Hark! the jingleOf the sleigh-bells’ song!Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle;Swiftly throngNorseland fancies, as we sail along.Like the maidenOf some fairy-tale,Lying, spell-bound, in her diamond-ladenBridal veil,Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale.High above usGleams the ancient moon,Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us:Could their tuneOnly fill our ears at heaven’s noon,You and I, love,With a wild delight,Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love,This same night,Straight to join them in their starry height!Closer nestle,Dearest, to my side.What enchantment, in our magic vesselThus to glide,Making music, on a silver tide!Jingle! jingle!How the fields go by!Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle,Far and nigh;Is the ground beneath us, or the sky?Heavenward yonder,In the lurid north,From Valhalla’s gates that roll asunder,Red and wroth,Balder’s funeral flames are blazing forth.O, what splendor!How the hues expire!All the elves of light their tribute renderTo the pyre,Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire.Jingle! jingle!Let the Earth go by!With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle;You and IWill shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh!
Hark! the jingleOf the sleigh-bells’ song!Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle;Swiftly throngNorseland fancies, as we sail along.Like the maidenOf some fairy-tale,Lying, spell-bound, in her diamond-ladenBridal veil,Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale.High above usGleams the ancient moon,Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us:Could their tuneOnly fill our ears at heaven’s noon,You and I, love,With a wild delight,Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love,This same night,Straight to join them in their starry height!Closer nestle,Dearest, to my side.What enchantment, in our magic vesselThus to glide,Making music, on a silver tide!Jingle! jingle!How the fields go by!Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle,Far and nigh;Is the ground beneath us, or the sky?Heavenward yonder,In the lurid north,From Valhalla’s gates that roll asunder,Red and wroth,Balder’s funeral flames are blazing forth.O, what splendor!How the hues expire!All the elves of light their tribute renderTo the pyre,Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire.Jingle! jingle!Let the Earth go by!With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle;You and IWill shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh!
Hark! the jingleOf the sleigh-bells’ song!Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle;Swiftly throngNorseland fancies, as we sail along.
Hark! the jingle
Of the sleigh-bells’ song!
Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle;
Swiftly throng
Norseland fancies, as we sail along.
Like the maidenOf some fairy-tale,Lying, spell-bound, in her diamond-ladenBridal veil,Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale.
Like the maiden
Of some fairy-tale,
Lying, spell-bound, in her diamond-laden
Bridal veil,
Sleeps the Earth beneath a garment pale.
High above usGleams the ancient moon,Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us:Could their tuneOnly fill our ears at heaven’s noon,
High above us
Gleams the ancient moon,
Gleam the eyes of shining ones that love us:
Could their tune
Only fill our ears at heaven’s noon,
You and I, love,With a wild delight,Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love,This same night,Straight to join them in their starry height!
You and I, love,
With a wild delight,
Hearing that seraphic strain would die, love,
This same night,
Straight to join them in their starry height!
Closer nestle,Dearest, to my side.What enchantment, in our magic vesselThus to glide,Making music, on a silver tide!
Closer nestle,
Dearest, to my side.
What enchantment, in our magic vessel
Thus to glide,
Making music, on a silver tide!
Jingle! jingle!How the fields go by!Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle,Far and nigh;Is the ground beneath us, or the sky?
Jingle! jingle!
How the fields go by!
Earth and air in snowy sheen commingle,
Far and nigh;
Is the ground beneath us, or the sky?
Heavenward yonder,In the lurid north,From Valhalla’s gates that roll asunder,Red and wroth,Balder’s funeral flames are blazing forth.
Heavenward yonder,
In the lurid north,
From Valhalla’s gates that roll asunder,
Red and wroth,
Balder’s funeral flames are blazing forth.
O, what splendor!How the hues expire!All the elves of light their tribute renderTo the pyre,Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire.
O, what splendor!
How the hues expire!
All the elves of light their tribute render
To the pyre,
Clad in robes of gold and crimson fire.
Jingle! jingle!Let the Earth go by!With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle;You and IWill shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh!
Jingle! jingle!
Let the Earth go by!
With a wilder thrill our pulses tingle;
You and I
Will shout our loves, but aye forget to sigh!
