We played beside the little rillThat flows to larger river;We heard the mating mocking-birds trill,The robins piped upon the hill,And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver:Then she, we played, was little Jill,And I was Jack, her lover.But floating down the little streamToward the larger river,The rippling of the waves did seemThe fading music of a dream,For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver;And Jill forgot the hour supremeWhen I was Jack, her lover.
We played beside the little rillThat flows to larger river;We heard the mating mocking-birds trill,The robins piped upon the hill,And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver:Then she, we played, was little Jill,And I was Jack, her lover.But floating down the little streamToward the larger river,The rippling of the waves did seemThe fading music of a dream,For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver;And Jill forgot the hour supremeWhen I was Jack, her lover.
We played beside the little rillThat flows to larger river;We heard the mating mocking-birds trill,The robins piped upon the hill,And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver:Then she, we played, was little Jill,And I was Jack, her lover.
But floating down the little streamToward the larger river,The rippling of the waves did seemThe fading music of a dream,For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver;And Jill forgot the hour supremeWhen I was Jack, her lover.
O beauteous maid, my heart is thine;I lay its dearest offering at thy feet;I burn its sweetest incense on thy shrine,For thou, sweet maid, art all divine,For worship thou art meet.Let those who never felt the glowThat summer suns have spread o'er flowery meads,Whose hearts have never thrilled at arch-ed bow,Or when the cascade's crystal flowIs sparkling into beads,Deny thy charms. To me thy smileIs sweeter boon than untried worlds can yield;No creed of priests can ever lure me whileThy wondrous love so free from guile,Is everywhere revealed.The severing clouds at early dawnBlush red as roses bursting into bloomAt thy deft touch; and on the dewy lawnThe drapery of night withdrawnI find no hint of gloom.And when at noon the streets I quitFor dappled shade or thickest leafy bower,Then, blushing, thou dost come with me to sitAnd read the poems thou hast writIn leaf and tint of flower.At evening walking arm in armWith thee through glen or by the river's brink,I watch the shades descend o'er distant farmAnd still the world has lost no charmThat soul can wish or think.The loom of fancy never woveBeneath the starlit skies of southern seasA dream of beauty thy enchanting loveOn hill or stream or sheltered cove,Or on the open leasHas not supplied; and thou, sweet maid,Dost never weary, but from day to day,And season unto season, every shadeIn sky or cloud is new inlaidWith colors soft or gay.Yon mountain late enrobed in snowThou clothest now in dress of shimmering green;Ere long another garb wilt thou bestowUpon her, lest thy lover growAweary of the scene.And when the sheen of summer skyShall fade into October's sombre gray,And Autumn's gayest flowers a-withered lie,For me yon mountain thou will tieInto a rare bouquet.
O beauteous maid, my heart is thine;I lay its dearest offering at thy feet;I burn its sweetest incense on thy shrine,For thou, sweet maid, art all divine,For worship thou art meet.Let those who never felt the glowThat summer suns have spread o'er flowery meads,Whose hearts have never thrilled at arch-ed bow,Or when the cascade's crystal flowIs sparkling into beads,Deny thy charms. To me thy smileIs sweeter boon than untried worlds can yield;No creed of priests can ever lure me whileThy wondrous love so free from guile,Is everywhere revealed.The severing clouds at early dawnBlush red as roses bursting into bloomAt thy deft touch; and on the dewy lawnThe drapery of night withdrawnI find no hint of gloom.And when at noon the streets I quitFor dappled shade or thickest leafy bower,Then, blushing, thou dost come with me to sitAnd read the poems thou hast writIn leaf and tint of flower.At evening walking arm in armWith thee through glen or by the river's brink,I watch the shades descend o'er distant farmAnd still the world has lost no charmThat soul can wish or think.The loom of fancy never woveBeneath the starlit skies of southern seasA dream of beauty thy enchanting loveOn hill or stream or sheltered cove,Or on the open leasHas not supplied; and thou, sweet maid,Dost never weary, but from day to day,And season unto season, every shadeIn sky or cloud is new inlaidWith colors soft or gay.Yon mountain late enrobed in snowThou clothest now in dress of shimmering green;Ere long another garb wilt thou bestowUpon her, lest thy lover growAweary of the scene.And when the sheen of summer skyShall fade into October's sombre gray,And Autumn's gayest flowers a-withered lie,For me yon mountain thou will tieInto a rare bouquet.
O beauteous maid, my heart is thine;I lay its dearest offering at thy feet;I burn its sweetest incense on thy shrine,For thou, sweet maid, art all divine,For worship thou art meet.
Let those who never felt the glowThat summer suns have spread o'er flowery meads,Whose hearts have never thrilled at arch-ed bow,Or when the cascade's crystal flowIs sparkling into beads,
Deny thy charms. To me thy smileIs sweeter boon than untried worlds can yield;No creed of priests can ever lure me whileThy wondrous love so free from guile,Is everywhere revealed.
The severing clouds at early dawnBlush red as roses bursting into bloomAt thy deft touch; and on the dewy lawnThe drapery of night withdrawnI find no hint of gloom.
And when at noon the streets I quitFor dappled shade or thickest leafy bower,Then, blushing, thou dost come with me to sitAnd read the poems thou hast writIn leaf and tint of flower.
At evening walking arm in armWith thee through glen or by the river's brink,I watch the shades descend o'er distant farmAnd still the world has lost no charmThat soul can wish or think.
The loom of fancy never woveBeneath the starlit skies of southern seasA dream of beauty thy enchanting loveOn hill or stream or sheltered cove,Or on the open leas
Has not supplied; and thou, sweet maid,Dost never weary, but from day to day,And season unto season, every shadeIn sky or cloud is new inlaidWith colors soft or gay.
Yon mountain late enrobed in snowThou clothest now in dress of shimmering green;Ere long another garb wilt thou bestowUpon her, lest thy lover growAweary of the scene.
And when the sheen of summer skyShall fade into October's sombre gray,And Autumn's gayest flowers a-withered lie,For me yon mountain thou will tieInto a rare bouquet.
I dare not look again!In those vast depths of infinite blueThere are visions of joy and love as trueAs ever haunted a poet's ken.This sordid earth's my lot;Those dreams must be forgot—I dare not look again.I dare not look again!Those dreams must be forgotThe infinite blue, with its love so trueAnd the visions I dare not pen.This sordid earth's my lot.Heavens! might I but look again!
I dare not look again!In those vast depths of infinite blueThere are visions of joy and love as trueAs ever haunted a poet's ken.This sordid earth's my lot;Those dreams must be forgot—I dare not look again.I dare not look again!Those dreams must be forgotThe infinite blue, with its love so trueAnd the visions I dare not pen.This sordid earth's my lot.Heavens! might I but look again!
I dare not look again!In those vast depths of infinite blueThere are visions of joy and love as trueAs ever haunted a poet's ken.This sordid earth's my lot;Those dreams must be forgot—I dare not look again.
I dare not look again!Those dreams must be forgotThe infinite blue, with its love so trueAnd the visions I dare not pen.This sordid earth's my lot.Heavens! might I but look again!
The flowers closed their autumn bloomAwhile the bleak winds blew,And meekly bowing to their doomThey lay in shroud of frozen gloomThe whole long winter through.There's ever been the same sad taleTo tell of Nature's loves;Her artful methods never failTo win the hearts they once assail,Though she inconstant proves.Last spring I heard the whisperings lowTo modest DaffodilThat won her smile ere yet the snowHad melted and begun its flowAdown the little rill.And soon her soft caresses provedToo much for Meadow Rue;And next Anemone was moved;Spring Beauty whom the nymphs had lovedIn shady woods to woo.But some less trustful, still were slowTo yield their loves' perfume,Till, melted by the summer's glow,They let their pent-up passions flowThrough many colored bloom.But Nature soon withdrew her smile;I saw their petals paleAnd droop, now conscious of the guileTheir fickle lover used the whileShe wooed them in the vale.
