Part 3 — CHAPTER XI HOW TO READ POETRY (continued 2)

You Wi’yam, cum ’ere, suh, dis instunce. Wu’ dat you got under dat box? I do’ want no foolin’—you hear me? Wut you say? Ain’t nu’h’n but rocks? ’Peahs ter me you’s owdashus p’ticler. S’posin’ dey’s uv a new kine. I’ll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I’s bline? I calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel’, dah on ter side er de road. You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. En time I gets th’ough wid you, nigger, you won’t eb’n be a grease spot! I’ll fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick’ry—make ’ase! En cut me de toughes’ en keenes’ you c’n fine anywhah on de place. I’ll larn you, Mr. Wi’yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin’ yo’ ole Christian mammy, en makin’ her leave cookin’ dinner! Now ain’t you ashamed er yo’se’f, sur? I is. I’s ’shamed you’s my son! En de holy accorjan angel he’s ’shamed er wut you has done; En he’s tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters— “One water-million stoled by Wi’yam Josephus Vetters.” En wut you s’posen Brer Bascom, yo’ teacher at Sunday school, ’Ud say ef he knowed how you’s broke de good Lawd’s Gol’n Rule? Boy, whah’s de raisin’ I give you? Is you boun’ fuh ter be a black villiun? I’s s’prised dat a chile er yo’ mammy ’ud steal any man’s water-million. En I’s now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain’t have nary bite, Fuh a boy who’ll steal water-millions—en dat in de day’s broad light— Ain’t—Lawdy! its green! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! come on wi’ dat switch! Well, stealin’ a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yeered tell er des sich? Cain’t tell w’en dey’s ripe? W’y, you thump ’um, en we’n dey go pank dey is green; But w’en dey go punk, now you mine me, dey’s ripe—en dat’s des wut I mean. En nex’ time you hook water-millions—you heered me, you ign’ant, you hunk, Ef you doan’ want a lickin’ all over, be sho dat dey allers go “punk!”

Lindy’s hair’s all curly tangles, an’ her eyes es deep en’ gray, En’ they allus seems er-dreamin’ en’ er-gazin’ far away, When I ses, “Say, Lindy, darlin’, shall I stay, er shall I go?” En’ she looks at me er-smilin’, en’ she ses, “Oh, I dunno!” Now, she knows es I’m er-lovin’ her for years an’ years an’ years But she keeps me hesitatin’ between my doubts an’ fears; En’ I’m gettin’ pale and peaked, en’ et’s jes from frettin’ so Ovur Lindy with her laughin’ an’ er-sayin’, “I dunno!” T’other night we come frum meetin’ an’ I asks her fer a kiss, En’ I tells her she’s so many that er few she’ll never miss; En’ she looks up kinder shy-like, an’ she whispers sorter low, “Jim, I’d ruther that you wouldn’t, but—er well—Oh, I dunno!” Then I ses, “Now see here, Lindy, I’m er-wantin’ yer ter state Ef yer thinks yer’ll ever love me, an’ if I had better wait, Fer I’m tired of this fulein’, an’ I wants ter be yer beau, An’ I’d like to hear yer sayin’ suthin’ else but I dunno!” Then I puts my arm around her an’ I holds her close and tight, En’ the stars away up yander seems er-winkin’ et th’ sight, Es she murmurs sof’ an’ faintly, with the words er-comin’ slow, “Jim, I never loved no other!” Then I ses, “Oh, I dunno!”

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn; He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. “Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), “With your tricks I don’t know, in troth, what I’m about; Faith, you’ve teased till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.” “Oh! Jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day; And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. “Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like, For I half gave a promise to sootherin’ Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound—” “Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.” “Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go; Sure I drame ev’ry night that I’m hatin’ you so!” “Oh,” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep dramin’ that same till you die, And bright mornin’ will give dirty night the black lie! And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. “Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve tazed me enough, Sure I’ve thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I’ve made myself drinkin’ your health quite a baste, So I think after that, I may talk to the priest.” Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm ’round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips;—don’t you think he was right? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you’ll hug me no more. That’s eight times to-day you have kiss’d me before.” “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure, For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.

It’s howdy, honey, when you laugh, An’ howdy when you cry, An’ all day long it’s howdy— I never shall say good-by. I’m monst’us peart myse’f, suh, An’ hopin’ the same fer you, An’ when I ketch my breff, suh, I’ll ax you howdy-do! It’s howdy, honey, when you sleep, It’s howdy, when you cry; Keep up, keep up the howdyin’; Don’t never say good-by! I’m middlin’ well myse’f, suh, Which the same I hope fer you; Ef you’ll let me ketch my breff, suh, I’ll ax you howdy-do!