In fallow college days, Tom Harland,We both have known the ways of Yale,And talked of many a nigh and far land,O’er many a famous tap of ale.There still they sing their Gaudeamus,And see the road to glory clear;But taps, that in our day were famous,Have given place to Lager Bier.Now, settled in this island-city,We let new fashions have their weight;Though none too lucky—more’s the pity!—Can still beguile our humble stateBy finding time to come together,In every season of the year,In sunny, wet, or windy weather,And clink our mugs of Lager Bier.On winter evenings, cold and blowing,’Tis good to order “’alf-and-’alf”;To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing,And laugh a hearty English laugh;Or even a sip of mountain whiskeyCan raise a hundred phantoms dearOf days when boyish blood was frisky,And no one heard of Lager Bier.We’ve smoked in summer with Oscanyan,Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar,Until above our heads the banyanOr palm-tree seemed to spread afar;And, then and there, have drunk his sherbet,Tinct with the roses of Cashmere:That Orient calm! who would disturb itWith Norseland calls for Lager Bier?There’s Paris chocolate,—nothing sweeter,At midnight, when the dying strain,Just warbled by La Favorita,Still hugs the music-haunted brain;Yet of all bibulous compoundings,Extracts or brewings, mixed or clear,The best, in substance and surroundings,For frequent use, is Lager Bier.Karl Schæffer is a stalwart brewer,Who has above his vaults a hall,Where—fresh-tapped, foaming, cool, and pure—He serves the nectar out to all.Tom Harland, have you any money?Why, then, we’ll leave this hemisphere,This western land of milk and honey,For one that flows with Lager Bier.Go, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed maiden,My German Hebe! hasten throughYon smoke-cloud, and return thou ladenWith bread and cheese and bier for two.Limburger suits this bearded fellow;His brow is high, his taste severe:But I’m for Schweitzer, mild and yellow,To eat with bread and Lager Bier.Ah, yes! the Schweitzer hath a savorOf marjoram and mountain thyme,An odoriferous, Alpine flavor;You almost hear the cow-bells chimeWhile eating it, or, dying faintly,TheRanz-des-vachesentrance the ear,Until you feel quite Swiss and saintly,Above your glass of Lager Bier.Here comes our drink, froth-crowned and sunlit,In goblets with high-curving arms,Drawn from a newly opened runlet,As bier must be, to have its charms.This primal portion each shall swallowAt one draught, for a pioneer;And thus a ritual usage followOf all who honor Lager Bier.Glass after glass in due succession,Till, borne through midriff, heart, and brain,He mounts his throne and takes possession,—The genial Spirit of the grain!Then comes the old Berserker madnessTo make each man a priest and seer,And, with a Scandinavian gladness,Drink deeper draughts of Lager Bier!Go, maiden, fill again our glasses!While, with anointed eyes, we scanThe blouse Teutonic lads and lasses,The Saxon—Pruss—Bohemian,The sanded floor, the cross-beamed gables,The ancient Flemish paintings queer,The rusty cup-stains on the tables,The terraced kegs of Lager Bier.And is it Göttingen, or Gotha,Or Munich’s ancient Wagner Brei,Where each Bavarian drinks his quota,And swings a silver tankard high?Or some ancestral Gast-Haus loftyIn Nuremburg—of famous cheerWhen Hans Sachs lived, and where, so oft, heSang loud the praise of Lager Bier?For even now some curious glamourHas brought about a misty change!Things look, as in a moonlight dream, orMagician’s mirror, quaint and strange.Some weird, phantasmagoric notionImpels us backward many a year,And far across the northern ocean,To Fatherlands of Lager Bier.As odd a throng I see before usAs ever haunted Brocken’s height,Carousing, with unearthly chorus,On any wild Walpurgis-night;I see the wondrous art-creations!In proper guise they all appear,And, in their due and several stations,Unite in drinking Lager Bier.I see in yonder nook a trio:There’s Doctor Faust, and, by his side,Not half so love-distraught as Io,Is gentle Margaret, heaven-eyed;That man in black beyond the waiter—I know him by his fiendish leer—Is Mephistophiles, the traitor!And how he swigs his Lager Bier!Strange if great Goethe should have blundered,Who says that Margaret slipt and fellIn Anno