The flowers closed their autumn bloomAwhile the bleak winds blew,And meekly bowing to their doomThey lay in shroud of frozen gloomThe whole long winter through.There's ever been the same sad taleTo tell of Nature's loves;Her artful methods never failTo win the hearts they once assail,Though she inconstant proves.Last spring I heard the whisperings lowTo modest DaffodilThat won her smile ere yet the snowHad melted and begun its flowAdown the little rill.And soon her soft caresses provedToo much for Meadow Rue;And next Anemone was moved;Spring Beauty whom the nymphs had lovedIn shady woods to woo.But some less trustful, still were slowTo yield their loves' perfume,Till, melted by the summer's glow,They let their pent-up passions flowThrough many colored bloom.But Nature soon withdrew her smile;I saw their petals paleAnd droop, now conscious of the guileTheir fickle lover used the whileShe wooed them in the vale.
The flowers closed their autumn bloomAwhile the bleak winds blew,And meekly bowing to their doomThey lay in shroud of frozen gloomThe whole long winter through.
There's ever been the same sad taleTo tell of Nature's loves;Her artful methods never failTo win the hearts they once assail,Though she inconstant proves.
Last spring I heard the whisperings lowTo modest DaffodilThat won her smile ere yet the snowHad melted and begun its flowAdown the little rill.
And soon her soft caresses provedToo much for Meadow Rue;And next Anemone was moved;Spring Beauty whom the nymphs had lovedIn shady woods to woo.
But some less trustful, still were slowTo yield their loves' perfume,Till, melted by the summer's glow,They let their pent-up passions flowThrough many colored bloom.
But Nature soon withdrew her smile;I saw their petals paleAnd droop, now conscious of the guileTheir fickle lover used the whileShe wooed them in the vale.
All winter I had breathed uponThe clos-ed bud of love;Its milk-white petals, one by oneAt last unfolded in the sunMy heart had longed to prove.And when it reached its full broad blowIt shed a fragrance sweetFrom out its bosom lilied snow,—And incense that the gods I knowHad smiled with joy to greet.
All winter I had breathed uponThe clos-ed bud of love;Its milk-white petals, one by oneAt last unfolded in the sunMy heart had longed to prove.And when it reached its full broad blowIt shed a fragrance sweetFrom out its bosom lilied snow,—And incense that the gods I knowHad smiled with joy to greet.
All winter I had breathed uponThe clos-ed bud of love;Its milk-white petals, one by oneAt last unfolded in the sunMy heart had longed to prove.
And when it reached its full broad blowIt shed a fragrance sweetFrom out its bosom lilied snow,—And incense that the gods I knowHad smiled with joy to greet.
And Nature now begins againHer courtship with the flowers;She chants in groves her minstrel strain,She smiles, and frowns, and weeps in rainOf gentle April showers.And while she tries with song of thrushOnce more those hearts to move,I've seen her oft relentless crush,—My bud still blooms forever fresh—It is theRoseofLove!
And Nature now begins againHer courtship with the flowers;She chants in groves her minstrel strain,She smiles, and frowns, and weeps in rainOf gentle April showers.And while she tries with song of thrushOnce more those hearts to move,I've seen her oft relentless crush,—My bud still blooms forever fresh—It is theRoseofLove!
And Nature now begins againHer courtship with the flowers;She chants in groves her minstrel strain,She smiles, and frowns, and weeps in rainOf gentle April showers.
And while she tries with song of thrushOnce more those hearts to move,I've seen her oft relentless crush,—My bud still blooms forever fresh—It is theRoseofLove!
His little Blue Dress is hidden awayFrom the eyes of the vulgar world,—And the dear little Shoes,—more precious are theyThan silver or gold empearled—Jewels that lure like the stars above,Hidden from all but the eyes of love.I watched him oft with a mother's heartAs he played with his dear little toys;But now he is gone, and I sit apartAnd muse of those vanished joys;—Dream of his eyes and his beautiful hair,And thrill with the love of a sweet despair.The gaze of the vulgar world todayWould only my jewels abuse;And this is the reason I hid them away,—The little Blue Dress and the Shoes:And I pray that in death my eyes may caressThe dear little Shoes and the little Blue Dress.
His little Blue Dress is hidden awayFrom the eyes of the vulgar world,—And the dear little Shoes,—more precious are theyThan silver or gold empearled—Jewels that lure like the stars above,Hidden from all but the eyes of love.I watched him oft with a mother's heartAs he played with his dear little toys;But now he is gone, and I sit apartAnd muse of those vanished joys;—Dream of his eyes and his beautiful hair,And thrill with the love of a sweet despair.The gaze of the vulgar world todayWould only my jewels abuse;And this is the reason I hid them away,—The little Blue Dress and the Shoes:And I pray that in death my eyes may caressThe dear little Shoes and the little Blue Dress.
His little Blue Dress is hidden awayFrom the eyes of the vulgar world,—And the dear little Shoes,—more precious are theyThan silver or gold empearled—Jewels that lure like the stars above,Hidden from all but the eyes of love.
I watched him oft with a mother's heartAs he played with his dear little toys;But now he is gone, and I sit apartAnd muse of those vanished joys;—Dream of his eyes and his beautiful hair,And thrill with the love of a sweet despair.
The gaze of the vulgar world todayWould only my jewels abuse;And this is the reason I hid them away,—The little Blue Dress and the Shoes:And I pray that in death my eyes may caressThe dear little Shoes and the little Blue Dress.
Clouds of sorrow cannot hideGleams of sunshine gilding hoursOf happy memory, sweet as flowersEver blooming by the wayside,Thronged with thorn and thistle.Reapers binding sheaves of plenty,Think the golden dreams of twentyThrill them deepest; and the whistleOf some lone love-dreaming birdIn the meadow, wakes to memoryNotes now hushed, but sweeter than theEar of mortal ever heard.'Neath the cliffs near by the riverLong cymes of honey-suckle grew,Odorous in the air; and the violet, too,Entangling with the phlox, and everEntessellated beds of petal'd mosaicStretching out before us, richAs the drapery of a dream in whichThe toil of life was not prosaic.Neither can the hungry earEnfashion music softer, sweeter,Drawn from lyre, than the meter—Rippling cascade trickling near.
Clouds of sorrow cannot hideGleams of sunshine gilding hoursOf happy memory, sweet as flowersEver blooming by the wayside,Thronged with thorn and thistle.Reapers binding sheaves of plenty,Think the golden dreams of twentyThrill them deepest; and the whistleOf some lone love-dreaming birdIn the meadow, wakes to memoryNotes now hushed, but sweeter than theEar of mortal ever heard.'Neath the cliffs near by the riverLong cymes of honey-suckle grew,Odorous in the air; and the violet, too,Entangling with the phlox, and everEntessellated beds of petal'd mosaicStretching out before us, richAs the drapery of a dream in whichThe toil of life was not prosaic.Neither can the hungry earEnfashion music softer, sweeter,Drawn from lyre, than the meter—Rippling cascade trickling near.
Clouds of sorrow cannot hideGleams of sunshine gilding hoursOf happy memory, sweet as flowersEver blooming by the wayside,Thronged with thorn and thistle.Reapers binding sheaves of plenty,Think the golden dreams of twentyThrill them deepest; and the whistleOf some lone love-dreaming birdIn the meadow, wakes to memoryNotes now hushed, but sweeter than theEar of mortal ever heard.
'Neath the cliffs near by the riverLong cymes of honey-suckle grew,Odorous in the air; and the violet, too,Entangling with the phlox, and everEntessellated beds of petal'd mosaicStretching out before us, richAs the drapery of a dream in whichThe toil of life was not prosaic.Neither can the hungry earEnfashion music softer, sweeter,Drawn from lyre, than the meter—Rippling cascade trickling near.
