THE LATEST DECALOGUE.Thou shalt have one God only: whoWould be at the expense of two?No graven images may beWorshipped, save in the currency.Swear not at all; since for thy curseThine enemy is none the worse.At church on Sunday to attendWill serve to keep the world thy friend:Honor thy parents; that is, allFrom whom advancement may befall.Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not striveOfficiously to keep alive.Adultery it is not fitOr safe (for woman) to commit.Thou shalt not steal: an empty feat,When 't is as lucrative to cheat.Bear not false witness: let the lieHave time on its own wings to fly.Thou shalt not covet; but traditionApproves all forms of competition.ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
THE LATEST DECALOGUE.
Thou shalt have one God only: whoWould be at the expense of two?No graven images may beWorshipped, save in the currency.Swear not at all; since for thy curseThine enemy is none the worse.At church on Sunday to attendWill serve to keep the world thy friend:Honor thy parents; that is, allFrom whom advancement may befall.Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not striveOfficiously to keep alive.Adultery it is not fitOr safe (for woman) to commit.Thou shalt not steal: an empty feat,When 't is as lucrative to cheat.Bear not false witness: let the lieHave time on its own wings to fly.Thou shalt not covet; but traditionApproves all forms of competition.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
THE NEW CHURCH ORGANThey've got a bran new organ, Sue,For all their fuss and search;They 've done just as they said they 'd do,And fetched it into church.They 're bound the critter shall be seen,And on the preacher's right,They 've hoisted up their new machineIn everybody's sight.They 've got a chorister and choir,Ag'inmyvoice and vote;For it was nevermydesireTo praise the Lord by note!I've been a sister good an' true,For five an' thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,Just as the preacher read;And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,I took the fork an' led!An' now, their bold, new-fangled waysIs comin' all about;And I, right in my latter days,Am fairly crowded out!To-day, the preacher, good old dear,With tears all in his eyes,Read—"I can read my title clearTo mansions in the skies."—I al'ays liked that blessèd hymn—I s'pose I al'ays will;It somehow gratifiesmywhim,In good old Ortonville;But when that choir got up to sing,I couldn't catch a word;They sung the most dog-gonedest thingA body ever heard!Some worldly chaps was standin' near,An' when I see them grin,I bid farewell to every fear,And boldly waded in.I thought I 'd chase the tune along,An' tried with all my might;But though my voice is good an' strong,I couldn't steer it right.When they was high, then I was low,An' also contra'wise;And I too fast, or they too slow,To "mansions in the skies."An' after every verse, you know,They played a little tune;I didn't understand, an' soI started in too soon.I pitched it purty middlin' high,And fetched a lusty tone,But O, alas! I found that IWas singin' there alone!They laughed a little, I am told;But I had done my best;And not a wave of trouble rolledAcross my peaceful breast.And Sister Brown,—I could but look,—She sits right front of me;She never was no singin' book,An' never went to be;But then she al'ays tried to doThe best she could, she said;She understood the time, right through,An' kep' it with her head;But when she tried this mornin', O,I had to laugh, or cough!It kep' her head a bobbin' so,It e'en a'most come off!An' Deacon Tubbs,—he all broke down,As one might well suppose;He took one look at Sister Brown,And meekly scratched his nose.He looked his hymn-book through and through,And laid it on the seat,And then a pensive sigh he drew,And looked completely beat.An' when they took another bout,He didn't even rise;But drawed his red bandanner out,An' wiped his weepin' eyes.I've been a sister, good an' true,For five an' thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;But death will stop my voice, I know,For he is on my track;And some day, I 'll to meetin' go,And nevermore come back.And when the folks get up to sing—Whene'er that time shall be—I do not want nopatentthingA squealin' over me!WILL CARLETON.
THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN
They've got a bran new organ, Sue,For all their fuss and search;They 've done just as they said they 'd do,And fetched it into church.They 're bound the critter shall be seen,And on the preacher's right,They 've hoisted up their new machineIn everybody's sight.They 've got a chorister and choir,Ag'inmyvoice and vote;For it was nevermydesireTo praise the Lord by note!
I've been a sister good an' true,For five an' thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,Just as the preacher read;And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,I took the fork an' led!An' now, their bold, new-fangled waysIs comin' all about;And I, right in my latter days,Am fairly crowded out!
To-day, the preacher, good old dear,With tears all in his eyes,Read—"I can read my title clearTo mansions in the skies."—I al'ays liked that blessèd hymn—I s'pose I al'ays will;It somehow gratifiesmywhim,In good old Ortonville;But when that choir got up to sing,I couldn't catch a word;They sung the most dog-gonedest thingA body ever heard!