Domini Sixteen Hundred,Or thereabout; and Faustus,—well,We won’t deplore his resurrection,Since Margaret is with him here,But, under her serene protection,May boldly drink our Lager Bier.That bare-legged gypsy, small and lithy,Tanned like an olive by the sun,Is little Mignon; sing us, prithee,Kennst du das Land, my pretty one!Ah, no! she shakes her southern tresses,As half in doubt and more in fear;Perhaps the elvish creature guessesWe’ve had too much of Lager Bier.There moves, full-bodiced, ripe, and human,With merry smiles to all who come,Karl Schæffer’s wife,—the very womanWhom Rubens drew his Venus from!But what a host of tricksome gracesPlay round our fairy Undine here,Who pouts at all the bearded faces,And, laughing, brings the Lager Bier.“Sit down, nor chase the vision farther,You’re tied to Yankee cities still!”I hear you, but so much the ratherShould Fancy travel where she will.Yet let the dim ideals scatter;One puff, and lo! they disappear;The comet, next, or some such matter,We’ll talk above our Lager Bier.Now, then, your eyes begin to brighten,And marvellous theories to flow;A philosophic theme you light on,And, spurred and booted, off you go!If e’er—to drive Apollo’s phaeton—I need an earthly charioteer,This tall-browed genius I will wait on,And prime him first with Lager Bier.But higher yet, in middle Heaven,Your steed seems taking flight, my friend;You read the secret of the Seven,And on through trackless regions wend!Don’t vanish in the Milky Way, forThis afternoon you’re wanted here;Come back! come back! and help me pay forThe bread and cheese and Lager Bier.
In fallow college days, Tom Harland,We both have known the ways of Yale,And talked of many a nigh and far land,O’er many a famous tap of ale.There still they sing their Gaudeamus,And see the road to glory clear;But taps, that in our day were famous,Have given place to Lager Bier.Now, settled in this island-city,We let new fashions have their weight;Though none too lucky—more’s the pity!—Can still beguile our humble stateBy finding time to come together,In every season of the year,In sunny, wet, or windy weather,And clink our mugs of Lager Bier.On winter evenings, cold and blowing,’Tis good to order “’alf-and-’alf”;To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing,And laugh a hearty English laugh;Or even a sip of mountain whiskeyCan raise a hundred phantoms dearOf days when boyish blood was frisky,And no one heard of Lager Bier.We’ve smoked in summer with Oscanyan,Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar,Until above our heads the banyanOr palm-tree seemed to spread afar;And, then and there, have drunk his sherbet,Tinct with the roses of Cashmere:That Orient calm! who would disturb itWith Norseland calls for Lager Bier?There’s Paris chocolate,—nothing sweeter,At midnight, when the dying strain,Just warbled by La Favorita,Still hugs the music-haunted brain;Yet of all bibulous compoundings,Extracts or brewings, mixed or clear,The best, in substance and surroundings,For frequent use, is Lager Bier.Karl Schæffer is a stalwart brewer,Who has above his vaults a hall,Where—fresh-tapped, foaming, cool, and pure—He serves the nectar out to all.Tom Harland, have you any money?Why, then, we’ll leave this hemisphere,This western land of milk and honey,For one that flows with Lager Bier.Go, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed maiden,My German Hebe! hasten throughYon smoke-cloud, and return thou ladenWith bread and cheese and bier for two.Limburger suits this bearded fellow;His brow is high, his taste severe:But I’m for Schweitzer, mild and yellow,To eat with bread and Lager Bier.Ah, yes! the Schweitzer hath a savorOf marjoram and mountain thyme,An odoriferous, Alpine flavor;You almost hear the cow-bells chimeWhile eating it, or, dying faintly,TheRanz-des-vachesentrance the ear,Until you feel quite Swiss and saintly,Above your glass of Lager Bier.Here comes our drink, froth-crowned and sunlit,In goblets with high-curving arms,Drawn from a newly opened runlet,As bier must be, to have its charms.This primal portion each shall swallowAt one draught, for a pioneer;And thus a ritual usage followOf all who honor Lager Bier.Glass after glass in due succession,Till, borne through midriff, heart, and brain,He mounts his throne and takes possession,—The