Part 1 — PART I (continued 3)

A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody—never. I lent my friend a sum he could not pay; I jogged his memory in a friendly way, Then took the law of him th’ affair to end; The law to prison sent my worthy friend. He died there—not a farthing for poor me! I am not angry, though I’ve cause to be; His debt that very moment I forgave, And shed sad tears of sorrow o’er his grave. A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody—never. I sent a serf of mine to learn the dressing Of meat. He learned it—a good cook’s a blessing— But strangely did neglect his occupation, And gained a taste not suited to his station: He liked to read, to reason, to discuss. I, tired of scolding, without further fuss Had the rogue flogged—all for the love of him. He went and drowned himself—what a strange whim! A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody—never. My silly daughter fell in love, one day, And with a tutor wished to run away. I threatened curses, and pronounced my ban; She yielded, and espoused a rich old man. Their house was splendid, brimming o’er with wealth, But suddenly the poor child lost her health, And in a year consumption wrought her doom; She left us mourning o’er her early tomb. A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody—never.

Strangely ’wildered must I seem; I was married—in a dream. Oh, the ecstasy of bliss! Brother, what a joy is this! Think about it, and confess ’Tis a storm of happiness, And the memory is to me Sunbeams. But fifteen was she: Cheeks of roses red and white; Mouth like Davia’s; eyes of light, Fiery, round, of raven hue, Swimming, but coquettish too; Ivory teeth; lips fresh as dew; Bosom beauteous; hand of down; Fairy foot. She stood alone In her graces. She was mine, And I drank her charms divine. ***** Yet, in early years our schemes Are, alas! but shadowy dreams. For a season they deceive, Then our souls in darkness leave. Oft the bowl the water bears, But ’tis useless soon with years; First it cracks, and then it leaks, And at last—at last it breaks. All things with beginning tend To their melancholy end: So her beauty fled. ***** Then did anger, care, and malice Mingle up their bitter chalice. Riches like the whirlwind flew, Honors, gifts, and friendships too; And my lovely wife, so mild, Fortune’s frail and flattered child, Spent our wealth, as if the day Ne’er would dim or pass away; And—oh, monstrous thought!—the fair Scratched my eyes and tore my hair. Naught but misery was our guest. Then I sought the parish priest: “Father, grant me a divorce. Nay, you’ll grant it me, of course; Reasons many can be given— Reasons both of earth and heaven.” “I know all you wish to say. Have you wherewithal to pay? Money is a thing, of course— Money may obtain divorce.” “Reverend father, hear me, please ye— ’Tis not an affair so easy.” “Silence, child! Where money’s needed, Eloquence is superseded.” Then I talked of morals, but The good father’s ears were shut. With a fierce and frowning look Off he drove me—And I woke.