Some worldly chaps was standin' near,An' when I see them grin,I bid farewell to every fear,And boldly waded in.I thought I 'd chase the tune along,An' tried with all my might;But though my voice is good an' strong,I couldn't steer it right.When they was high, then I was low,An' also contra'wise;And I too fast, or they too slow,To "mansions in the skies."
An' after every verse, you know,They played a little tune;I didn't understand, an' soI started in too soon.I pitched it purty middlin' high,And fetched a lusty tone,But O, alas! I found that IWas singin' there alone!They laughed a little, I am told;But I had done my best;And not a wave of trouble rolledAcross my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown,—I could but look,—She sits right front of me;She never was no singin' book,An' never went to be;But then she al'ays tried to doThe best she could, she said;She understood the time, right through,An' kep' it with her head;But when she tried this mornin', O,I had to laugh, or cough!It kep' her head a bobbin' so,It e'en a'most come off!
An' Deacon Tubbs,—he all broke down,As one might well suppose;He took one look at Sister Brown,And meekly scratched his nose.He looked his hymn-book through and through,And laid it on the seat,And then a pensive sigh he drew,And looked completely beat.An' when they took another bout,He didn't even rise;But drawed his red bandanner out,An' wiped his weepin' eyes.
I've been a sister, good an' true,For five an' thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;But death will stop my voice, I know,For he is on my track;And some day, I 'll to meetin' go,And nevermore come back.And when the folks get up to sing—Whene'er that time shall be—I do not want nopatentthingA squealin' over me!
WILL CARLETON.
TONIS AD RESTO MARE.Air: "O Mary, heave a sigh for me."O mare æva si forme;Forme ure tonitru;Iambicum as amandum,Olet Hymen promptu;Mihi is vetas an ne se,As humano erebi;Olet mecum marito te,Oreta beta pi.Alas, plano more meretrix,Mi ardor vel uno;Inferiam ure artis base,Tolerat me urebo.Ah me ve ara silicet,Vi laudu vimin thus?Hiatus as arandum sex—Illuc Ionicus.Heu sed heu vix en imago,My missis mare sta;O cantu redit in mihiHibernas arida?A veri vafer heri si,Mihi resolves indu:Totius olet Hymen cum—Accepta tonitru.JONATHAN SWIFT.
TONIS AD RESTO MARE.Air: "O Mary, heave a sigh for me."
O mare æva si forme;Forme ure tonitru;Iambicum as amandum,Olet Hymen promptu;Mihi is vetas an ne se,As humano erebi;Olet mecum marito te,Oreta beta pi.
Alas, plano more meretrix,Mi ardor vel uno;Inferiam ure artis base,Tolerat me urebo.Ah me ve ara silicet,Vi laudu vimin thus?Hiatus as arandum sex—Illuc Ionicus.
Heu sed heu vix en imago,My missis mare sta;O cantu redit in mihiHibernas arida?A veri vafer heri si,Mihi resolves indu:Totius olet Hymen cum—Accepta tonitru.
JONATHAN SWIFT.
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY.There was a lady lived at Leith,A lady very stylish, man;And yet, in spite of all her teeth,She fell in love with an Irishman—A nasty, ugly Irishman,A wild, tremendous Irishman,A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting,roaring Irishman.His face was no ways beautiful,For with small-pox 't was scarred across;And the shoulders of the ugly dogWere almost double a yard across.Oh, the lump of an Irishman,The whiskey-devouring Irishman,The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue—the fighting, rioting Irishman.One of his eyes was bottle-green,And the other eye was out, my dear;And the calves of his wicked-looking legsWere more than two feet about, my dear.Oh, the great big Irishman,The rattling, battling Irishman—The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leatheringswash of an Irishman.He took so much of Lundy-footThat he used to snort and snuffle—O!And in shape and size the fellow's neckWas as bad as the neck of a buffalo.Oh, the horrible Irishman,The thundering, blundering Irishman—The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing,hashing Irishman.His name was a terrible name, indeed,Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punchHe'd not rest till he filled it full again.The boozing, bruising Irishman,The 'toxicated Irishman—The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy,no dandy Irishman.This was the lad the lady loved,Like all the girls of quality;And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,Just by the way of jollity.Oh, the leathering Irishman,The barbarous, savage Irishman—The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were botheredI'm sure by this Irishman.WILLIAM MAGINN.
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY.
There was a lady lived at Leith,A lady very stylish, man;And yet, in spite of all her teeth,She fell in love with an Irishman—A nasty, ugly Irishman,A wild, tremendous Irishman,A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting,roaring Irishman.