genial Spirit of the grain!Then comes the old Berserker madnessTo make each man a priest and seer,And, with a Scandinavian gladness,Drink deeper draughts of Lager Bier!Go, maiden, fill again our glasses!While, with anointed eyes, we scanThe blouse Teutonic lads and lasses,The Saxon—Pruss—Bohemian,The sanded floor, the cross-beamed gables,The ancient Flemish paintings queer,The rusty cup-stains on the tables,The terraced kegs of Lager Bier.And is it Göttingen, or Gotha,Or Munich’s ancient Wagner Brei,Where each Bavarian drinks his quota,And swings a silver tankard high?Or some ancestral Gast-Haus loftyIn Nuremburg—of famous cheerWhen Hans Sachs lived, and where, so oft, heSang loud the praise of Lager Bier?For even now some curious glamourHas brought about a misty change!Things look, as in a moonlight dream, orMagician’s mirror, quaint and strange.Some weird, phantasmagoric notionImpels us backward many a year,And far across the northern ocean,To Fatherlands of Lager Bier.As odd a throng I see before usAs ever haunted Brocken’s height,Carousing, with unearthly chorus,On any wild Walpurgis-night;I see the wondrous art-creations!In proper guise they all appear,And, in their due and several stations,Unite in drinking Lager Bier.I see in yonder nook a trio:There’s Doctor Faust, and, by his side,Not half so love-distraught as Io,Is gentle Margaret, heaven-eyed;That man in black beyond the waiter—I know him by his fiendish leer—Is Mephistophiles, the traitor!And how he swigs his Lager Bier!Strange if great Goethe should have blundered,Who says that Margaret slipt and fellIn Anno Domini Sixteen Hundred,Or thereabout; and Faustus,—well,We won’t deplore his resurrection,Since Margaret is with him here,But, under her serene protection,May boldly drink our Lager Bier.That bare-legged gypsy, small and lithy,Tanned like an olive by the sun,Is little Mignon; sing us, prithee,Kennst du das Land, my pretty one!Ah, no! she shakes her southern tresses,As half in doubt and more in fear;Perhaps the elvish creature guessesWe’ve had too much of Lager Bier.There moves, full-bodiced, ripe, and human,With merry smiles to all who come,Karl Schæffer’s wife,—the very womanWhom Rubens drew his Venus from!But what a host of tricksome gracesPlay round our fairy Undine here,Who pouts at all the bearded faces,And, laughing, brings the Lager Bier.“Sit down, nor chase the vision farther,You’re tied to Yankee cities still!”I hear you, but so much the ratherShould Fancy travel where she will.Yet let the dim ideals scatter;One puff, and lo! they disappear;The comet, next, or some such matter,We’ll talk above our Lager Bier.Now, then, your eyes begin to brighten,And marvellous theories to flow;A philosophic theme you light on,And, spurred and booted, off you go!If e’er—to drive Apollo’s phaeton—I need an earthly charioteer,This tall-browed genius I will wait on,And prime him first with Lager Bier.But higher yet, in middle Heaven,Your steed seems taking flight, my friend;You read the secret of the Seven,And on through trackless regions wend!Don’t vanish in the Milky Way, forThis afternoon you’re wanted here;Come back! come back! and help me pay forThe bread and cheese and Lager Bier.
In fallow college days, Tom Harland,We both have known the ways of Yale,And talked of many a nigh and far land,O’er many a famous tap of ale.There still they sing their Gaudeamus,And see the road to glory clear;But taps, that in our day were famous,Have given place to Lager Bier.
In fallow college days, Tom Harland,
We both have known the ways of Yale,
And talked of many a nigh and far land,
O’er many a famous tap of ale.
There still they sing their Gaudeamus,
And see the road to glory clear;
But taps, that in our day were famous,
Have given place to Lager Bier.
Now, settled in this island-city,We let new fashions have their weight;Though none too lucky—more’s the pity!—Can still beguile our humble stateBy finding time to come together,In every season of the year,In sunny, wet, or windy weather,And clink our mugs of Lager Bier.
Now, settled in this island-city,
We let new fashions have their weight;
Though none too lucky—more’s the pity!—
Can still beguile our humble state
By finding time to come together,
In every season of the year,
In sunny, wet, or windy weather,
And clink our mugs of Lager Bier.