Where the trailing arbutus filled the coveWith a perfume as sweet as the breath of love,And the mountain ivy's astral bloomMade radiant light of the darkest gloom,A maiden dwelt as stainless the whileAs the baytree's bloom in the steep defile;And she loved a youth with a heart as trueAs ever has beaten for me or you.Soon summer passed and the autumn cameWith its goldenrod and its sumac flame,With its tinge of frost and its blood-red blushThat made every shrub a burning bush.Then love became passion for maiden and youth;All vision had vanished and life was now truth;And they heard a voice in the flaming treeWhich told them that marriage was nature's decree.When the spring beauties came and winter had fledSue Winn and Josh Bell were happily wed;And the cowslips that bloomed in the side of the glenWere fragrant as roses in the gardens of men.Their home was a cabin, the mountain aboveWas rugged and rough, and their fortune was love:But a cabin with love and vigor and healthIs better than sin and a palace of wealth.The seasons passed by and a few brief yearsBrought bountiful crops to these mountaineers;And their children that played round the great hollyhocksWore the sunniest curls and the cleanest of frocks;And old-fashioned sunflowers smiled at their doorMidst beautiful pinks and pansies galore;And the mountain redbirds flashed and flewAround the rude cabin of Josh and Sue.Ah, little you know, ye daughters of Jove,The sweetness of poverty wedded to love;Untrammeled by fashion, unsated by sin,With the feeling that life and the dewdrop are kin.Ah, little you know who dwell among menThe freedom and freshness of mountain and glen,Where the Diva of Nature gives her grand matineeIn the opera of Love from a rich elder spray!Yet the earth holds few spots where the winds never blow,And summer's not followed by the bleak winter snow:But the harvest will fail both the rich and the poorIn the deep fertile valley, on the thin healthy moor,Thus Susan grew ill and Joshua foundHis corn crop was short, his wheat was unsound,That drouth and disease had stricken his homeWith a hand that poverty couldn't overcome.Ah, little you care who dwell high aboveFor the hardships of poverty wedded to love;Whose awful temptations you never can know,When the unfeeling winds of adversity blow;When the loved one is lying all helpless abed,And children are crying and begging for bread.Yes, little you dream, ye rich sons of JoveOf the trials of love in a rough mountain cove.Josh Bell battled bravely, and fought sin and wrongAnd the mighty temptation with a heart true and strong;But Susan grew weaker, till bright bloomed the roseThat ever the blanched cheek of consumption shows."I must save her," he cried, "Oh, God, let the costBe my life; if she dies, I am lost, I am lost!"And Joshua Bell smote his breast with a blowThat only the frenzy of a lover can know.At a deep hour of night when the hoot of the owlMade the dark glen as lonesome as haunt of a cowl,Josh Bell left his cabin for a cave in the hill,And began the erection of a small mountain still.For weeks here he labored at midnight alone,With a firm resolution and a heart like a stone:Then his own golden corn he had gathered in sheaf,He now husked in darkness and stole like a thief.Ah, Joshua Bell, the world does not knowThe depth of thy grief, the weight of thy woe,—The conflict of conscience and love in thy breast,The struggle of duty and shame unconfessed.Thy act is a crime in the eyes of the law,No matter the motive, it weighs not a straw;No matter the liquid distilled be as dewThat drips from the stem and chalice of rue.But the comforts of life that lessen the painOf those whom we love, ease conscience and brain;And Josh half forgot the cave in the hill,And the white sparkling liquor that flowed from the still,When Sue smiled and said, "By thy great sacrificeOf unceasing toil and love without price,I am better to-day; with return of the springWe can labor together where the brown thrushes sing."Thus Josh kept his secret, and the daffodils cameThat bloom but for those unworthy of blame;And Sue never knew that the gold and the gainWas purchased with liquor distilled from their grain.But the sleuth-hounds of law found the cave in the hillAt a late hour of night and raided the still;Then surrounded the cabin, and woke Josh and SueAnd demanded surrender of the moonshiners, too.With Winchester rifle Josh leaped from his couch,"I'll never surrender, nor cower, nor crouchTo cowardly villains that plunder the poor,In the guise of the law; who crosses my door,Had best make his peace with the angels above;By my life I'll protect the darlings I love."Like a lion at bay, the flash of his eye,Told the brave mountaineer would shield them or die.But the torch of the raiders lit a red flame that stungThe stouted hearted Josh like a vile adder's tongue,Till he rushed from his cabin in madness and sworeHe would save Sue and children or sleep nevermore.But a flash from a rifle sent a ball through his brain,And Joshua Bell never breathed once again.And his loved ones perished in the flame and the smokeOf his own little cabin he had hewn from the oak.When the morning has climbed up the high eastern hillAnd the sunlight is dancing on ripple of rill,The coroner summons a jury and feignsAn inquest of law o'er the ghastly remains.The verdict is heard with whoop and hurrah:"These moonshiners died at the hands of the law;Let all men beware," the coroner cried,"The murder of outlaws is just homicide."
Where the trailing arbutus filled the coveWith a perfume as sweet as the breath of love,And the mountain ivy's astral bloomMade radiant light of the darkest gloom,A maiden dwelt as stainless the whileAs the baytree's bloom in the steep defile;And she loved a youth with a heart as trueAs ever has beaten for me or you.Soon summer passed and the autumn cameWith its goldenrod and its sumac flame,With its tinge of frost and its blood-red blushThat made every shrub a burning bush.Then love became passion for maiden and youth;All vision had vanished and life was now truth;And they heard a voice in the flaming treeWhich told them that marriage was nature's decree.When the spring beauties came and winter had fledSue Winn and Josh Bell were happily wed;And the cowslips that bloomed in the side of the glenWere fragrant as roses in the gardens of men.Their home was a cabin, the mountain aboveWas rugged and rough, and their fortune was love:But a cabin with love and vigor and healthIs better than sin and a palace of wealth.The seasons passed by and a few brief yearsBrought bountiful crops to these mountaineers;And their children that played round the great hollyhocksWore the sunniest curls and the cleanest of frocks;And old-fashioned sunflowers smiled at their doorMidst beautiful pinks and pansies galore;And the mountain redbirds flashed and flewAround the rude cabin of Josh and Sue.Ah, little you know, ye daughters of Jove,The sweetness of poverty wedded to love;Untrammeled by fashion, unsated by sin,With the feeling that life and the dewdrop are kin.Ah, little you know who dwell among menThe freedom and freshness of mountain and glen,Where the Diva of Nature gives her grand matineeIn the opera of Love from a rich elder spray!Yet the earth holds few spots where the winds never blow,And summer's not followed by the bleak winter snow:But the harvest will fail both the rich and the poorIn the deep fertile valley, on the thin healthy moor,Thus Susan grew ill and Joshua foundHis corn crop was short, his wheat was unsound,That drouth and disease had stricken his homeWith a hand that poverty couldn't overcome.Ah, little you care who dwell high aboveFor the hardships of poverty wedded to love;Whose awful temptations you never can know,When the unfeeling winds of adversity blow;When the loved one is lying all helpless abed,And children are crying and begging for bread.Yes, little you dream, ye rich sons of JoveOf the trials of love in a rough mountain cove.Josh Bell battled bravely, and fought sin and wrongAnd the mighty temptation with a heart true and strong;But Susan grew weaker, till bright bloomed the roseThat ever the blanched cheek of consumption shows."I must save her," he cried, "Oh, God, let the costBe my life; if she dies, I am lost, I am lost!"And Joshua Bell smote his breast with a blowThat only the frenzy of a lover can know.At a deep hour of night when the hoot of the owlMade the dark glen as lonesome as haunt of a cowl,Josh Bell left his cabin for a cave in the hill,And began the erection of a small mountain still.For weeks here he labored at midnight alone,With a firm resolution and a heart like a stone:Then his own golden corn he had gathered in sheaf,He now husked in darkness and stole like a thief.Ah, Joshua Bell, the world does not knowThe depth of thy grief, the weight of thy woe,—The conflict of conscience and love in thy breast,The struggle of duty and shame unconfessed.Thy act is a crime in the eyes of the law,No matter the motive, it weighs not a straw;No matter the liquid distilled be as dewThat drips from the stem and chalice of rue.But the comforts of life that lessen the painOf those whom we love, ease conscience and brain;And Josh half forgot the cave in the hill,And the white sparkling liquor that flowed from the still,When Sue smiled and said, "By thy great sacrificeOf unceasing toil and love without price,I am better to-day; with return of the springWe can labor together where the brown thrushes sing."Thus Josh kept his secret, and the daffodils cameThat bloom but for those unworthy of blame;And Sue never knew that the gold and the gainWas purchased with liquor distilled from their grain.But the sleuth-hounds of law found the cave in the hillAt a late hour of night and raided the still;Then surrounded the cabin, and woke Josh and SueAnd demanded surrender of the moonshiners, too.With Winchester rifle Josh leaped from his couch,"I'll never surrender, nor cower, nor crouchTo cowardly villains that plunder the poor,In the guise of the law; who crosses my door,Had best make his peace with the angels above;By my life I'll protect the darlings I love."Like a lion at bay, the flash of his eye,Told the brave mountaineer would shield them or die.But the torch of the raiders lit a red flame that stungThe stouted hearted Josh like a vile adder's tongue,Till he rushed from his cabin in madness and sworeHe would save Sue and children or sleep nevermore.But a flash from a rifle sent a ball through his brain,And Joshua Bell never breathed once again.And his loved ones perished in the flame and the smokeOf his own little cabin he had hewn from the oak.When the morning has climbed up the high eastern hillAnd the sunlight is dancing on ripple of rill,The coroner summons a jury and feignsAn inquest of law o'er the ghastly remains.The verdict is heard with whoop and hurrah:"These moonshiners died at the hands of the law;Let all men beware," the coroner cried,"The murder of outlaws is just homicide."