His face was no ways beautiful,For with small-pox 't was scarred across;And the shoulders of the ugly dogWere almost double a yard across.Oh, the lump of an Irishman,The whiskey-devouring Irishman,The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue—the fighting, rioting Irishman.
One of his eyes was bottle-green,And the other eye was out, my dear;And the calves of his wicked-looking legsWere more than two feet about, my dear.Oh, the great big Irishman,The rattling, battling Irishman—The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leatheringswash of an Irishman.
He took so much of Lundy-footThat he used to snort and snuffle—O!And in shape and size the fellow's neckWas as bad as the neck of a buffalo.Oh, the horrible Irishman,The thundering, blundering Irishman—The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing,hashing Irishman.
His name was a terrible name, indeed,Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punchHe'd not rest till he filled it full again.The boozing, bruising Irishman,The 'toxicated Irishman—The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy,no dandy Irishman.
This was the lad the lady loved,Like all the girls of quality;And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,Just by the way of jollity.Oh, the leathering Irishman,The barbarous, savage Irishman—The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were botheredI'm sure by this Irishman.
WILLIAM MAGINN.
THE RECRUIT.Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Bedad, yer a bad 'un!Now turn out yer toes!Yer belt is unhookit,Yer cap is on crookit,Ye may not be dhrunk,But, be jabers, ye look it!Wan—two!Wan—two!Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"A saint it ud saddenTo dhrill such a mug!Eyes front!—ye baboon, ye!—Chin up!—ye gossoon, ye!Ye've jaws like a goat—Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye!Wan—two!Wan—two!Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!Ye've eyes like a bat!—can ye see in the dark?"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Yer figger wants padd'n'—Sure, man, ye've no shape!Behind ye yer shouldersStick out like two bowlders;Yer shins is as thinAs a pair of pen-holders!Wan—two!Wan—two!Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!I'm dhry as a dog—I can't shpake but I bark!"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Me heart it ud gladdenTo blacken yer eye.Ye're gettin' too bold, yeCompel me to scold ye,—'Tis halt! that I say,—Will ye heed what I told ye?Wan—two!Wan—two!Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"I'll not stay a gadd'nWid dagoes like you!I'll travel no farther,I'm dyin' for—wather;—Come on, if ye like,—Can ye loan me a quather?Ya-as, you,What,—two?And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy!Whurroo!You'll do!Whist! Mark!The Rigiment's flatthered to own ye, me spark!"ROBERT WILLIAM CHAMBERS.
THE RECRUIT.
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Bedad, yer a bad 'un!Now turn out yer toes!Yer belt is unhookit,Yer cap is on crookit,Ye may not be dhrunk,But, be jabers, ye look it!Wan—two!Wan—two!Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"A saint it ud saddenTo dhrill such a mug!Eyes front!—ye baboon, ye!—Chin up!—ye gossoon, ye!Ye've jaws like a goat—Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye!Wan—two!Wan—two!Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!Ye've eyes like a bat!—can ye see in the dark?"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Yer figger wants padd'n'—Sure, man, ye've no shape!Behind ye yer shouldersStick out like two bowlders;Yer shins is as thinAs a pair of pen-holders!Wan—two!Wan—two!Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!I'm dhry as a dog—I can't shpake but I bark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Me heart it ud gladdenTo blacken yer eye.Ye're gettin' too bold, yeCompel me to scold ye,—'Tis halt! that I say,—Will ye heed what I told ye?Wan—two!Wan—two!Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"I'll not stay a gadd'nWid dagoes like you!I'll travel no farther,I'm dyin' for—wather;—Come on, if ye like,—Can ye loan me a quather?Ya-as, you,What,—two?And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy!Whurroo!You'll do!Whist! Mark!The Rigiment's flatthered to own ye, me spark!"
ROBERT WILLIAM CHAMBERS.
RITTER HUGO.Der noble Ritter HugoVon SchwillensanfensteinRode out mit shpeer und helmet,Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.Und oop dere rose a meermaid,Vot hadn't got nodings on,Und she say, "O, Ritter Hugo,Vare you goes mit yourself alone?"Und he says, "I ride in de creen-wood,Mit helmet and mit shpeer,Till I cooms into ein Gasthaus,Und dere I drinks some peer."Und den outshpoke de maiden,Vot hadn't got nodings on,"I ton't dink mooch of beeblesDat goes mit demselfs alone."You'd petter come down in de wasser,Vare dere's heaps of dings to see,Und hafe a shplendid dinner,Und trafel along mit me."Dare you sees de fish a schwimmin,Und you catches dem efery one."So sang dis wasser maiden,Vot hadn't got nodings on."Dare is drunks all full mit money,In ships dat vent down of old;Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!To shimmerin crowns of gold."Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches!Shoost look at dese diamond rings!Come down und fill your bockets,Und I'll kiss you like eferydings!"Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und your lager?Coom down into der Rhine!Dere ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne,Vonce filled mit gold-red vine!"Datfetched him,—he shtood all shpell-pound,She pulled his coat-tails down,She drawed him under de wasser,Dis maid mit nodings on.CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
RITTER HUGO.
