl.But say, if Jack could see us twoHe'd laugh a little, don't you know;For if I'd ever brag aroundThat I'd lick some one safe an' sound,He'd laugh an' say, "Jim, hold your jaw!You know you're scared to death of maw."Oh, I'd give all this world awayIf I could hear him laugh to-day!I get so lonesome, it's so still,An' him out sleepin' on that hill;There's nothin' seems just worth the whileA doin' up in the old style;'Cause everything we used to doSeemed allus just to need us two.My throat aches till I think 'twill crack—I don't know why—it must be Jack.There ain't no fun, there ain't no stir.His mother—well, it's hard on her,But she can knit an' sew, an' such—Oh, she can't miss him half as much!
Jack's dead an' buried; it seems odd,A deep hole covered up with sodLyin' out there on the hill,An' Jack, as never could keep still,A sleepin' in it. Jack could race,And do it at a good old pace,Could sing a song, an' laugh so hardThat I could hear him in our yardWhen he was half a mile away.Why, not another boy could playLike him, or run, or jump so high,Or swim, no matter how he'd try;An' I can't get it through my headAt all, at all, that Jack is dead.
Jack's mother didn't use to beSo awful good to him and me,For often when I'd go down thereOn Saturdays, when it was fair,To get him out to fish or skate,She'd catch me hangin' round the gateAnd look as cross as some old hen,An' tell me, "Go off home again.It's not the thing for boys," she'd say,"A hangin' round the creek all day;You go off home and do your task—No, Jack can't go, you needn't ask."And when he got in scrapes, why, sheWould up and lay it on to me,An' wish I lived so far awayJack couldn't see me every day.
But last night when I'd done the choresIt seemed so queer-like out of doors,I kept a listenin' all the while,An' looking down the street a mile;I couldn't bear to go inside,The house is lonesome since he died.The robber book we read by turnsIs lyin' there—an' no boy learnsAll by himself, 'cause he can't tellHow many words he'll miss or spell,Unless there's some one lookin' onTo laugh at him when he gets done.
An' neighbor women's sure to comeA visitin' a feller's home,An' talkin', when they look at me,'Bout how thick us two used to be,A stealin' off from school, an' such,An' askin' do I miss him much,'Till I sneak off out doors—you see,They just can't let a feller be!Well, I walked down the road a bit.Smith's dog came out. I throwed at it,An', do you know, it never howledSame as it always did, or growled;It seemed to say, "Why, Jim's alone!I wonder where's that other one?"
Afore I knew it I was down'Way at the other end of town,A hangin' round in the old wayFor someone to come out and play.There wasn't no one there to look,So I slipped into our old nook.I found his knife down in the grassWhere we'd been Zulus at the pass.The can of bait, the hook and lineWere lyin' with the ball of twine,An' "Jim," I seemed to hear him say,"The fish will suffer some to-day."
'Twas more than I could stand just then;I got up to go off home, whenSomeone kissed me on the cheek,An' hugged me so I couldn't speak.You wouldn't believe it, like as not,But 'twas Jack's mother, an' a lotOf great big tears came stealin' downRight on my face. She didn't frownA single bit—kept sayin' low,"My blue-eyed boy, I loved you so!"Of course, I knew just right awayThat she meant Jack. My eyes are gray,But Jack, he had the bluest eyes,Blue like you see up in the skies,An' shine that used to come and go—One misses eyes like his, you know.
An' by-an'-by she up an' triedTo tell me that she'd cried an' criedA thinkin' of the times that sheHad scolded Jack an' scolded me,An' other things that I won't tellTo anyone, because—Oh, well,Boys can't do much, but they can holdTight on to secrets till they're old.She's Jack's relation, that's why sheFeels kind of lovin' like to me.But when she called me her own lad,Oh, say, I felt just awful bad;My head it went round in a whirl—I up an' cried just like a girl.