Where the trailing arbutus filled the coveWith a perfume as sweet as the breath of love,And the mountain ivy's astral bloomMade radiant light of the darkest gloom,A maiden dwelt as stainless the whileAs the baytree's bloom in the steep defile;And she loved a youth with a heart as trueAs ever has beaten for me or you.
Soon summer passed and the autumn cameWith its goldenrod and its sumac flame,With its tinge of frost and its blood-red blushThat made every shrub a burning bush.Then love became passion for maiden and youth;All vision had vanished and life was now truth;And they heard a voice in the flaming treeWhich told them that marriage was nature's decree.
When the spring beauties came and winter had fledSue Winn and Josh Bell were happily wed;And the cowslips that bloomed in the side of the glenWere fragrant as roses in the gardens of men.Their home was a cabin, the mountain aboveWas rugged and rough, and their fortune was love:But a cabin with love and vigor and healthIs better than sin and a palace of wealth.
The seasons passed by and a few brief yearsBrought bountiful crops to these mountaineers;And their children that played round the great hollyhocksWore the sunniest curls and the cleanest of frocks;And old-fashioned sunflowers smiled at their doorMidst beautiful pinks and pansies galore;And the mountain redbirds flashed and flewAround the rude cabin of Josh and Sue.
Ah, little you know, ye daughters of Jove,The sweetness of poverty wedded to love;Untrammeled by fashion, unsated by sin,With the feeling that life and the dewdrop are kin.Ah, little you know who dwell among menThe freedom and freshness of mountain and glen,Where the Diva of Nature gives her grand matineeIn the opera of Love from a rich elder spray!
Yet the earth holds few spots where the winds never blow,And summer's not followed by the bleak winter snow:But the harvest will fail both the rich and the poorIn the deep fertile valley, on the thin healthy moor,Thus Susan grew ill and Joshua foundHis corn crop was short, his wheat was unsound,That drouth and disease had stricken his homeWith a hand that poverty couldn't overcome.
Ah, little you care who dwell high aboveFor the hardships of poverty wedded to love;Whose awful temptations you never can know,When the unfeeling winds of adversity blow;When the loved one is lying all helpless abed,And children are crying and begging for bread.Yes, little you dream, ye rich sons of JoveOf the trials of love in a rough mountain cove.
Josh Bell battled bravely, and fought sin and wrongAnd the mighty temptation with a heart true and strong;But Susan grew weaker, till bright bloomed the roseThat ever the blanched cheek of consumption shows."I must save her," he cried, "Oh, God, let the costBe my life; if she dies, I am lost, I am lost!"And Joshua Bell smote his breast with a blowThat only the frenzy of a lover can know.At a deep hour of night when the hoot of the owlMade the dark glen as lonesome as haunt of a cowl,Josh Bell left his cabin for a cave in the hill,And began the erection of a small mountain still.For weeks here he labored at midnight alone,With a firm resolution and a heart like a stone:Then his own golden corn he had gathered in sheaf,He now husked in darkness and stole like a thief.
Ah, Joshua Bell, the world does not knowThe depth of thy grief, the weight of thy woe,—The conflict of conscience and love in thy breast,The struggle of duty and shame unconfessed.Thy act is a crime in the eyes of the law,No matter the motive, it weighs not a straw;No matter the liquid distilled be as dewThat drips from the stem and chalice of rue.
But the comforts of life that lessen the painOf those whom we love, ease conscience and brain;And Josh half forgot the cave in the hill,And the white sparkling liquor that flowed from the still,When Sue smiled and said, "By thy great sacrificeOf unceasing toil and love without price,I am better to-day; with return of the springWe can labor together where the brown thrushes sing."
Thus Josh kept his secret, and the daffodils cameThat bloom but for those unworthy of blame;And Sue never knew that the gold and the gainWas purchased with liquor distilled from their grain.But the sleuth-hounds of law found the cave in the hillAt a late hour of night and raided the still;Then surrounded the cabin, and woke Josh and SueAnd demanded surrender of the moonshiners, too.
With Winchester rifle Josh leaped from his couch,"I'll never surrender, nor cower, nor crouchTo cowardly villains that plunder the poor,In the guise of the law; who crosses my door,Had best make his peace with the angels above;By my life I'll protect the darlings I love."Like a lion at bay, the flash of his eye,Told the brave mountaineer would shield them or die.
But the torch of the raiders lit a red flame that stungThe stouted hearted Josh like a vile adder's tongue,Till he rushed from his cabin in madness and sworeHe would save Sue and children or sleep nevermore.But a flash from a rifle sent a ball through his brain,And Joshua Bell never breathed once again.And his loved ones perished in the flame and the smokeOf his own little cabin he had hewn from the oak.
When the morning has climbed up the high eastern hillAnd the sunlight is dancing on ripple of rill,The coroner summons a jury and feignsAn inquest of law o'er the ghastly remains.The verdict is heard with whoop and hurrah:"These moonshiners died at the hands of the law;Let all men beware," the coroner cried,"The murder of outlaws is just homicide."
The flickering carbon threw a streamOf bluish light over the sleety street.Men and women everywhere were hurrying homeward,Shivering for the comfort that was gleamingThrough many a window from blazing hearths within.The freezing rain was biting like an adder.Down the icy thoroughfare,Muffled deep in furs and ulster,Madly rushed the Wall-street banker,Plunging through the storm and shadow,Impatient for the shelter of his mansion.No wonder that he heeded not the darkling figureOf a little homeless waif that crouchedBeneath the jutting frieze and corniceOf a rich Corinthian window;—No wonder, for the night was bitter,And his mansion yet two blocks away!No wonder either that the wandererNeither saw nor heard the banker,Though his tread was swift and heavy,For a mighty storm was raging!Yet above the noise and howlingOf the wind and rain and tempest,The outcast heard the shoeless footfallOf a little homeless brother,Lost amid the blinding shadows.And soon they slept, secure and thankful,Though the maddening storm grew fiercer,—Slept, but dreamed:The window rose a richer mansionThan ever sheltered Wall-street banker—A castle wrought of childish fancy,More beauteous than the pen of romanceHas pictured of the days of chivalry.But their little dreaming childhood,Painted no baronial robber.Saw no haughty plumed tiara,Heard no clank in Norman donjon.In the palace, dream-constructed,Where the little waifs lay nestledIn each other's arms fraternal,Love had built a shining altar,War had laid aside his armor,And the knights that there assembledWere their little homeless brothers,Gathered from the ranks of sorrow,Orphans, outcasts, gamin, wanderers.