On winter evenings, cold and blowing,’Tis good to order “’alf-and-’alf”;To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing,And laugh a hearty English laugh;Or even a sip of mountain whiskeyCan raise a hundred phantoms dearOf days when boyish blood was frisky,And no one heard of Lager Bier.
On winter evenings, cold and blowing,
’Tis good to order “’alf-and-’alf”;
To watch the fire-lit pewter glowing,
And laugh a hearty English laugh;
Or even a sip of mountain whiskey
Can raise a hundred phantoms dear
Of days when boyish blood was frisky,
And no one heard of Lager Bier.
We’ve smoked in summer with Oscanyan,Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar,Until above our heads the banyanOr palm-tree seemed to spread afar;And, then and there, have drunk his sherbet,Tinct with the roses of Cashmere:That Orient calm! who would disturb itWith Norseland calls for Lager Bier?
We’ve smoked in summer with Oscanyan,
Cross-legged in that defunct bazaar,
Until above our heads the banyan
Or palm-tree seemed to spread afar;
And, then and there, have drunk his sherbet,
Tinct with the roses of Cashmere:
That Orient calm! who would disturb it
With Norseland calls for Lager Bier?
There’s Paris chocolate,—nothing sweeter,At midnight, when the dying strain,Just warbled by La Favorita,Still hugs the music-haunted brain;Yet of all bibulous compoundings,Extracts or brewings, mixed or clear,The best, in substance and surroundings,For frequent use, is Lager Bier.
There’s Paris chocolate,—nothing sweeter,
At midnight, when the dying strain,
Just warbled by La Favorita,
Still hugs the music-haunted brain;
Yet of all bibulous compoundings,
Extracts or brewings, mixed or clear,
The best, in substance and surroundings,
For frequent use, is Lager Bier.
Karl Schæffer is a stalwart brewer,Who has above his vaults a hall,Where—fresh-tapped, foaming, cool, and pure—He serves the nectar out to all.Tom Harland, have you any money?Why, then, we’ll leave this hemisphere,This western land of milk and honey,For one that flows with Lager Bier.
Karl Schæffer is a stalwart brewer,
Who has above his vaults a hall,
Where—fresh-tapped, foaming, cool, and pure—
He serves the nectar out to all.
Tom Harland, have you any money?
Why, then, we’ll leave this hemisphere,
This western land of milk and honey,
For one that flows with Lager Bier.
Go, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed maiden,My German Hebe! hasten throughYon smoke-cloud, and return thou ladenWith bread and cheese and bier for two.Limburger suits this bearded fellow;His brow is high, his taste severe:But I’m for Schweitzer, mild and yellow,To eat with bread and Lager Bier.
Go, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed maiden,
My German Hebe! hasten through
Yon smoke-cloud, and return thou laden
With bread and cheese and bier for two.
Limburger suits this bearded fellow;
His brow is high, his taste severe:
But I’m for Schweitzer, mild and yellow,
To eat with bread and Lager Bier.
Ah, yes! the Schweitzer hath a savorOf marjoram and mountain thyme,An odoriferous, Alpine flavor;You almost hear the cow-bells chimeWhile eating it, or, dying faintly,TheRanz-des-vachesentrance the ear,Until you feel quite Swiss and saintly,Above your glass of Lager Bier.
Ah, yes! the Schweitzer hath a savor
Of marjoram and mountain thyme,
An odoriferous, Alpine flavor;
You almost hear the cow-bells chime
While eating it, or, dying faintly,
TheRanz-des-vachesentrance the ear,
Until you feel quite Swiss and saintly,
Above your glass of Lager Bier.
Here comes our drink, froth-crowned and sunlit,In goblets with high-curving arms,Drawn from a newly opened runlet,As bier must be, to have its charms.This primal portion each shall swallowAt one draught, for a pioneer;And thus a ritual usage followOf all who honor Lager Bier.
Here comes our drink, froth-crowned and sunlit,
In goblets with high-curving arms,
Drawn from a newly opened runlet,
As bier must be, to have its charms.
This primal portion each shall swallow
At one draught, for a pioneer;
And thus a ritual usage follow
Of all who honor Lager Bier.
Glass after glass in due succession,Till, borne through midriff, heart, and brain,He mounts his throne and takes possession,—The genial Spirit of the grain!Then comes the old Berserker madnessTo make each man a priest and seer,And, with a Scandinavian gladness,Drink deeper draughts of Lager Bier!