Some wit of old—such wits of old there were— Whose hints show’d meaning, whose allusions care, By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, Call’d clear blank paper every infant mind; Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot. The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I (can you pardon my presumption?) I— No wit, no genius, yet for once will try. Various the papers various wants produce, The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. Men are as various; and if right I scan, Each sort of paper represents some man. Pray note the fop—half powder and half lace— Nice as a band-box were his dwelling-place: He’s the gilt paper, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the ’scrutoire. Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth, Are copy-paper, of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed, Free to all pens, and prompt at every need. The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse brown paper! such as pedlars choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use. Take next the miser’s contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys. Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout, He’s true sinking-paper, past all doubt. The retail politician’s anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; He foams with censure; with applause he raves— A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves; He’ll want no type his weakness to proclaim, While such a thing as foolscap has a name. The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can’t a jest, or hint, or look endure: What is he? What? Touch-paper to be sure. What are our poets, take them as they fall, Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? Them and their works in the same class you’ll find; They are the mere waste-paper of mankind. Observe the maiden, innocently sweet, She’s fair white-paper, an unsullied sheet; On which the happy man, whom fate ordains, May write his name, and take her for his pains. One instance more, and only one I’ll bring; ’Tis the great man who scorns a little thing, Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own, Form’d on the feelings of his heart alone: True genuine royal-paper is his breast: Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Gallants attend and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty, Strange things I’ll tell which late befell In Philadelphia city. ’Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising. As in amaze he stood and gazed, The truth can’t be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more Come floating down the tide, sir. A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First damned his eyes, in great surprise, Then said, “Some mischief’s brewing. “These kegs, I’m told, the rebles hold, Packed up like pickled herring; And they’re come down to attack the town, In this new way of ferrying.” The soldier flew, the sailor too, And scared almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir. Now up and down throughout the town, Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and others there, Like men almost distracted. Some “fire” cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quaked; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran through the streets half-naked. Sir William he, snug as a flea, Lay all this time a-snoring, Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, In bed with Mrs. Loring. Now in a fright he starts upright, Awaked by such a clatter; He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, “For God’s sake, what’s the matter?” At his bedside he then espied, Sir Erskine at command, sir, Upon one foot he had one boot, And th’ other in his hand, sir. “Arise, arise!” Sir Erskine cries, “The rebels—more’s the pity, Without a boat are all afloat, And ranged before the city. “The motley crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, sir, Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, Come driving down the tide, sir. “Therefore prepare for bloody war, The kegs must all be routed, Or surely we despised shall be, And British courage doubted.” The royal band now ready stand, All ranged in dead array, sir, With stomach stout to see it out, And make a bloody day, sir. The cannons roar from shore to shore, The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began I’m sure no man E’er saw so strange a battle. The rebel dales, the rebel vales, With rebel trees surrounded, The distant woods, the hills and floods, With rebel echoes sounded. The fish below swam to and fro, Attacked from every quarter; Why sure, thought they, the devil’s to pay ’Mongst folks above the water. The kegs, ’tis said, though strongly made Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes, And conquering British troops, sir. From morn to night these men of might Displayed amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down, Retired to sup their porridge. A hundred men with each a pen, Or more, upon my word, sir, It is most true would be too few, Their valor to record, sir. Such feats did they perform that day, Against these wicked kegs, sir, That, years to come, if they get home, They’ll make their boasts and brags, sir. —Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings.

How happy is the country parson’s lot! Forgetting bishops, as by them forgot; Tranquil of spirit, with an easy mind, To all his vestry’s votes he sits resigned: Of manners gentle, and of temper even, He jogs his flocks, with easy pace, to heaven. In Greek and Latin, pious books he keeps; And, while his clerk sings psalms, he—soundly sleeps. His garden fronts the sun’s sweet orient beams, And fat church-wardens prompt his golden dreams. The earliest fruit, in his fair orchard, blooms; And cleanly pipes pour out tobacco’s fumes. From rustic bridegroom oft he takes the ring; And hears the milkmaid plaintive ballads sing. Back-gammon cheats whole winter nights away, And Pilgrim’s Progress helps a rainy day.

The man in righteousness arrayed, A pure and blameless liver, Needs not the keen Toledo blade, Nor venom-freighted quiver. What though he winds his toilsome way O’er regions wild and weary— Through Zara’s burning desert stray, Or Asia’s jungles dreary: What though he plough the billowy deep By lunar light, or solar, Meet the resistless Simoon’s sweep, Or iceberg circumpolar! In bog or quagmire deep and dank His foot shall never settle; He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc, Or Popocatapetl. On Chimborazo’s breathless height He treads o’er burning lava; Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight, The deathful plant of Java. Through every peril he shall pass, By Virtue’s shield protected; And still by Truth’s unerring glass His path shall be directed. Else wherefore was it, Thursday last, While strolling down the valley, Defenceless, musing as I passed A canzonet to Sally, A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout, Forth from the thicket bounded— I clapped my hands and raised a shout— He heard—and fled—confounded. Tangier nor Tunis never bred An animal more crabbed; Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed A monster half so rabid; Nor Ararat so fierce a beast Has seen since days of Noah; Nor stronger, eager for a feast, The fell constrictor boa. Oh! place me where the solar beam Has scorched all verdure vernal; Or on the polar verge extreme, Blocked up with ice eternal— Still shall my voice’s tender lays Of love remain unbroken; And still my charming Sally praise, Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; “Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!” As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