The flickering carbon threw a streamOf bluish light over the sleety street.Men and women everywhere were hurrying homeward,Shivering for the comfort that was gleamingThrough many a window from blazing hearths within.The freezing rain was biting like an adder.Down the icy thoroughfare,Muffled deep in furs and ulster,Madly rushed the Wall-street banker,Plunging through the storm and shadow,Impatient for the shelter of his mansion.No wonder that he heeded not the darkling figureOf a little homeless waif that crouchedBeneath the jutting frieze and corniceOf a rich Corinthian window;—No wonder, for the night was bitter,And his mansion yet two blocks away!No wonder either that the wandererNeither saw nor heard the banker,Though his tread was swift and heavy,For a mighty storm was raging!Yet above the noise and howlingOf the wind and rain and tempest,The outcast heard the shoeless footfallOf a little homeless brother,Lost amid the blinding shadows.And soon they slept, secure and thankful,Though the maddening storm grew fiercer,—Slept, but dreamed:The window rose a richer mansionThan ever sheltered Wall-street banker—A castle wrought of childish fancy,More beauteous than the pen of romanceHas pictured of the days of chivalry.But their little dreaming childhood,Painted no baronial robber.Saw no haughty plumed tiara,Heard no clank in Norman donjon.In the palace, dream-constructed,Where the little waifs lay nestledIn each other's arms fraternal,Love had built a shining altar,War had laid aside his armor,And the knights that there assembledWere their little homeless brothers,Gathered from the ranks of sorrow,Orphans, outcasts, gamin, wanderers.
The flickering carbon threw a streamOf bluish light over the sleety street.Men and women everywhere were hurrying homeward,Shivering for the comfort that was gleamingThrough many a window from blazing hearths within.The freezing rain was biting like an adder.Down the icy thoroughfare,Muffled deep in furs and ulster,Madly rushed the Wall-street banker,Plunging through the storm and shadow,Impatient for the shelter of his mansion.No wonder that he heeded not the darkling figureOf a little homeless waif that crouchedBeneath the jutting frieze and corniceOf a rich Corinthian window;—No wonder, for the night was bitter,And his mansion yet two blocks away!No wonder either that the wandererNeither saw nor heard the banker,Though his tread was swift and heavy,For a mighty storm was raging!Yet above the noise and howlingOf the wind and rain and tempest,The outcast heard the shoeless footfallOf a little homeless brother,Lost amid the blinding shadows.And soon they slept, secure and thankful,Though the maddening storm grew fiercer,—Slept, but dreamed:The window rose a richer mansionThan ever sheltered Wall-street banker—A castle wrought of childish fancy,More beauteous than the pen of romanceHas pictured of the days of chivalry.But their little dreaming childhood,Painted no baronial robber.Saw no haughty plumed tiara,Heard no clank in Norman donjon.In the palace, dream-constructed,Where the little waifs lay nestledIn each other's arms fraternal,Love had built a shining altar,War had laid aside his armor,And the knights that there assembledWere their little homeless brothers,Gathered from the ranks of sorrow,Orphans, outcasts, gamin, wanderers.
Out of the infinite depths of love,Floated a spirit song,Plaintive and sad as coo of dove,Burdened for sin and wrong;So tender and sweet the melody,None heard that song but he.Out of the days of childhood joys,Faded the smile of light;The sun that dazzled other boys,For him was never bright:The birds sang sweet on every tree—All heard their songs but he.Out of the realms of infinite light,A song of infinite glee;The faded smile of joy grew bright,"Mother is waiting for thee."So tender and sweet the melody,None heard that song but he.
Out of the infinite depths of love,Floated a spirit song,Plaintive and sad as coo of dove,Burdened for sin and wrong;So tender and sweet the melody,None heard that song but he.Out of the days of childhood joys,Faded the smile of light;The sun that dazzled other boys,For him was never bright:The birds sang sweet on every tree—All heard their songs but he.Out of the realms of infinite light,A song of infinite glee;The faded smile of joy grew bright,"Mother is waiting for thee."So tender and sweet the melody,None heard that song but he.
Out of the infinite depths of love,Floated a spirit song,Plaintive and sad as coo of dove,Burdened for sin and wrong;So tender and sweet the melody,None heard that song but he.
Out of the days of childhood joys,Faded the smile of light;The sun that dazzled other boys,For him was never bright:The birds sang sweet on every tree—All heard their songs but he.
Out of the realms of infinite light,A song of infinite glee;The faded smile of joy grew bright,"Mother is waiting for thee."So tender and sweet the melody,None heard that song but he.
In the mountains of Kentucky,Where the ivy's astral bloomAnd the laurel's waxen petalsShed a rich and rare perfume;Where the purple rhododendronAnd the wild forget-me-notBloom in amorous profusionRound a little mossy grot.It was there I left Rowena,She is waiting now for me,While I linger here impatient,For my love I long to see.Oh, but soon I know I'll see her,And never more we'll part—In the mountains of Kentucky,Lives my own, my true sweetheart.RefrainShe's a fairy, I'll admit, a little airy;But her eyes are like the blue Aegean sea:And her auburn hair, it would drive you to despair,For Rowena's heart is true to none but me.In the mountains of Kentucky,Though the grass may not be blue,Yet the streams are swift and sparkling,And Rowena's heart is true:And I love the lofty mountains,And the deep and darkling coves,Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,And Rowena lives and loves.'Tis the home, they say, of feudist,Where the hand of man is red;But I know a hundred places,Where blood's as wanton shed:Yet no spot in all creationHas a sky of such a hue—In the mountains of KentuckyLives my sweetheart pure and true.RefrainIn the Blue-grass of KentuckyNow Rowena waits for me,With a brood of little fairiesThat my heart so longs to see;For their eyes are bright and sparklingAs the drops of diamond dew—In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,Live my sweethearts pure and true:Yes, I love the lofty mountains,And the deep and darkling cove,Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,And the sky is bright above;But one spot to me is dearerThan all the world apart,In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,Lives my own, my true sweetheart.Refrain
In the mountains of Kentucky,Where the ivy's astral bloomAnd the laurel's waxen petalsShed a rich and rare perfume;Where the purple rhododendronAnd the wild forget-me-notBloom in amorous profusionRound a little mossy grot.It was there I left Rowena,She is waiting now for me,While I linger here impatient,For my love I long to see.Oh, but soon I know I'll see her,And never more we'll part—In the mountains of Kentucky,Lives my own, my true sweetheart.RefrainShe's a fairy, I'll admit, a little airy;But her eyes are like the blue Aegean sea:And her auburn hair, it would drive you to despair,For Rowena's heart is true to none but me.In the mountains of Kentucky,Though the grass may not be blue,Yet the streams are swift and sparkling,And Rowena's heart is true:And I love the lofty mountains,And the deep and darkling coves,Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,And Rowena lives and loves.'Tis the home, they say, of feudist,Where the hand of man is red;But I know a hundred places,Where blood's as wanton shed:Yet no spot in all creationHas a sky of such a hue—In the mountains of KentuckyLives my sweetheart pure and true.RefrainIn the Blue-grass of KentuckyNow Rowena waits for me,With a brood of little fairiesThat my heart so longs to see;For their eyes are bright and sparklingAs the drops of diamond dew—In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,Live my sweethearts pure and true:Yes, I love the lofty mountains,And the deep and darkling cove,Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,And the sky is bright above;But one spot to me is dearerThan all the world apart,In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,Lives my own, my true sweetheart.Refrain
In the mountains of Kentucky,Where the ivy's astral bloomAnd the laurel's waxen petalsShed a rich and rare perfume;Where the purple rhododendronAnd the wild forget-me-notBloom in amorous profusionRound a little mossy grot.It was there I left Rowena,She is waiting now for me,While I linger here impatient,For my love I long to see.Oh, but soon I know I'll see her,And never more we'll part—In the mountains of Kentucky,Lives my own, my true sweetheart.
Refrain
She's a fairy, I'll admit, a little airy;But her eyes are like the blue Aegean sea:And her auburn hair, it would drive you to despair,For Rowena's heart is true to none but me.