But say, if Jack could see us twoHe'd laugh a little, don't you know;For if I'd ever brag aroundThat I'd lick some one safe an' sound,He'd laugh an' say, "Jim, hold your jaw!You know you're scared to death of maw."Oh, I'd give all this world awayIf I could hear him laugh to-day!I get so lonesome, it's so still,An' him out sleepin' on that hill;There's nothin' seems just worth the whileA doin' up in the old style;'Cause everything we used to doSeemed allus just to need us two.My throat aches till I think 'twill crack—I don't know why—it must be Jack.There ain't no fun, there ain't no stir.His mother—well, it's hard on her,But she can knit an' sew, an' such—Oh, she can't miss him half as much!
AT THE SICK CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL.A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes,A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise;I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek."I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak.My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate,And add up figures—such a lot, and play with all my might,Until I hurt my back—since then I just ache day and night.'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all;All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl."Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweetOf little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wallTo hide the tears. "Oh, me!" she cried, "I'm tired of it all.I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run aboutAs others do?" "Some day, please God, you will," I said, but doubtWas in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone."Perhaps," she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moanSmote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately comeFrom mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home."I wished I'd lived on earth," she sobbed, "a long, long time ago,When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so,And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well.If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tellAll that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say:'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away.I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run,And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun!Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me—so—And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go."I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest,So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best!But yesterday I saw her, and would have passed her byHad I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy."Can this be you?" I questioned. She laughed, "O yes, I thoughtYou'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot!For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all,And I can stand and I can walk—I never have to crawl.I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night.Just think of it! I raced and won," and then, in sheer delight,She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say,"Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?""They are so good to me," she said, "I know I'll want to cryWhen I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye.What if I hadn't come at all?"—the sweet blue eyes grew wet—"My back would ache and throb and hurt—I'd be a cripple yet.For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spareFor nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all—but won't they stareWhen I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be?My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me;My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray,While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say:'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months—five,'And hold me close—oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!"
A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes,A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise;I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek."I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak.My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate,And add up figures—such a lot, and play with all my might,Until I hurt my back—since then I just ache day and night.'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all;All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl."Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweetOf little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wallTo hide the tears. "Oh, me!" she cried, "I'm tired of it all.I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run aboutAs others do?" "Some day, please God, you will," I said, but doubtWas in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone."Perhaps," she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moanSmote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately comeFrom mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home."I wished I'd lived on earth," she sobbed, "a long, long time ago,When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so,And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well.If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tellAll that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say:'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away.I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run,And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun!Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me—so—And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go."I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest,So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best!But yesterday I saw her, and would have passed her byHad I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy."Can this be you?" I questioned. She laughed, "O yes, I thoughtYou'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot!For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all,And I can stand and I can walk—I never have to crawl.I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night.Just think of it! I raced and won," and then, in sheer delight,She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say,"Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?""They are so good to me," she said, "I know I'll want to cryWhen I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye.What if I hadn't come at all?"—the sweet blue eyes grew wet—"My back would ache and throb and hurt—I'd be a cripple yet.For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spareFor nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all—but won't they stareWhen I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be?My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me;My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray,While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say:'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months—five,'And hold me close—oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!"