There’s a certain young lady, Who’s just in her heyday, And full of all mischief, I ween; So teasing! so pleasing! Capricious! delicious! And you know very well whom I mean. With an eye dark as night, Yet than noonday more bright, Was ever a black eye so keen? It can thrill with a glance, With a beam can entrance, And you know very well whom I mean. With a stately step—such as You’d expect in a duchess— And a brow might distinguish a queen, With a mighty proud air, That says “touch me who dare,” And you know very well whom I mean. With a toss of the head That strikes one quite dead, But a smile to revive one again; That toss so appalling! That smile so enthralling! And you know very well whom I mean. Confound her! devil take her!— A cruel heart-breaker— But hold! see that smile so serene. God love her! God bless her! May nothing distress her! You know very well whom I mean. Heaven help the adorer Who happens to bore her, The lover who wakens her spleen; But too blest for a sinner Is he who shall win her, And you know very well whom I mean.

Fair insect! that with threadlike legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about, In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need? Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men harken to thy plaint; Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse, For saying thou art gaunt and starved and faint. Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Has not the honor of so proud a birth— Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, The offspring of the gods, though born on earth; For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy. Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway— Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite! What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest when I talk of beauty’s light, As if it brought the memory of pain. Thou art a wayward being—well—come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear. What say’st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick? And China Bloom at best is sorry food? And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood. Go! ’Twas a just reward that met thy crime— But shun the sacrilege another time. That bloom was made to look at—not to touch; To worship—not approach—that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired— Murmur’d thy admiration and retired. Thou’rt welcome to the town—but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enrich’d by gen’rous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet. Go to the men for whom, in ocean’s halls, The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls. There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Fair lady with the bandaged eye! I’ll pardon all thy scurvy tricks, So thou wilt cut me, and deny Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: I’m quite contented as I am, Have cash to keep my duns at bay, Can choose between beefsteaks and ham, And drink Madeira every day. My station is the middle rank, My fortune—just a competence— Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank, And twenty in the six per cents; No amorous chains my heart enthrall, I neither borrow, lend, nor sell; Fearless I roam the City Hall, And bite my thumb at Sheriff Bell. The horse that twice a week I ride At Mother Dawson’s eats his fill; My books at Goodrich’s abide, My country-seat is Weehawk hill; My morning lounge is Eastburn’s shop, At Poppleton’s I take my lunch, Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch. When merry, I the hours amuse By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls, And when I’m troubled with the blues Damn Clinton and abuse cards: Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize, At least preserve me from thy frown! The man who don’t attempt to rise ’Twere cruelty to tumble down.

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man We never shall see more: He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray— He wore it in a queue. Whene’er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn’d; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turn’d. Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind. In friendship he was true: His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharm’d, the sin which earth pollutes He pass’d securely o’er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune’s frown: He wore a double-breasted vest— The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert: He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbors he did not abuse— Was sociable and gay: He wore large buckles on his shoes And changed them every day. His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune’s chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturb’d by anxious cares, His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter “Little Prig”; Bun replied, “You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere, And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I’m not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I’ll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.”

They may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine— Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half-divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free! But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier— With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mama too blind to discover The small white hand in mine. Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies— Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer. True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease— And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady. His foot’s an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipp’d with a jewel And shot from a silver string.

I wrote some lines once on a time, In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good. They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I. I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb! “These to the printer,” I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), “There’ll be the devil to pay.” He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin. He read the next: the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third: a chuckling noise I now began to hear. The fourth: he broke into a roar; The fifth: his waistband split; The sixth: he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.