In the mountains of Kentucky,Though the grass may not be blue,Yet the streams are swift and sparkling,And Rowena's heart is true:And I love the lofty mountains,And the deep and darkling coves,Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,And Rowena lives and loves.'Tis the home, they say, of feudist,Where the hand of man is red;But I know a hundred places,Where blood's as wanton shed:Yet no spot in all creationHas a sky of such a hue—In the mountains of KentuckyLives my sweetheart pure and true.
Refrain
In the Blue-grass of KentuckyNow Rowena waits for me,With a brood of little fairiesThat my heart so longs to see;For their eyes are bright and sparklingAs the drops of diamond dew—In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,Live my sweethearts pure and true:Yes, I love the lofty mountains,And the deep and darkling cove,Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer,And the sky is bright above;But one spot to me is dearerThan all the world apart,In the Blue-grass of Kentucky,Lives my own, my true sweetheart.
Refrain
(Double Acrostic)
Romance by the little stream,Where the wild-rose blooms so fair;Oh, who would mar that happy dreamI see enacted there?Beauteous orioles are they—Little timid, tongueless birds—Each listening to the voiceless lay,Love strives to put in words.Roses drop their petals round;In the air a sweet perfume;Till time no longer baffles sound—Eternal love hath burst its bloom!
Romance by the little stream,Where the wild-rose blooms so fair;Oh, who would mar that happy dreamI see enacted there?Beauteous orioles are they—Little timid, tongueless birds—Each listening to the voiceless lay,Love strives to put in words.Roses drop their petals round;In the air a sweet perfume;Till time no longer baffles sound—Eternal love hath burst its bloom!
Romance by the little stream,Where the wild-rose blooms so fair;Oh, who would mar that happy dreamI see enacted there?Beauteous orioles are they—Little timid, tongueless birds—Each listening to the voiceless lay,Love strives to put in words.Roses drop their petals round;In the air a sweet perfume;Till time no longer baffles sound—Eternal love hath burst its bloom!
Oh! couldst thou know her faithful art!When troubled dreams disturb the brain,Though rattling sleet be on the pane,Beneath the window of my heart,I hear her cheering strain—MyMusewho never will departFor life's cold wintry rain.
Oh! couldst thou know her faithful art!When troubled dreams disturb the brain,Though rattling sleet be on the pane,Beneath the window of my heart,I hear her cheering strain—MyMusewho never will departFor life's cold wintry rain.
Oh! couldst thou know her faithful art!When troubled dreams disturb the brain,Though rattling sleet be on the pane,Beneath the window of my heart,I hear her cheering strain—MyMusewho never will departFor life's cold wintry rain.
Have you never heard the story of the good old country schoolWith its rude split-bottomed benches and its ancientdunce's stool?Where Webster's Blue-back Speller was the only standard text,And supplied the place of grammar that our late forefathers vexed;Where they never heard of Latin or the Greek subjunctive mode,But sang their mult-plication like a patriotic ode?The Master, he was skinny, with a lean and hungry look;And a countenance as placid as a frozen winter brook;His brow was broad and Grecian, and his eye was snell and keen,And his head was stuffed with knowledge of a dozen books, I ween;And they say his nose was Roman as the bill of any hawk,And his boys were all perfection, for they had to walk the chalk.And yet I've often wondered if they really always walked,And sat upright like statues, and never laughed or talked,For I've often heard my father say the model of the schoolGot licked at least three times a day as a pretty general rule,And lament the good old method, as a lost, forgotten art,Of imparting knowledge in a way that made a fellowsmart.I wish we had the secret now of making boys walkInstead of always watching for a chance to throw some chalk;But the art, I think, was buried with the Blue-back Spelling Book,And the piercing eye of Skinny, that no mortal boy could brook;'Twas buried with the benches and the ancient dunce's stoolAnd the grease-glazed paper windows of the good old country school.It may be through psychology and molly-coddle stuff,We often talk in institutes, we've lost the power to bluff;Perhaps 'twas Pestalozzi, Froebel and John HerbartWho robbed the wand of Skinny of its pedagogic art;We'll not discuss philosophy, but we know about the chalk,That no theoretic dream of man can make a boy walk.
Have you never heard the story of the good old country schoolWith its rude split-bottomed benches and its ancientdunce's stool?Where Webster's Blue-back Speller was the only standard text,And supplied the place of grammar that our late forefathers vexed;Where they never heard of Latin or the Greek subjunctive mode,But sang their mult-plication like a patriotic ode?The Master, he was skinny, with a lean and hungry look;And a countenance as placid as a frozen winter brook;His brow was broad and Grecian, and his eye was snell and keen,And his head was stuffed with knowledge of a dozen books, I ween;And they say his nose was Roman as the bill of any hawk,And his boys were all perfection, for they had to walk the chalk.And yet I've often wondered if they really always walked,And sat upright like statues, and never laughed or talked,For I've often heard my father say the model of the schoolGot licked at least three times a day as a pretty general rule,And lament the good old method, as a lost, forgotten art,Of imparting knowledge in a way that made a fellowsmart.I wish we had the secret now of making boys walkInstead of always watching for a chance to throw some chalk;But the art, I think, was buried with the Blue-back Spelling Book,And the piercing eye of Skinny, that no mortal boy could brook;'Twas buried with the benches and the ancient dunce's stoolAnd the grease-glazed paper windows of the good old country school.It may be through psychology and molly-coddle stuff,We often talk in institutes, we've lost the power to bluff;Perhaps 'twas Pestalozzi, Froebel and John HerbartWho robbed the wand of Skinny of its pedagogic art;We'll not discuss philosophy, but we know about the chalk,That no theoretic dream of man can make a boy walk.
Have you never heard the story of the good old country schoolWith its rude split-bottomed benches and its ancientdunce's stool?Where Webster's Blue-back Speller was the only standard text,And supplied the place of grammar that our late forefathers vexed;Where they never heard of Latin or the Greek subjunctive mode,But sang their mult-plication like a patriotic ode?
The Master, he was skinny, with a lean and hungry look;And a countenance as placid as a frozen winter brook;His brow was broad and Grecian, and his eye was snell and keen,And his head was stuffed with knowledge of a dozen books, I ween;And they say his nose was Roman as the bill of any hawk,And his boys were all perfection, for they had to walk the chalk.
And yet I've often wondered if they really always walked,And sat upright like statues, and never laughed or talked,For I've often heard my father say the model of the schoolGot licked at least three times a day as a pretty general rule,And lament the good old method, as a lost, forgotten art,Of imparting knowledge in a way that made a fellowsmart.
I wish we had the secret now of making boys walkInstead of always watching for a chance to throw some chalk;But the art, I think, was buried with the Blue-back Spelling Book,And the piercing eye of Skinny, that no mortal boy could brook;'Twas buried with the benches and the ancient dunce's stoolAnd the grease-glazed paper windows of the good old country school.
It may be through psychology and molly-coddle stuff,We often talk in institutes, we've lost the power to bluff;Perhaps 'twas Pestalozzi, Froebel and John HerbartWho robbed the wand of Skinny of its pedagogic art;We'll not discuss philosophy, but we know about the chalk,That no theoretic dream of man can make a boy walk.
Ricollect ol'One-Armed Joe?Lost it grindin' cane.Same blame feller 't used to goRound with Lizy JaneGrindin' sorghum ever fall.Lizy Jane wuz Joe's ol' mare;Never showed her at a fair,But blamed 'f she couldn't beat allRingsters to an ol' cane sweepThat ever stepped a mile. Never fat,Ring-bone an' bob-tail an' all that,But law! she made the cane-mill weep!An' us chillern, we'd allus goOver where they's grindin' caneAn' git to ride ol' Lizy Jane,An' hear the jokes ofOne-Armed Joe;An' maybe git the sorghum skimmin's,Thwuzzent allus so many wimminsBossin' round, causeOne-Armed Joe,He loved us chillern bettern them.(Bet he wears a diademIn the world where preachers go).Joe had grit and feelin's, too,An' they wuzzent nothin' he couldn't do,'Cept to do another harm:Ketch a possum, kill a bear,Cuss an' dance, or lead in prayer;Jump a rope, or skin a cat,Make a speech or guess a riddle,Sing a song, or play the fiddle—No, Joe couldn't quite do that,CauseOne-Armed Joehad lost an arm,But that's all he couldn't do.One night dogs treed a coonUp a leanin' poplar tree;Joe could by the glimmerin' moonSee the leanin' poplar leant:Jerked his coat and up he went;Ketched the possum, let him go,Slipped his holts and hollered, "Oh!"An' down into eternityLimp and warm, fell poor oldJoe!Don't rememberOne-Armed Joe?Feller I'll bet the angels know!