When I was a laddie lang syne at the schule, The maister aye ca’d me a dunce an’ a fule; For somehoo his words I could ne’er understand’, Unless when he bawled, “Jamie, haud oot yer han’!” Then I gloom’d and say, “Imph-m,” I glunch’d, and say, “Imph-m,” I wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say—A-y-e! Ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbits’ himsel’, He vow’d he would thrash me if I wadna spell, Quo I, “Maister Quill,” wi’ a kin’ o’ swither, “I’ll spell ye the word if ye’ll spell me anither; Let’s hear ye spell Imph-m, That common word Imph-m, That auld Scotch word Imph-m, ye ken it means A-Y-E!” Had ye seen hoo he glour’d, hoo he scratched his big pate, An’ shouted, “Ye villain, get oot o’ my gate! Get aff to your seat! yer the plague o’ the schule! The de’il o’ me kens if yer maist rogue or fule!” But I only said, Imph-m, That pawkie word, Imph-m, He couldna spell Imph-m, that stands for an A-y-e! An’ when a brisk wooer, I courted my Jean— O’ Avon’s braw lasses the pride an’ the queen— When ’neath my gray pladdie, wi’ heart beatin’ fain, I speired in a whisper if she’d be my ain, She blushed an’ said, Imph-m, That charming word, Imph-m, A thousan’ times better an’ sweeter than A-y-e! Just ae thing I wanted my bliss to complete— Ae kiss frae her rosy mou’, couthie an’ sweet— But a shake o’ her head was her only reply— Of course, that said No, but I ken she meant A-y-e, For her twa een said Imph-m, Her red lips said, Imph-m, Her hale face said Imph-m, an’ Imph-m means A-y-e!

’Twas mesilf thin as bot me a swate little lot, Wid monies I digged for six years in the mines; An’ I builded an’ plastered a duck o’ a cot, Which Biddy soon kivird wid crapers and vines, Wid a backyard and garding convanyent and neat, Where the childer and pig could kape out o’ the street. I warked wid the hod an’ had plinty to do, An’ a stitch in my back ne’er minded at all; Our childer was healthy and Biddy was true, And I sung ’neath the load as I mounted the wall. For I knew when at sundown my work was complete, My supper was ready, all smoking and sweet. ’Twas down in a valley secure from the wind, A sandhill a north and a sandhill a south; I thought that dame nature to me was so kind She opened her jaws an’ we lived in her mouth. Biddy oft at the sand would objection and grete, But I tould her ’twould stop whin they graded the street. Bad luck to the day thin—one Saturday night I came back from working two month and a week; Och! sorry an inch o’ my cot was in sight, ’Twas kivered wid sand an’ all livil and sleek; I thought that an earthquake had made the hills meet, Till poor Biddy cried out, “They’ve graded the street!” “Bad luck to their sowls, thin,” I cried in my hate; “I’ll sue them for spoiling my cottage an’ land,” Whin Biddy sobbed out, “Dear Pat, ye are late, ’Tis a bill agin us that I hould in my hand.” In trouble I looked at the figgers complete, And saw four hundred dollars for grading the street! Poor Biddy was faithful, an’ didn’t repine; Her cousin the childer an’ her had took in, ’Til I could wid our lavings another house find; Wid a few pots an’ kettles a new life begin; But exparience had taught me a lesson I weet, Ne’er to live in a valley beside o’ the street. So I wint to the highest o’ hills I could find, An’ rinted a place that commanded a view, An’ got oursilves sittled so much to our mind, I soon earned the monies, an’ paid for it, too; ’Twas not so convanyent, but still it was neat, Tho’ my bones ached at night, as I toiled up the street. The young uns grew healthy, the air was so good, An’ Biddy her clothes dried in half o’ the time; Fur to help me to pay for our vittals an’ food, The poor girl by washing earned many a dime, An’ she kept things so tidy, complaicint an’ sweet, I nivir drudgid climin’ that hill o’ a street. Thin I wint to the mines for six months it may be, An’ wid goold in my pockit I hurried me back; Whin I got to the hill, nary hill could I see; ’Twas gone, an’ some lumber obstructed my track— I saw in an instant my ruin complete— Och! faith and Saint Peter, They’d graded the street!