In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes. How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine. To me also, no verdurous visions come Save you exiguous pool’s confervascum,— No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue. Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous chump,— Depart,—be off,—excede,—evade,—erump!

There was a little girl, And she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good She was very, very good, And when she was bad she was horrid. One day she went upstairs, When her parents, unawares, In the kitchen were occupied with meals And she stood upon her head In her little trundle-bed, And then began hooraying with her heels. Her mother heard the noise, And she thought it was the boys A-playing at a combat in the attic; But when she climbed the stair, And found Jemima there, She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew and it grew; And it grew behind the barn, And that turnip did no harm. There it grew and it grew Till it could grow no taller; Then his daughter Lizzie picked it And put it in the cellar. There it lay and it lay Till it began to rot; And his daughter Susie took it And put it in the pot. And they boiled it and boiled it As long as they were able, And then his daughters took it And put it on the table. Mr. Finney and his wife They sat down to sup; And they ate and they ate And they ate that turnip up.

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though “lying low,” How near New York their schooners ran. They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right. A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by tasting, just the spot; And so below he’d “dowse the glim,”— After, of course, his “something hot.” Snug in his berth at eight o’clock This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,—for skippers’ naps are sound! The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He’d up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead. One night ’twas Jotham Marden’s watch, A curious wag,—the peddler’s son,— And so he mused (the wanton wretch), “To-night I’ll have a grain of fun. “We’re all a set of stupid fools To think the skipper knows by tasting What ground he’s on: Nantucket schools Don’t teach such stuff, with all their basting!” And so he took the well-greased lead And rubbed it o’er a box of earth That stood on deck,—a parsnip-bed,— And then he sought the skipper’s berth. “Where are we now, sir? Please to taste.” The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung! The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, “Nantucket’s sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett’s garden!”

Again I hear that creaking step!— He’s rapping at the door!— Too well I know the boding sound That ushers in a bore. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But heaven defend me from the friend Who comes,—but never goes! He drops into my easy-chair And asks about the news; He peers into my manuscript, And gives his candid views; He tells me where he likes the line, And where he’s forced to grieve; He takes the strangest liberties,— But never takes his leave! He reads my daily paper through Before I’ve seen a word; He scans the lyric (that I wrote) And thinks it quite absurd; He calmly smokes my last cigar, And coolly asks for more; He opens everything he sees— Except the entry door! He talks about his fragile health, And tells me of his pains; He suffers from a score of ills Of which he ne’er complains; And how he struggled once with death To keep the fiend at bay; On themes like those away he goes— But never goes away! He tells me of the carping words Some shallow critic wrote; And every precious paragraph Familiarly can quote; He thinks the writer did me wrong; He’d like to run him through! He says a thousand pleasant things— But never says “Adieu!” Whene’er he comes—that dreadful man— Disguise it as I may, I know that, like an autumn rain, He’ll last throughout the day. In vain I speak of urgent tasks; In vain I scowl and pout; A frown is no extinguisher— It does not put him out! I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes!

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 he Sez he wunt vote fer 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 he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still was a part of his plan,— He’s ben true to one party,—an’ thet is himself;— So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Gineral C. he goes 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 he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. We were gettin’ 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 eppyletts worn’t the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee. The side of our country must ollers be took, An’ Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an’ to us the per contry! An’ John P. Robinson he Sez 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 jest fee, faw, fum; An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it ain’t no sech thing; an’, of course, so must we. Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail 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 he Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee. Wall, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, I vow,— God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers, To start the world’s team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

I remember, I remember, The house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night My smiling bride was led. She didn’t come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away! I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,— They cost an awful sight! The “corner lot” on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day,— That man is single yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport:— My spirit flew in feathers then, No care was on my brow; I scarce could wait to shut the gate,— I’m not so anxious now! I remember, I remember, My dear one’s smile and sigh; I used to think her tender heart Was close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when she wasn’t got!