Ricollect ol'One-Armed Joe?Lost it grindin' cane.Same blame feller 't used to goRound with Lizy JaneGrindin' sorghum ever fall.Lizy Jane wuz Joe's ol' mare;Never showed her at a fair,But blamed 'f she couldn't beat allRingsters to an ol' cane sweepThat ever stepped a mile. Never fat,Ring-bone an' bob-tail an' all that,But law! she made the cane-mill weep!An' us chillern, we'd allus goOver where they's grindin' caneAn' git to ride ol' Lizy Jane,An' hear the jokes ofOne-Armed Joe;An' maybe git the sorghum skimmin's,Thwuzzent allus so many wimminsBossin' round, causeOne-Armed Joe,He loved us chillern bettern them.(Bet he wears a diademIn the world where preachers go).Joe had grit and feelin's, too,An' they wuzzent nothin' he couldn't do,'Cept to do another harm:Ketch a possum, kill a bear,Cuss an' dance, or lead in prayer;Jump a rope, or skin a cat,Make a speech or guess a riddle,Sing a song, or play the fiddle—No, Joe couldn't quite do that,CauseOne-Armed Joehad lost an arm,But that's all he couldn't do.One night dogs treed a coonUp a leanin' poplar tree;Joe could by the glimmerin' moonSee the leanin' poplar leant:Jerked his coat and up he went;Ketched the possum, let him go,Slipped his holts and hollered, "Oh!"An' down into eternityLimp and warm, fell poor oldJoe!Don't rememberOne-Armed Joe?Feller I'll bet the angels know!
Ricollect ol'One-Armed Joe?Lost it grindin' cane.Same blame feller 't used to goRound with Lizy JaneGrindin' sorghum ever fall.Lizy Jane wuz Joe's ol' mare;Never showed her at a fair,But blamed 'f she couldn't beat allRingsters to an ol' cane sweepThat ever stepped a mile. Never fat,Ring-bone an' bob-tail an' all that,But law! she made the cane-mill weep!
An' us chillern, we'd allus goOver where they's grindin' caneAn' git to ride ol' Lizy Jane,An' hear the jokes ofOne-Armed Joe;An' maybe git the sorghum skimmin's,Thwuzzent allus so many wimminsBossin' round, causeOne-Armed Joe,He loved us chillern bettern them.(Bet he wears a diademIn the world where preachers go).
Joe had grit and feelin's, too,An' they wuzzent nothin' he couldn't do,'Cept to do another harm:Ketch a possum, kill a bear,Cuss an' dance, or lead in prayer;Jump a rope, or skin a cat,Make a speech or guess a riddle,Sing a song, or play the fiddle—No, Joe couldn't quite do that,CauseOne-Armed Joehad lost an arm,But that's all he couldn't do.
One night dogs treed a coonUp a leanin' poplar tree;Joe could by the glimmerin' moonSee the leanin' poplar leant:Jerked his coat and up he went;Ketched the possum, let him go,Slipped his holts and hollered, "Oh!"An' down into eternityLimp and warm, fell poor oldJoe!Don't rememberOne-Armed Joe?Feller I'll bet the angels know!
I've read of Bob Burdett,And Billin's, Twain and BretAnd the whole endurin' setOf funny men, I guess;But I never yit have found,No matter how renowned,A wit that's ever downedOur Perkins, boys call Wes.You sildom ketch him lyin';Not much for speechifyin';And he 'pears just half-way tryin'When he does git off his wit:But dogged if th'aint blame'd few'Ll probe you through and through,As Wes is sure to do,For he allus makes a hit.He's a humble sort of fellerWith an eye as soft and mellerAs an apple golden yellerIn the mild September sun:Kinder quare and unconcerned,Like he didn't kere a derned,But many a feller's learnedThat Wes is in for fun.Cheap wits don't make no noise'Bout Wes, 'cause he destroysTheir wisdom, which annoysThe humorist, more or less.Unless your jokes 'll fitYou'd best reserve your wit,And entirely omit,'Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.
I've read of Bob Burdett,And Billin's, Twain and BretAnd the whole endurin' setOf funny men, I guess;But I never yit have found,No matter how renowned,A wit that's ever downedOur Perkins, boys call Wes.You sildom ketch him lyin';Not much for speechifyin';And he 'pears just half-way tryin'When he does git off his wit:But dogged if th'aint blame'd few'Ll probe you through and through,As Wes is sure to do,For he allus makes a hit.He's a humble sort of fellerWith an eye as soft and mellerAs an apple golden yellerIn the mild September sun:Kinder quare and unconcerned,Like he didn't kere a derned,But many a feller's learnedThat Wes is in for fun.Cheap wits don't make no noise'Bout Wes, 'cause he destroysTheir wisdom, which annoysThe humorist, more or less.Unless your jokes 'll fitYou'd best reserve your wit,And entirely omit,'Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.
I've read of Bob Burdett,And Billin's, Twain and BretAnd the whole endurin' setOf funny men, I guess;But I never yit have found,No matter how renowned,A wit that's ever downedOur Perkins, boys call Wes.
You sildom ketch him lyin';Not much for speechifyin';And he 'pears just half-way tryin'When he does git off his wit:But dogged if th'aint blame'd few'Ll probe you through and through,As Wes is sure to do,For he allus makes a hit.
He's a humble sort of fellerWith an eye as soft and mellerAs an apple golden yellerIn the mild September sun:Kinder quare and unconcerned,Like he didn't kere a derned,But many a feller's learnedThat Wes is in for fun.
Cheap wits don't make no noise'Bout Wes, 'cause he destroysTheir wisdom, which annoysThe humorist, more or less.Unless your jokes 'll fitYou'd best reserve your wit,And entirely omit,'Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.
You may boast of landscapes goldenWith the harvest's ripenin' grain,Or of Autumn pensive foldin,All her flowers to sleep again;But to me the woods a-ringin'With the notes of happy birdsWhen the April buds is springin'Is a song too sweet for words:And the beautifullest, since you ask it,In art or nature's scenes,Is Kate with knife and basket,A-getherin' of greens.It pears to lift the veil of yearsAnd opens up to view,A scene that brings me soothin' tearsAs sweet as tender dewTo grass that suns have withered dry:I can see her jist as plain,Though Father Time has dimmed my eye,And ricollect the pain,I suffered while she paused a-thinkin'What such an answer means;And the "Stay and help us, John," a-winkin'"Eat our first mess of greens."I've heard my neighbor Johnson sayHis choice was chicken pie;And Perkins lows he likes to stayHis stomach with a fry:And Jones, he says, says he, "I thinkGood old Kentucky ryeSuits me the best; give me a drink,Whenever I am dry."But I have never tasted meat,Nor cabbage, corn nor beans,Nor fluid food one half as sweetAs that first mess of greens.It's not the pictur' near as muchAs the thoughts that gethers round,That always gives the paintin' suchDistinction and renown.There's nothin' in a grassy knollSo beautiful to see,And yit I think within my soulIt beats a flowery lea.And oh, I'd gitMunkasket,If I only had the means,To paint me Kate with basketA-getherin' of greens.