Der noble Ritter HugoVon SchwillensanfensteinRode out mit shpeer und helmet,Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.
Und oop dere rose a meermaid,Vot hadn't got nodings on,Und she say, "O, Ritter Hugo,Vare you goes mit yourself alone?"
Und he says, "I ride in de creen-wood,Mit helmet and mit shpeer,Till I cooms into ein Gasthaus,Und dere I drinks some peer."
Und den outshpoke de maiden,Vot hadn't got nodings on,"I ton't dink mooch of beeblesDat goes mit demselfs alone.
"You'd petter come down in de wasser,Vare dere's heaps of dings to see,Und hafe a shplendid dinner,Und trafel along mit me.
"Dare you sees de fish a schwimmin,Und you catches dem efery one."So sang dis wasser maiden,Vot hadn't got nodings on.
"Dare is drunks all full mit money,In ships dat vent down of old;Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!To shimmerin crowns of gold.
"Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches!Shoost look at dese diamond rings!Come down und fill your bockets,Und I'll kiss you like eferydings!
"Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und your lager?Coom down into der Rhine!Dere ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne,Vonce filled mit gold-red vine!"
Datfetched him,—he shtood all shpell-pound,She pulled his coat-tails down,She drawed him under de wasser,Dis maid mit nodings on.
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY.Hans Breitmann gife a barty,Dey had biano-blayin;I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,Her name was Madilda Yane.She had haar as prown ash a pretzel,Her eyes vas himmel-plue,Und ven dey looket indo mine,Dey shplit mine heart in two.Hans Breitmann gife a barty,I vent dere you'll pe pound.I valtzet mit Madilda YaneUnd vent shpinnen round und round.De pootiest Frauelein in de house,She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,Und efery dime she gife a shoompShe make de vindows sound.Hans Breitmann gife a barty;I dells you it cost him dear.Dey rolled in more as sefen kecksOf foost-rate Lager Beer.Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket inDe Deutschers gifes a cheer.I dinks dat so vine a bartyNefer coom to a het dis year.Hans Breitmann gife a barty;Dere all vas Souse und Brouse.Ven de sooper comed in, de gompanyDid make demselfs to house;Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost,De Bratwurst und Braten vine,Und vash der Abendessen downMit four parrels of Neckarwein.Hans Breitmann gife a barty;We all cot troonk ash bigs.I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier,Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs.Und denn I gissed Madilda YaneUnd she shlog me on de kop,Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecksDill de coonshtable made oos shtop.Hans Breitmann gife a barty—Where ish dat barty now?Where ish de lofely golden cloudDat float on de moundain's prow?Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern—De shtar of de shpirit's light?All goned afay mit de Lager Beer—Afay in de Ewigkeit!CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,Dey had biano-blayin;I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,Her name was Madilda Yane.She had haar as prown ash a pretzel,Her eyes vas himmel-plue,Und ven dey looket indo mine,Dey shplit mine heart in two.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,I vent dere you'll pe pound.I valtzet mit Madilda YaneUnd vent shpinnen round und round.De pootiest Frauelein in de house,She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,Und efery dime she gife a shoompShe make de vindows sound.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;I dells you it cost him dear.Dey rolled in more as sefen kecksOf foost-rate Lager Beer.Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket inDe Deutschers gifes a cheer.I dinks dat so vine a bartyNefer coom to a het dis year.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;Dere all vas Souse und Brouse.Ven de sooper comed in, de gompanyDid make demselfs to house;Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost,De Bratwurst und Braten vine,Und vash der Abendessen downMit four parrels of Neckarwein.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;We all cot troonk ash bigs.I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier,Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs.Und denn I gissed Madilda YaneUnd she shlog me on de kop,Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecksDill de coonshtable made oos shtop.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty—Where ish dat barty now?Where ish de lofely golden cloudDat float on de moundain's prow?Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern—De shtar of de shpirit's light?All goned afay mit de Lager Beer—Afay in de Ewigkeit!