There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens; In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans. That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard? No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on; And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard; As thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.

He dwelt among “Apartments let,” About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try. A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood. He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife—and O! The difference to me!

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free.

Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein Rode out mit shpeer and helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine. Und oop dere rose a meer maid, Vod hadn’t got nodings on, Und she say, “Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?” Und he says, “I rides in de creenwood Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, Und dere I trinks some beer.” Und den outshpoke de maiden Vot hadn’t got nodings on: “I ton’t dink mooch of beoplesh Dat goes mit demselfs alone. “You’d petter coom down in de wasser, Vere dere’s heaps of dings to see, Und have a shplendid tinner Und drafel along mit me. “Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin, Und you catches dem efery one”— So sang dis wasser maiden Vot hadn’t got nodings on. “Dere ish 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 see dese diamant rings! Coom down und full your bockets, Und I’ll giss you like averydings. “Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager? Coom down into der Rhine! Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!” Dat fetched him—he shtood all shpellpound; She pooled his coat-tails down, She drawed him oonder der wasser, De maiden mit nodings on.

I lay i’ the bosom of the sun, Under the roses dappled and dun. I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer, In his palace beside the Bendemeer, With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind, And the harem that stretched for a league behind. The tulips bent i’ the summer breeze, Under the broad chrysanthemum trees, And the minstrel, playing his culverin, Made for mine ears a merry din. If I were the Sultan, and he were I, Here i’ the grass he should loafing lie, And I should bestride my zebra steed, And the ride of the hunt of the centipede; While the pet of the harem, Dandeline, Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine, And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff, Should wipe my mouth when I sighed “Enough!” And the gay court-poet, Fearfulbore, Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o’er, And chant me songs of silvery tone, Not from Hafiz, but—mine own! Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here, I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer, Nor you the odalisque Dandeline, Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man, And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him. Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare, And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent. Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order—when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

“Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa! “Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth’s epidermis! “Eo—Mio—Plio—Whatsoe’er the ’cene’ was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder— Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches— Tell us thy strange story! “Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that’s somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures? “Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch? “Tell us of that scene—the dim and watery woodland Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect; Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall clubmosses, Lycopodiacea, When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls. “Tell us of thy food—those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell and brachipods au naturel— Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle. “Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth’s creation, Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence— Speak! thou oldest primate!” Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together. And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration: “Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county, But I’d take it kindly if you’d send the pieces Home to old Missouri!”

I don’t go much on religion, I never ain’t had no show; But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir, On the handful o’ things I know. I don’t pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing— But I b’lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring. I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along— No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight— And I’d larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart’s store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started— I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all. Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for ’em far and near. At last we struck horses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe Nor hide nor hair was found. And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critter’s aid— I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. ***** By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar. We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR sot Little Breeches, and chirped, As peart as ever you see: “I want a chaw of terbacker, And that’s what’s the matter of me.” How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm; They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Then loafing around The Throne.