Glass after glass in due succession,
Till, borne through midriff, heart, and brain,
He mounts his throne and takes possession,—
The genial Spirit of the grain!
Then comes the old Berserker madness
To make each man a priest and seer,
And, with a Scandinavian gladness,
Drink deeper draughts of Lager Bier!
Go, maiden, fill again our glasses!While, with anointed eyes, we scanThe blouse Teutonic lads and lasses,The Saxon—Pruss—Bohemian,The sanded floor, the cross-beamed gables,The ancient Flemish paintings queer,The rusty cup-stains on the tables,The terraced kegs of Lager Bier.
Go, maiden, fill again our glasses!
While, with anointed eyes, we scan
The blouse Teutonic lads and lasses,
The Saxon—Pruss—Bohemian,
The sanded floor, the cross-beamed gables,
The ancient Flemish paintings queer,
The rusty cup-stains on the tables,
The terraced kegs of Lager Bier.
And is it Göttingen, or Gotha,Or Munich’s ancient Wagner Brei,Where each Bavarian drinks his quota,And swings a silver tankard high?Or some ancestral Gast-Haus loftyIn Nuremburg—of famous cheerWhen Hans Sachs lived, and where, so oft, heSang loud the praise of Lager Bier?
And is it Göttingen, or Gotha,
Or Munich’s ancient Wagner Brei,
Where each Bavarian drinks his quota,
And swings a silver tankard high?
Or some ancestral Gast-Haus lofty
In Nuremburg—of famous cheer
When Hans Sachs lived, and where, so oft, he
Sang loud the praise of Lager Bier?
For even now some curious glamourHas brought about a misty change!Things look, as in a moonlight dream, orMagician’s mirror, quaint and strange.Some weird, phantasmagoric notionImpels us backward many a year,And far across the northern ocean,To Fatherlands of Lager Bier.
For even now some curious glamour
Has brought about a misty change!
Things look, as in a moonlight dream, or
Magician’s mirror, quaint and strange.
Some weird, phantasmagoric notion
Impels us backward many a year,
And far across the northern ocean,
To Fatherlands of Lager Bier.
As odd a throng I see before usAs ever haunted Brocken’s height,Carousing, with unearthly chorus,On any wild Walpurgis-night;I see the wondrous art-creations!In proper guise they all appear,And, in their due and several stations,Unite in drinking Lager Bier.
As odd a throng I see before us
As ever haunted Brocken’s height,
Carousing, with unearthly chorus,
On any wild Walpurgis-night;
I see the wondrous art-creations!
In proper guise they all appear,
And, in their due and several stations,
Unite in drinking Lager Bier.
I see in yonder nook a trio:There’s Doctor Faust, and, by his side,Not half so love-distraught as Io,Is gentle Margaret, heaven-eyed;That man in black beyond the waiter—I know him by his fiendish leer—Is Mephistophiles, the traitor!And how he swigs his Lager Bier!
I see in yonder nook a trio:
There’s Doctor Faust, and, by his side,
Not half so love-distraught as Io,
Is gentle Margaret, heaven-eyed;
That man in black beyond the waiter—
I know him by his fiendish leer—
Is Mephistophiles, the traitor!
And how he swigs his Lager Bier!
Strange if great Goethe should have blundered,Who says that Margaret slipt and fellIn Anno Domini Sixteen Hundred,Or thereabout; and Faustus,—well,We won’t deplore his resurrection,Since Margaret is with him here,But, under her serene protection,May boldly drink our Lager Bier.
Strange if great Goethe should have blundered,
Who says that Margaret slipt and fell
In Anno Domini Sixteen Hundred,
Or thereabout; and Faustus,—well,
We won’t deplore his resurrection,
Since Margaret is with him here,
But, under her serene protection,
May boldly drink our Lager Bier.
That bare-legged gypsy, small and lithy,Tanned like an olive by the sun,Is little Mignon; sing us, prithee,Kennst du das Land, my pretty one!Ah, no! she shakes her southern tresses,As half in doubt and more in fear;Perhaps the elvish creature guessesWe’ve had too much of Lager Bier.