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.I haf von funny leedle poy,Vot gomes schust to mine knee;Der queerest chap, der createst rogue,As efer you dit see.He runs und schumps und schmashes dingsIn all barts off der house;But vot off dot? he vas mine son,Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.He get der measles und der mumbs,Und efferyding dot's oudt;He sbills mine glass off lager-bier,Poots snoof indo mine kraut;He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese—Dot vas der roughest chouse;I'd take dot from no oder poyBut little Yawcob Strauss.He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrumUnd cuts mine cane in twoTo make der schticks to beat it mit—Mine cracious! dot vas drue.I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,He kicks oup sooch a touse;But neffer mind—der poys vas fewLike dot young Yawcob Strauss.He ask me questions sooch as dose:Who baints mine nose so red?Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudtVrom der hair upon mine hed?Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lampVene'er der glim I douse;How gan I all dose dings eggsblainTo dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?I somedimes dink I shall go vildMit sooch a grazy poy,Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,Und beaceful dimes enshoy;But ven he vas ashleep in ped,So guiet as a mouse,I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings,But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.
I haf von funny leedle poy,Vot gomes schust to mine knee;Der queerest chap, der createst rogue,As efer you dit see.He runs und schumps und schmashes dingsIn all barts off der house;But vot off dot? he vas mine son,Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measles und der mumbs,Und efferyding dot's oudt;He sbills mine glass off lager-bier,Poots snoof indo mine kraut;He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese—Dot vas der roughest chouse;I'd take dot from no oder poyBut little Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrumUnd cuts mine cane in twoTo make der schticks to beat it mit—Mine cracious! dot vas drue.I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,He kicks oup sooch a touse;But neffer mind—der poys vas fewLike dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He ask me questions sooch as dose:Who baints mine nose so red?Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudtVrom der hair upon mine hed?Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lampVene'er der glim I douse;How gan I all dose dings eggsblainTo dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?
I somedimes dink I shall go vildMit sooch a grazy poy,Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,Und beaceful dimes enshoy;But ven he vas ashleep in ped,So guiet as a mouse,I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings,But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."
CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
DOT LONG-HANDLED DIPPER.Der boet may sing off "Der Oldt Oaken Bookit,"Und in schveetest langvitch its virtues may tell;Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it,Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose vrom der vell.I don'd take some schtock in dot manner off trinking!It vas too mooch like horses und cattle, I dink.Dhere vas more sadisfactions, in my vay of dinking,Mit dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink."How schveet from der green mossy brim to receive it"—Dot vould soundt pooty goot—eef it only vas drue—Der vater schbills ofer, you petter pelieve it!Und runs down your schleeve and schlops into your shoe.Dhen down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle,Und makes your eyes vater so gvick as a vink.I dells you dot bookit don'd hold a candleTo dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.How nice it musd been in der rough vinter veddher,Vhen it settles righdt down to a cold, freezing rain,To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feddher,Und findt dot der bookit vas proke off der chain.Dhen down in der vell mit a pole you go fishing,Vhile indo your back cooms an oldt-fashioned kink;I pet you mine life all der time you vas vishingFor dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.How handy it vas schust to turn on der faucet,Vhere der vater flows down vrom der schpring on der hill!I schust vas der schap dot vill alvays indorse it,Oxsbecially nighds vhen der veddher vas chill.Vhen Pfeiffer's oldt vell mit der schnow vas all cofered,Und he vades droo der schnow drift to get him a trink,I schlips vrom der hearth vhere der schiltren vas hofered,To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.Dhen gife oup der bookits und pails to der horses;Off mikerobes und tadpoles schust gif dhem dheir fill!Gife me dot pure vater dot all der time coursesDroo dhose pipes dot run down vrom der schpring on der hill.Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I gets rich in,Und frendts all aroundt me dheir glasses schall clink,I schtill vill rememper dot oldt coundtry kitchen,Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
DOT LONG-HANDLED DIPPER.
Der boet may sing off "Der Oldt Oaken Bookit,"Und in schveetest langvitch its virtues may tell;Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it,Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose vrom der vell.I don'd take some schtock in dot manner off trinking!It vas too mooch like horses und cattle, I dink.Dhere vas more sadisfactions, in my vay of dinking,Mit dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
"How schveet from der green mossy brim to receive it"—Dot vould soundt pooty goot—eef it only vas drue—Der vater schbills ofer, you petter pelieve it!Und runs down your schleeve and schlops into your shoe.Dhen down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle,Und makes your eyes vater so gvick as a vink.I dells you dot bookit don'd hold a candleTo dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.