Two webfoot brothers loved a fair Young lady, rich and good to see; And oh, her black abundant hair! And oh, her wondrous witchery! Her father kept a cattle farm, These brothers kept her safe from harm: From harm of cattle on the hill; From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing The livelong morning, loud and shrill, And lashing sides like anything; From roaring bulls that tossed the sand And pawed the lilies from the land. There came a third young man. He came From far and famous Boston town. He was not handsome, was not “game,” But he could “cook a goose” as brown As any man that set foot on The sunlit shores of Oregon. This Boston man he taught the school, Taught gentleness and love alway, Said love and kindness, as a rule, Would ultimately “make it pay.” He was so gentle, kind, that he Could make a noun and verb agree. So when one day the brothers grew All jealous and did strip to fight, He gently stood between the two, And meekly told them ’twas not right. “I have a higher, better plan,” Outspake this gentle Boston man. “My plan is this: Forget this fray About that lily hand of hers; Go take your guns and hunt all day High up yon lofty hill of firs, And while you hunt, my loving doves, Why, I will learn which one she loves.” The brothers sat the windy hill, Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold, Their rifles crossed their laps, but still They sat and sighed and shook with cold. Their hearts lay bleeding far below; Above them gleamed white peaks of snow. Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat; A spotted circle in the grass. The valley lay beneath their feet; They heard the wide-winged eagles pass. The eagles cleft the clouds above; Yet what could they but sigh and love? “If I could die,” the elder sighed, “My dear young brother here might wed.” “Oh, would to Heaven I had died!” The younger sighed, with bended head. Then each looked each full in the face And each sprang up and stood in place. “If I could die,”—the elder spake,— “Die by your hand, the world would say ’Twas accident;—and for her sake, Dear brother, be it so, I pray.” “Not that!” the younger nobly said; Then tossed his gun and turned his head. And fifty paces back he paced! And as he paced he drew the ball; Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced His brother to the death and fall! Two shots rang wild upon the air! But lo! the two stood harmless there! An eagle poised high in the air; Far, far below the bellowing Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere Vast silence sat all questioning. The spotted hounds ran circling round Their red, wet noses to the ground. And now each brother came to know That each had drawn the deadly ball; And for that fair girl far below Had sought in vain to silent fall. And then the two did gladly “shake,” And thus the elder bravely spake: “Now let us run right hastily And tell the kind schoolmaster all! Yea! yea! and if she choose not me, But all on you her favors fall, This valiant scene, till all life ends, Dear brother, binds us best of friends.” The hounds sped down, a spotted line, The bulls in tall, abundant grass, Shook back their horns from bloom and vine, And trumpeted to see them pass— They loved so good, they loved so true, These brothers scarce knew what to do. They sought the kind schoolmaster out As swift as sweeps the light of morn; They could but love, they could not doubt This man so gentle, “in a horn,” They cried, “Now whose the lily hand— That lady’s of this webfoot land?” They bowed before that big-nosed man, That long-nosed man from Boston town; They talked as only lovers can, They talked, but he could only frown; And still they talked, and still they plead; It was as pleading with the dead. At last this Boston man did speak— “Her father has a thousand ceows, An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; He also had this ample heouse.” The brothers’ eyes stuck out thereat, So far you might have hung your hat. “I liked the looks of this big heouse— My lovely boys, won’t you come in? Her father has a thousand ceows, He also had a heap of tin. The guirl? Of yes, the guirl, you see— The guirl, just neow she married me.”

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribb’d land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens— Ursa—the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen. Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before him Flutter’d and flam’d the original Star Spangled Banner.

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish— To keep the virtues of Preservèd Fish. Preservèd Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do, And if they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near. To love it more behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand— The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land.

Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which the normal man is decimal. Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars bent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death, And raise to immortality the rag.

The sun sinks softly to his Ev’ning Post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our Flag of Heav’n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down. So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our Country’s nobler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

One hue of our Flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette. Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings, The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflow’r hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me. I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gaily springs. I love the dainty sunflow ’r, too. And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;—but I love—I love— I love my country best.

I waited in the little sunny room: The cool breeze waved the window-lace at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come. “Such an old friend—she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair.” I turned, and lo, Danæ in her shower! and fit to slay All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow. “She would not make me wait!”—but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the “Walloping Window-blind”— No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain’s mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he’d been in his bunk below. The boatswain’s mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain’s boots, In the teeth of the booming gale. The captain sat in a commodore’s hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such: For the food he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Chopped up with sugar and glue. And we all felt ill as mariners will, On a diet that’s cheap and rude; And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook In a tub of his gluesome food. Then nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Anagazanders roar. Composed of sand was that favored land, And trimmed with cinnamon straws; And pink and blue was the pleasing hue Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea. On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,—when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubagub tree.