That bare-legged gypsy, small and lithy,
Tanned like an olive by the sun,
Is little Mignon; sing us, prithee,
Kennst du das Land, my pretty one!
Ah, no! she shakes her southern tresses,
As half in doubt and more in fear;
Perhaps the elvish creature guesses
We’ve had too much of Lager Bier.
There moves, full-bodiced, ripe, and human,With merry smiles to all who come,Karl Schæffer’s wife,—the very womanWhom Rubens drew his Venus from!But what a host of tricksome gracesPlay round our fairy Undine here,Who pouts at all the bearded faces,And, laughing, brings the Lager Bier.
There moves, full-bodiced, ripe, and human,
With merry smiles to all who come,
Karl Schæffer’s wife,—the very woman
Whom Rubens drew his Venus from!
But what a host of tricksome graces
Play round our fairy Undine here,
Who pouts at all the bearded faces,
And, laughing, brings the Lager Bier.
“Sit down, nor chase the vision farther,You’re tied to Yankee cities still!”I hear you, but so much the ratherShould Fancy travel where she will.Yet let the dim ideals scatter;One puff, and lo! they disappear;The comet, next, or some such matter,We’ll talk above our Lager Bier.
“Sit down, nor chase the vision farther,
You’re tied to Yankee cities still!”
I hear you, but so much the rather
Should Fancy travel where she will.
Yet let the dim ideals scatter;
One puff, and lo! they disappear;
The comet, next, or some such matter,
We’ll talk above our Lager Bier.
Now, then, your eyes begin to brighten,And marvellous theories to flow;A philosophic theme you light on,And, spurred and booted, off you go!If e’er—to drive Apollo’s phaeton—I need an earthly charioteer,This tall-browed genius I will wait on,And prime him first with Lager Bier.
Now, then, your eyes begin to brighten,
And marvellous theories to flow;
A philosophic theme you light on,
And, spurred and booted, off you go!
If e’er—to drive Apollo’s phaeton—
I need an earthly charioteer,
This tall-browed genius I will wait on,
And prime him first with Lager Bier.
But higher yet, in middle Heaven,Your steed seems taking flight, my friend;You read the secret of the Seven,And on through trackless regions wend!Don’t vanish in the Milky Way, forThis afternoon you’re wanted here;Come back! come back! and help me pay forThe bread and cheese and Lager Bier.
But higher yet, in middle Heaven,
Your steed seems taking flight, my friend;
You read the secret of the Seven,
And on through trackless regions wend!
Don’t vanish in the Milky Way, for
This afternoon you’re wanted here;
Come back! come back! and help me pay for
The bread and cheese and Lager Bier.
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed ’em!—They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Said, “Boys, the Lord will aid us!” and he shoved his ramrod down.And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven’s vengeance down.And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; heWould so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,That Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,And more sharply curved his hawk’s-nose, snuffing battle from afar;And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,Hired a farm by Harper’s Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,Or whether he’d turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;For Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson’s gown.He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp’s rifles;And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,“Boys, we’ve got an army large enough to march and take the town!“Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth.”Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,“The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown.”’Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:“This good work,” declared the captain, “shall be on a holy night!”It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,Captain Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.Mad Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor’scoup d’état.“Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!” said he,Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—This Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown;And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whitherOld Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.General Brown!Osawatomie Brown!!Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.But at last, ’tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown’s durance,And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,Till they battered down Brown’s castle with their ladders and machines;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;And whene’er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o’er.“Hang Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,”Said the judge, “and all such rebels!” with his most judicial frown.But, Virginians, don’t do it! for I tell you that the flagon,Filled with blood of Old Brown’s offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;And each drop from Old Brown’s life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,May trouble you more than ever, when you’ve nailed his coffin down!