How nice it musd been in der rough vinter veddher,Vhen it settles righdt down to a cold, freezing rain,To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feddher,Und findt dot der bookit vas proke off der chain.Dhen down in der vell mit a pole you go fishing,Vhile indo your back cooms an oldt-fashioned kink;I pet you mine life all der time you vas vishingFor dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
How handy it vas schust to turn on der faucet,Vhere der vater flows down vrom der schpring on der hill!I schust vas der schap dot vill alvays indorse it,Oxsbecially nighds vhen der veddher vas chill.Vhen Pfeiffer's oldt vell mit der schnow vas all cofered,Und he vades droo der schnow drift to get him a trink,I schlips vrom der hearth vhere der schiltren vas hofered,To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
Dhen gife oup der bookits und pails to der horses;Off mikerobes und tadpoles schust gif dhem dheir fill!Gife me dot pure vater dot all der time coursesDroo dhose pipes dot run down vrom der schpring on der hill.Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I gets rich in,Und frendts all aroundt me dheir glasses schall clink,I schtill vill rememper dot oldt coundtry kitchen,Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!Bishop and abbot and prior were there;Many a monk, and many a friar,Many a knight, and many a squire,With a great many more of lesser degree,—In sooth, a goodly company;And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.Never, I ween,Was a prouder seen,Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!In and out,Through the motley rout,That little Jackdaw kept hopping about:Here and there,Like a dog in a fair,Over comfits and cates,And dishes and plates,Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all.With a saucy air,He perched on the chairWhere, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;And he peered in the faceOf his Lordship's Grace,With a satisfied look, as if he would say,"We twoare the greatest folks here to-day!"And the priests, with awe,As such freaks they saw,Said, "The Devil must be in that Little Jackdaw!"The feast was over, the board was cleared,The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,And six little Singing-boys,—dear little soulsIn nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,—Came, in order due,Two by two,Marching that grand refectory through!A nice little boy held a golden ewer,Embossed and filled with water, as pureAs any that flows between Rheims and Namur.Which a nice little boy stood ready to catchIn a fine golden hand-basin made to match.Two nice little boys, rather more grown,Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne;And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope!One little boy moreA napkin bore,Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sightOf these nice little boys dressed all in white;From his finger he drawsHis costly turquoise:And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,Deposits it straightBy the side of his plate,While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait:Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!————There's a cry and a shout,And a deuce of a rout,And nobody seems to know what they're about,But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;The friars are kneeling,And hunting and feelingThe carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.The Cardinal drewOff each plum-colored shoe,And left his red stockings exposed to the view;He peeps, and he feelsIn the toes and the heels.They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,—They take up the poker and poke out the grates,—They turn up the rugs,They examine the mugs;But, no!—no such thing,—They can't findthe ring!And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it,Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!"The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!In holy anger and pious griefHe solemnly cursed that rascally thief!He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;He cursed him in sleeping, that every nightHe should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright.He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying;He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!—Never was heard such a terrible curse!But what gave riseTo no little surprise,Nobody seemed one penny the worse!The day was gone,The night came on,The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;When the sacristan saw,On crumpled claw,Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!No longer gay,As on yesterday;His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;—His pinions drooped,—he could hardly stand,—His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;His eye so dim,So wasted each limb,That, heedless of grammar, they all cried,"That's him!—That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"The poor little Jackdaw,When the monks he saw,Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;And turned his bald head as much as to say,"Pray be so good as to walk this way!"Slower and slowerHe limped on before,Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,Where the first thing they saw,Midst the sticks and the straw,Was theRING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,And off that terrible curse he took:The mute expressionServed in lieu of confession,And, being thus coupled with full restitution,The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!—When those words were heard,That poor little birdWas so changed in a moment, 't was really absurd:He grew sleek and fat;In addition to that,A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!His tail waggled moreEven than before;But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair:He hopped now aboutWith a gait devout;At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.If any one lied, or if any one swore,Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,That good JackdawWould give a great "Caw!"As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"While many remarked, as his manners they saw,That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"He long lived the prideOf that country side,And at last in the odor of sanctity died;When, as words were too faintHis merits to paint,The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,It is the custom of Rome new names to bestow,So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow!RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.(Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq.)