CHRISTY AND THE PIPERS.'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes,But the other night I heard them;There are sweet old memories in my heart,And the music woke and stirred them.In the armories, at the big paradeThe highland regiment was giving,A half-dozen pipers piping away—Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living.Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me,And glowered with every feature,And a pretty young lassie just behindSaid: "Oh, what a funny old creature!"But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears,In my eyes, and made them misty;I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low:"Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy!""Do ye no see the elder sitting there?Dinna act sae daft, my wooman.Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syneWi'oot fashin' yersel' sae, wooman?"But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart,It got in my throat and choked me,It got in my feet, and tapped my toes,And my shame-faced Donald poked me."But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?""Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands,But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid"—He was not born in the highlands.Do you know what I saw as I sat there?I saw the hills and the heather,The green, and the lads and the lassies thereAll dancing the reels together.I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocksStanding guard like grim old watchmen.Oh, the land o' heather and hill and lochMust e'en be dear to a Scotchman.And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and braveTheir flag to the breeze unfurling,As they marched away on a morning fairTo the bagpipes' merry skirling.My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek,I could hear him proudly saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose—Braver men, you cannot find them—And few, so few, came marching homeTo the loved ones left behind them.'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm,With a stubborn foe before them;A soldier's grave in a far off land,And God's blue sky bending o'er them.As I hearkened to sweet old martial airsI could hear my brother saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."There are only harps in heaven, I'm told,And maybe I shouldn't say it,For a harp of gold's a wondrous thingIn a hand that's skilled to play it.But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's callThey heard morning, noon, and even,And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart,They will hear in the streets of heaven.They marched to the old belovèd airs'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle;'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.O a harp when an angel strikes the stringsIs softer and sweeter, but tryAs I will, I cannot fancy a harpIn the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.And were an angel to proffer him one,Methinks I can hear him saying:"'Twas not on an instrument like the sameThat Pete MacKay will be playing,"For she neffer set eyes on it before,Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer;She'd break the strings if she took it in hand,She couldn't do it, whateffer."So please be excusing old Pete MacKay—But hark! bring the chanter to me,I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"I told this to Donald late that night;He said, as he sipped his toddy,"Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?Yersel' is the doited body."And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?Ah, Christy, I'm that astoondedI'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye,For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."Well, if it is heresy to believeIn the promise of the Father,"Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,"I am heretical, rather.I believe when the last loud trump shall sound,The old flag again unfurling,My highland lads will come marching homeTo the bagpipes grandly skirling.
'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes,But the other night I heard them;There are sweet old memories in my heart,And the music woke and stirred them.
In the armories, at the big paradeThe highland regiment was giving,A half-dozen pipers piping away—Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living.
Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me,And glowered with every feature,And a pretty young lassie just behindSaid: "Oh, what a funny old creature!"
But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears,In my eyes, and made them misty;I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low:"Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy!"
"Do ye no see the elder sitting there?Dinna act sae daft, my wooman.Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syneWi'oot fashin' yersel' sae, wooman?"
But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart,It got in my throat and choked me,It got in my feet, and tapped my toes,And my shame-faced Donald poked me.
"But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?""Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands,But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid"—He was not born in the highlands.
Do you know what I saw as I sat there?I saw the hills and the heather,The green, and the lads and the lassies thereAll dancing the reels together.
I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocksStanding guard like grim old watchmen.Oh, the land o' heather and hill and lochMust e'en be dear to a Scotchman.
And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and braveTheir flag to the breeze unfurling,As they marched away on a morning fairTo the bagpipes' merry skirling.
My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek,I could hear him proudly saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."
Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose—Braver men, you cannot find them—And few, so few, came marching homeTo the loved ones left behind them.
'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm,With a stubborn foe before them;A soldier's grave in a far off land,And God's blue sky bending o'er them.
As I hearkened to sweet old martial airsI could hear my brother saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."
There are only harps in heaven, I'm told,And maybe I shouldn't say it,For a harp of gold's a wondrous thingIn a hand that's skilled to play it.
But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's callThey heard morning, noon, and even,And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart,They will hear in the streets of heaven.
They marched to the old belovèd airs'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle;'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.
O a harp when an angel strikes the stringsIs softer and sweeter, but tryAs I will, I cannot fancy a harpIn the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.
And were an angel to proffer him one,Methinks I can hear him saying:"'Twas not on an instrument like the sameThat Pete MacKay will be playing,
"For she neffer set eyes on it before,Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer;She'd break the strings if she took it in hand,She couldn't do it, whateffer.
"So please be excusing old Pete MacKay—But hark! bring the chanter to me,I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"
I told this to Donald late that night;He said, as he sipped his toddy,"Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?Yersel' is the doited body.
"And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?Ah, Christy, I'm that astoondedI'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye,For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."
Well, if it is heresy to believeIn the promise of the Father,"Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,"I am heretical, rather.
I believe when the last loud trump shall sound,The old flag again unfurling,My highland lads will come marching homeTo the bagpipes grandly skirling.