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed ’em!—They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Said, “Boys, the Lord will aid us!” and he shoved his ramrod down.And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven’s vengeance down.And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; heWould so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,That Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,And more sharply curved his hawk’s-nose, snuffing battle from afar;And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,Hired a farm by Harper’s Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,Or whether he’d turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;For Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson’s gown.He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp’s rifles;And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,“Boys, we’ve got an army large enough to march and take the town!“Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth.”Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,“The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown.”’Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:“This good work,” declared the captain, “shall be on a holy night!”It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,Captain Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.Mad Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor’scoup d’état.“Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!” said he,Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—This Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown;And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whitherOld Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.General Brown!Osawatomie Brown!!Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.But at last, ’tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown’s durance,And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,Till they battered down Brown’s castle with their ladders and machines;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;And whene’er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o’er.“Hang Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,”Said the judge, “and all such rebels!” with his most judicial frown.But, Virginians, don’t do it! for I tell you that the flagon,Filled with blood of Old Brown’s offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;And each drop from Old Brown’s life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,May trouble you more than ever, when you’ve nailed his coffin down!
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,
Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,
Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Came homeward in the morning—to find his house burned down.
Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed ’em!—They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Said, “Boys, the Lord will aid us!” and he shoved his ramrod down.
Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;
Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;
And he and his brave boys vowed—so might Heaven help and speed ’em!—
They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Said, “Boys, the Lord will aid us!” and he shoved his ramrod down.
And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!
And the Lorddidaid these men, and they labored day and even,
Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed,
Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,—
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed;
Then Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!
Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;Then Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven’s vengeance down.
Then they seized another brave boy,—not amid the heat of battle,
But in peace, behind his ploughshare,—and they loaded him with chains,
And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle,
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains;
Then Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven’s vengeance down.
And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; heWould so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,That Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!
And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,
He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so;
He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and night; he
Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow,
That Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!
Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,And more sharply curved his hawk’s-nose, snuffing battle from afar;And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.
Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye grew wilder,
And more sharply curved his hawk’s-nose, snuffing battle from afar;
And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed milder,
Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and frown.
So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,Hired a farm by Harper’s Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,Or whether he’d turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;For Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson’s gown.
So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind him,
Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,
Hired a farm by Harper’s Ferry, and no one knew where to find him,
Or whether he’d turned parson, or was jacketed and shorn;
For Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson’s gown.
He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp’s rifles;And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,“Boys, we’ve got an army large enough to march and take the town!
He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, and such trifles;
But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharp’s rifles;
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there again.
Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
“Boys, we’ve got an army large enough to march and take the town!
“Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth.”Says Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,“The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown.”
“Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes and then arm them;
Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent South.
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to harm them—
These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the warning mouth.”
Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
“The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John Brown.”
’Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:“This good work,” declared the captain, “shall be on a holy night!”It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,Captain Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;
’Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sunday:
“This good work,” declared the captain, “shall be on a holy night!”
It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of Monday,
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates—black and white,
Captain Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sentry down;
Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.Mad Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.
Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the cannon;
Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one;
Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,
And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.
Mad Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town.
Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor’scoup d’état.“Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!” said he,Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—This Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown;And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.
Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder made he;
It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor’scoup d’état.
“Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the streets and bridges!” said he,
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding star,—
This Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown;
And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.
Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whitherOld Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.General Brown!Osawatomie Brown!!Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.
Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and thither;
And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown Volunteers,
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened whither
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grenadiers.
General Brown!
Osawatomie Brown!!
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring down.
But at last, ’tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown’s durance,And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.
But at last, ’tis said, some prisoners escaped from Old Brown’s durance,
And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvellous assurance—
Only nineteen—thus to seize the place and drive them straight about;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Found an army come to take him, encamped around the town.
But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,Till they battered down Brown’s castle with their ladders and machines;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.
But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, was too risky;
So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Marines,
Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey,
Till they battered down Brown’s castle with their ladders and machines;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old crown.
Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;And whene’er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.
Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!
In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away;
And whene’er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying,
Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in his clay;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down.
How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o’er.“Hang Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,”Said the judge, “and all such rebels!” with his most judicial frown.
How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened on the trial;
How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor;
How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;
What the brave old madman told them,—these are known the country o’er.
“Hang Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,”
Said the judge, “and all such rebels!” with his most judicial frown.
But, Virginians, don’t do it! for I tell you that the flagon,Filled with blood of Old Brown’s offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;And each drop from Old Brown’s life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!And Old Brown,Osawatomie Brown,May trouble you more than ever, when you’ve nailed his coffin down!
But, Virginians, don’t do it! for I tell you that the flagon,
Filled with blood of Old Brown’s offspring, was first poured by Southern hands;
And each drop from Old Brown’s life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon,
May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your slave-worn lands!
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
May trouble you more than ever, when you’ve nailed his coffin down!
November, 1859.