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!Bishop and abbot and prior were there;Many a monk, and many a friar,Many a knight, and many a squire,With a great many more of lesser degree,—In sooth, a goodly company;And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.Never, I ween,Was a prouder seen,Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!In and out,Through the motley rout,That little Jackdaw kept hopping about:Here and there,Like a dog in a fair,Over comfits and cates,And dishes and plates,Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all.With a saucy air,He perched on the chairWhere, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;And he peered in the faceOf his Lordship's Grace,With a satisfied look, as if he would say,"We twoare the greatest folks here to-day!"And the priests, with awe,As such freaks they saw,Said, "The Devil must be in that Little Jackdaw!"The feast was over, the board was cleared,The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,And six little Singing-boys,—dear little soulsIn nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,—Came, in order due,Two by two,Marching that grand refectory through!A nice little boy held a golden ewer,Embossed and filled with water, as pureAs any that flows between Rheims and Namur.Which a nice little boy stood ready to catchIn a fine golden hand-basin made to match.Two nice little boys, rather more grown,Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne;And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope!One little boy moreA napkin bore,Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sightOf these nice little boys dressed all in white;From his finger he drawsHis costly turquoise:And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,Deposits it straightBy the side of his plate,While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait:Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!————
There's a cry and a shout,And a deuce of a rout,And nobody seems to know what they're about,But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;The friars are kneeling,And hunting and feelingThe carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.The Cardinal drewOff each plum-colored shoe,And left his red stockings exposed to the view;He peeps, and he feelsIn the toes and the heels.They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,—They take up the poker and poke out the grates,—They turn up the rugs,They examine the mugs;But, no!—no such thing,—They can't findthe ring!And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it,Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!"
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!In holy anger and pious griefHe solemnly cursed that rascally thief!He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;He cursed him in sleeping, that every nightHe should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright.He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying;He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!—Never was heard such a terrible curse!But what gave riseTo no little surprise,Nobody seemed one penny the worse!
The day was gone,The night came on,The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;When the sacristan saw,On crumpled claw,Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!No longer gay,As on yesterday;His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;—His pinions drooped,—he could hardly stand,—His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;His eye so dim,So wasted each limb,That, heedless of grammar, they all cried,"That's him!—That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing,That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"The poor little Jackdaw,When the monks he saw,Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;And turned his bald head as much as to say,"Pray be so good as to walk this way!"Slower and slowerHe limped on before,Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,Where the first thing they saw,Midst the sticks and the straw,Was theRING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,And off that terrible curse he took:The mute expressionServed in lieu of confession,And, being thus coupled with full restitution,The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!—When those words were heard,That poor little birdWas so changed in a moment, 't was really absurd:He grew sleek and fat;In addition to that,A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!His tail waggled moreEven than before;But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair:He hopped now aboutWith a gait devout;At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.If any one lied, or if any one swore,Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,That good JackdawWould give a great "Caw!"As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"While many remarked, as his manners they saw,That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"He long lived the prideOf that country side,And at last in the odor of sanctity died;When, as words were too faintHis merits to paint,The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,It is the custom of Rome new names to bestow,So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow!
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.(Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq.)
AMERICA.FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS".There are truths you Americans need to be told,And it never'll refute them to swagger and scold;John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler,At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar;But to scorn i-dollar-try's what very few do,And John goes to that church as often as you do.No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him,'Tis enough to go quietly on and outgrow him;Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number OneDisplacing himself in the mind of his son,And detests the same faults in himself he'd neglectedWhen he sees them again in his child's glass reflected;To love one another you're too like by half,If he is a bull, you're a pretty stout calf,And tear your own pasture for naught but to showWhat a nice pair of horns you're beginning to grow.There are one or two things I should just like to hint,For you don't often get the truth told you in print;The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders)Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders;Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves,You've the gait and the manner of runaway slaves;Though you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it;And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it;Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl,With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl,With eyes bold as Herë's, and hair floating free,And full of the sun as the spray of the sea,Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing,Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing,Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass,Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass,Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist,And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste;She loses her fresh country charm when she takesAny mirror except her own rivers and lakes.JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
AMERICA.FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS".
There are truths you Americans need to be told,And it never'll refute them to swagger and scold;John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler,At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar;But to scorn i-dollar-try's what very few do,And John goes to that church as often as you do.No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him,'Tis enough to go quietly on and outgrow him;Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number OneDisplacing himself in the mind of his son,And detests the same faults in himself he'd neglectedWhen he sees them again in his child's glass reflected;To love one another you're too like by half,If he is a bull, you're a pretty stout calf,And tear your own pasture for naught but to showWhat a nice pair of horns you're beginning to grow.