You may boast of landscapes goldenWith the harvest's ripenin' grain,Or of Autumn pensive foldin,All her flowers to sleep again;But to me the woods a-ringin'With the notes of happy birdsWhen the April buds is springin'Is a song too sweet for words:And the beautifullest, since you ask it,In art or nature's scenes,Is Kate with knife and basket,A-getherin' of greens.It pears to lift the veil of yearsAnd opens up to view,A scene that brings me soothin' tearsAs sweet as tender dewTo grass that suns have withered dry:I can see her jist as plain,Though Father Time has dimmed my eye,And ricollect the pain,I suffered while she paused a-thinkin'What such an answer means;And the "Stay and help us, John," a-winkin'"Eat our first mess of greens."I've heard my neighbor Johnson sayHis choice was chicken pie;And Perkins lows he likes to stayHis stomach with a fry:And Jones, he says, says he, "I thinkGood old Kentucky ryeSuits me the best; give me a drink,Whenever I am dry."But I have never tasted meat,Nor cabbage, corn nor beans,Nor fluid food one half as sweetAs that first mess of greens.It's not the pictur' near as muchAs the thoughts that gethers round,That always gives the paintin' suchDistinction and renown.There's nothin' in a grassy knollSo beautiful to see,And yit I think within my soulIt beats a flowery lea.And oh, I'd gitMunkasket,If I only had the means,To paint me Kate with basketA-getherin' of greens.
You may boast of landscapes goldenWith the harvest's ripenin' grain,Or of Autumn pensive foldin,All her flowers to sleep again;But to me the woods a-ringin'With the notes of happy birdsWhen the April buds is springin'Is a song too sweet for words:And the beautifullest, since you ask it,In art or nature's scenes,Is Kate with knife and basket,A-getherin' of greens.
It pears to lift the veil of yearsAnd opens up to view,A scene that brings me soothin' tearsAs sweet as tender dewTo grass that suns have withered dry:I can see her jist as plain,Though Father Time has dimmed my eye,And ricollect the pain,I suffered while she paused a-thinkin'What such an answer means;And the "Stay and help us, John," a-winkin'"Eat our first mess of greens."
I've heard my neighbor Johnson sayHis choice was chicken pie;And Perkins lows he likes to stayHis stomach with a fry:And Jones, he says, says he, "I thinkGood old Kentucky ryeSuits me the best; give me a drink,Whenever I am dry."But I have never tasted meat,Nor cabbage, corn nor beans,Nor fluid food one half as sweetAs that first mess of greens.
It's not the pictur' near as muchAs the thoughts that gethers round,That always gives the paintin' suchDistinction and renown.There's nothin' in a grassy knollSo beautiful to see,And yit I think within my soulIt beats a flowery lea.And oh, I'd gitMunkasket,If I only had the means,To paint me Kate with basketA-getherin' of greens.
Wes Banks, you know, he teaches school,Has teached for nigh on forty year,And I jist want to say right here,That though he may not fit your rule,Wes Banks, by jings, he ain't no fool.And if you bet your dough 'gin Wes,You'll want your money back, I guess.Wes Banks, he never wears a tie—Them things, you know, some call cravats,Nor collar neither, and jist that'sThe very tarnal reason whyI bet on Wes, and that's no lie:No man can lead Wes by the noseIf he don't wear the latest clothes.Wes Banks, you know, I'm speakin' uv:He lives way out on old Line Fork,As good a place as in New York;Out where the birds sing lays of love,The wren, the thrush, the turtle dove—Sometimes, it seems, because of Wes,Who loves their music, more or less.Wes claims that now for forty yearHe has prescribed strong peachtree teaFor cusses, which he says that heCould not intrest except by fear:Wes makes this claim while standing hereBefore his boys now teaching school,Who can't remember such a rule.Now Wes, he's awful in his speech:He says I "seed" and "done" and "haint,"And lots of things that's wrong and quaint;But many's them who pray and preachAnd go to school and learn to teachAnd wear a darned sight better clothes,Still never learn what Wesly knows.Well, Wes ain't much at institutes;Don't like to make a public talk,And demonstrate with board and chalk.No, he ain't much on sich disputes;But Wes at school gits down and roots:Up here Wes Banks is jist a wag,With striped candy in a bag.Old Wes is poor as money goes,But rich in love and charity;His heart goes out in sympathyTo barefoot boy with bleeding toes,And girls in torn and tattered clothes;And with his heart goes Wes's coin,To heal the wound and gird the loin.And this is why tonight I riseTo speak how Wesly Bank's lifeThrough forty years of schoolroom strifeBy living truth has conquered lies,And made his students good and wise:You can't size Wes by looks or speech,No more than some by what they preach.
Wes Banks, you know, he teaches school,Has teached for nigh on forty year,And I jist want to say right here,That though he may not fit your rule,Wes Banks, by jings, he ain't no fool.And if you bet your dough 'gin Wes,You'll want your money back, I guess.Wes Banks, he never wears a tie—Them things, you know, some call cravats,Nor collar neither, and jist that'sThe very tarnal reason whyI bet on Wes, and that's no lie:No man can lead Wes by the noseIf he don't wear the latest clothes.Wes Banks, you know, I'm speakin' uv:He lives way out on old Line Fork,As good a place as in New York;Out where the birds sing lays of love,The wren, the thrush, the turtle dove—Sometimes, it seems, because of Wes,Who loves their music, more or less.Wes claims that now for forty yearHe has prescribed strong peachtree teaFor cusses, which he says that heCould not intrest except by fear:Wes makes this claim while standing hereBefore his boys now teaching school,Who can't remember such a rule.Now Wes, he's awful in his speech:He says I "seed" and "done" and "haint,"And lots of things that's wrong and quaint;But many's them who pray and preachAnd go to school and learn to teachAnd wear a darned sight better clothes,Still never learn what Wesly knows.Well, Wes ain't much at institutes;Don't like to make a public talk,And demonstrate with board and chalk.No, he ain't much on sich disputes;But Wes at school gits down and roots:Up here Wes Banks is jist a wag,With striped candy in a bag.Old Wes is poor as money goes,But rich in love and charity;His heart goes out in sympathyTo barefoot boy with bleeding toes,And girls in torn and tattered clothes;And with his heart goes Wes's coin,To heal the wound and gird the loin.And this is why tonight I riseTo speak how Wesly Bank's lifeThrough forty years of schoolroom strifeBy living truth has conquered lies,And made his students good and wise:You can't size Wes by looks or speech,No more than some by what they preach.
Wes Banks, you know, he teaches school,Has teached for nigh on forty year,And I jist want to say right here,That though he may not fit your rule,Wes Banks, by jings, he ain't no fool.And if you bet your dough 'gin Wes,You'll want your money back, I guess.
Wes Banks, he never wears a tie—Them things, you know, some call cravats,Nor collar neither, and jist that'sThe very tarnal reason whyI bet on Wes, and that's no lie:No man can lead Wes by the noseIf he don't wear the latest clothes.
Wes Banks, you know, I'm speakin' uv:He lives way out on old Line Fork,As good a place as in New York;Out where the birds sing lays of love,The wren, the thrush, the turtle dove—Sometimes, it seems, because of Wes,Who loves their music, more or less.
Wes claims that now for forty yearHe has prescribed strong peachtree teaFor cusses, which he says that heCould not intrest except by fear:Wes makes this claim while standing hereBefore his boys now teaching school,Who can't remember such a rule.
Now Wes, he's awful in his speech:He says I "seed" and "done" and "haint,"And lots of things that's wrong and quaint;But many's them who pray and preachAnd go to school and learn to teachAnd wear a darned sight better clothes,Still never learn what Wesly knows.
Well, Wes ain't much at institutes;Don't like to make a public talk,And demonstrate with board and chalk.No, he ain't much on sich disputes;But Wes at school gits down and roots:Up here Wes Banks is jist a wag,With striped candy in a bag.
Old Wes is poor as money goes,But rich in love and charity;His heart goes out in sympathyTo barefoot boy with bleeding toes,And girls in torn and tattered clothes;And with his heart goes Wes's coin,To heal the wound and gird the loin.
And this is why tonight I riseTo speak how Wesly Bank's lifeThrough forty years of schoolroom strifeBy living truth has conquered lies,And made his students good and wise:You can't size Wes by looks or speech,No more than some by what they preach.