There are one or two things I should just like to hint,For you don't often get the truth told you in print;The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders)Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders;Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves,You've the gait and the manner of runaway slaves;Though you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it;And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it;Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl,With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl,With eyes bold as Herë's, and hair floating free,And full of the sun as the spray of the sea,Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing,Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing,Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass,Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass,Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist,And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste;She loses her fresh country charm when she takesAny mirror except her own rivers and lakes.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.[6]FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS,"NO. III.Guvener B. is a sensible man;He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;—But John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote for Guvener B.My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du?We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote for Guvener B.Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—He's ben true tooneparty,—an' thet is himself;—So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote for Gineral C.Gineral C, has gone in fer the war;He don't vally principle more'n an old cud;Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote for Gineral C.We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't.We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,An' thet eppylets worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson heSez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee.The side of our country must ollers be took,An' President Polk, you know,heis our country;An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a bookPuts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;Sez they're nothin' on airth but jestfee,faw,fum:And thet all this big talk of our destiniesIs half ov it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum;But John P.Robinson heSez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.Parson Wilbur sezhenever heerd in his lifeThet th' Apostles rigged out in their swallertail coats,An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson heSez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;Fer John P.Robinson heSez the world'll go right, ef he hollers outGee!JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.[6]FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS,"NO. III.
Guvener B. is a sensible man;He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;—But John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote for Guvener B.
My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du?We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote for Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—He's ben true tooneparty,—an' thet is himself;—So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote for Gineral C.
Gineral C, has gone in fer the war;He don't vally principle more'n an old cud;Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote for Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't.We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,An' thet eppylets worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson heSez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee.
The side of our country must ollers be took,An' President Polk, you know,heis our country;An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a bookPuts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;Sez they're nothin' on airth but jestfee,faw,fum:And thet all this big talk of our destiniesIs half ov it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum;But John P.Robinson heSez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sezhenever heerd in his lifeThet th' Apostles rigged out in their swallertail coats,An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson heSez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;Fer John P.Robinson heSez the world'll go right, ef he hollers outGee!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
SWELL'S SOLILOQUY.I don't appwove this hawid waw;Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;And guns and dwums are such a baw,—Why don't the pawties compwamise?Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;But why must all the vulgah cwowdPawsist in spawting unifawms,In cullahs so extwemely loud?And then the ladies, pwecious deahs!—I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;Bai Jove! I weally have my feahsThey wathah like the hawid wow!To heah the chawming cweatures talk,Like patwons of the bloody wing,Of waw and all its dawty wawk,—It doesn't seem a pwappah thing!I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night,To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz,And found her making—cwushing sight!—The weddest kind of flannel shirts!Of cawce, I wose, and sought the daw,With fawyah flashing from my eyes!I can't appwove this hawid waw;—Why don't the pawties compwamise?ANONYMOUS.
SWELL'S SOLILOQUY.
I don't appwove this hawid waw;Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;And guns and dwums are such a baw,—Why don't the pawties compwamise?
Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;But why must all the vulgah cwowdPawsist in spawting unifawms,In cullahs so extwemely loud?
And then the ladies, pwecious deahs!—I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;Bai Jove! I weally have my feahsThey wathah like the hawid wow!
To heah the chawming cweatures talk,Like patwons of the bloody wing,Of waw and all its dawty wawk,—It doesn't seem a pwappah thing!
I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night,To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz,And found her making—cwushing sight!—The weddest kind of flannel shirts!
Of cawce, I wose, and sought the daw,With fawyah flashing from my eyes!I can't appwove this hawid waw;—Why don't the pawties compwamise?
ANONYMOUS.
THE COMPLIMENT.Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest,And other raiment fair to view,I stood before my sweetheart Sue—The charming creature I love best."Tell me and does my costume suit?"I asked that apple of my eye—And then the charmer made reply,"Oh, yes, youdolook awful cute!"Although I frequently had heardMy sweetheart vent her pleasure so,I must confess I did not knowThe meaning of that favorite word.But presently at window sideWe stood and watched the passing throng,And soon a donkey passed alongWith ears like wings extended wide.And gazing at the doleful bruteMy sweetheart gave a merry cry—I quote her language with a sigh—"O Charlie, ain't he awful cute?"EUGENE FIELD.
THE COMPLIMENT.
Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest,And other raiment fair to view,I stood before my sweetheart Sue—The charming creature I love best."Tell me and does my costume suit?"I asked that apple of my eye—And then the charmer made reply,"Oh, yes, youdolook awful cute!"Although I frequently had heardMy sweetheart vent her pleasure so,I must confess I did not knowThe meaning of that favorite word.
But presently at window sideWe stood and watched the passing throng,And soon a donkey passed alongWith ears like wings extended wide.And gazing at the doleful bruteMy sweetheart gave a merry cry—I quote her language with a sigh—"O Charlie, ain't he awful cute?"
EUGENE FIELD.