You vant to buy my dog? Ah, vell, Dere vasn’t much of him to sell. His eye vas broke, his leg vas out, Und ven you ask his pedigree, Dot make her laugh come out o’ me— It vas a madder, I be blamed, About der vich he vas ashamed. His breed vasn’t in der Catalogue, He vas a good for nodings dog. It vas a day I don’t forgot, Mit rain und sleet und dings like dot, Dis homely dog he comed along Und sing me such a hungry song, I said: “Come in und take a seat Und have some scraps und tings to eat!” I smile mit him, he smile mit me, Und look like he vas glad to be, Although not in der Catalogue, But yust a good for nodings dog. Each time I come around, you bet He vag dot tail already yet; Und show me plain from either end, He always vant to be my friend. No madder I say yes! or no! Where’er I gone he bound to go. Und ven he lost me, runs around Und smells me out upon der ground, Den yumps yust like he vas a frog— Und not a good for nodings dog. My Meenie vas a leedle tot, Yust big enough to be like dot; Und run about und have some play Yust mit der dog, until von day I call her, und she vasn’t dere; I couldn’t find her anyvere;— “Dot dog gone off,” my vife, she say, “Und lead dot leedle girl avay:— He vas a good for nodings dog, Und vasn’t vorth der Catalogue!” My leedle Meenie lost! Mine Got! I never tink I cry like dot! But ven I found dot leedle pet, I cry me more as effer yet:— Dot’s funny, ven a man feels glad He cries, yust like ven he feel bad; Der tears vas yust der same; oh, my, But vat a difference in der cry! Dere Meenie sat upon der log Und pet dot good for nodings dog. Und ven my senses all got clear, I ask me: “Vot’s der matter here?” Und looking vere my Meenie said, Dere lay a great big vildcat dead! “Dot dog he killed him,” said my vife, “Und save dot leedle Meenie’s life!” I never saw her eyes more vet, Und vile I hug dot leedle pet She hug dot good for nodings dog, Vot vasn’t vorth der Catalogue! You vant to buy dot dog? Ah, vell, Nobody’s here who vants to sell. My vife she say, “You couldn’t buy Von look of kindness oud his eye!” Und as for me—dere’s not for sale, Not e’en der vaggin’ of his tail! Und Meenie told you plendy quick, “In all dis vorld you got your pick Of dose vot’s in der Catalogue, But not dot good for nodings dog.”

The Spring had brought out the green leaf on the trees, An’ the flowers were unfolding their sweets tae the bees, When Jock says tae Jenny, “Come, Jenny, agree, An’ say the bit word that ye’ll marry me.” She held doon her heid like a lily sae meek An’ the blush o’ the rose fled awa’ frae her cheek. But she said, “Gang awa’, man, your heid’s in a creel.” She didna let on that she liked him rale weel— Oh, she liked him rale weel, Aye, she liked him rale weel, But she didna let on that she liked him rale weel. Then Jock says, “Oh, Jenny, for a twalmonth an’ mair, Ye ha’e kept me just hangin’ twixt hope an’ despair, But oh, Jenny, last night something whispered tae me That I’d better lie doon at the dyke-side and dee.” Tae keep Jock in life, she gave in tae be tied: An’ soon they were booked, and three times they were cried. Love danced in Jock’s heart, and hope joined the reel— He was sure that his Jenny did like him rale weel— Oh, she liked him rale weel, Aye, she liked him rale weel, But she never let on that she liked him rale weel. When the wedding day cam’ tae the manse they did stap, An’ there they got welcome frae Mr. Dunlap, Wha chained them to love’s matrimonial stake, Syne they took a dram an’ a mouthfu’ o’ cake, Then the minister said, “Jock, be kind tae your Jenny, Nae langer she’s tiead to the string o’ her minnie; Noo, Jenny, will ye aye be couthie an’ leal?” And she vowed that she would, for she liked him rale weel— Aye, she liked him rale weel, Oh, she liked him rale weel, At last she owned up that she liked him rale weel.

My maw—she’s upstairs in bed, An IT’S there wif her. It’s all bundled up and red— Can’t nobody stir; Can’t nobody say a word Since It came to us. Only thing ’at I have heard, ’Ceptin’ all It’s fuss, Is S-h-h-h! That there nurse she shakes her head When I come upstairs. “S-h-h-h!” she sez—’at’s all she’s said To me anywheres. Doctor—he’s th’ man ’at brung It to us to stay— He makes me put out my tongue, ’Nen says “S-h-h-h!”—’at way; Just “S-h-h-h!” I goed in to see my maw, ’Nen clumb on the bed. Was she glad to see me? Pshaw! “S-h-h-h!”—’at’s what she said. ’Nen It blinked and tried to see— ’Nen I runned away Out to my old apple tree, Where no one could say “S-h-h-h!” ’Nen I layed down on the ground An’ say ’at I just wish I wuz big. An’ there’s a sound— ’At old tree says “S-h-h-h!” ’Nen I cry an’ cry an’ cry Till my paw he hears, An’ comed there an’ wiped my eye An’ mop the tears— ’Nen says “S-h-h-h!” I’m goin’ to tell my maw ’at she Don’t suit me one bit— Why do they all say “S-h-h-h!” to me An’ not say “S-h-h-h!” to IT?

Man vants put leedle hier pelow Und vants dot leedle Dutch— Der vishes vich I vish, I know, Are nicht so fery much: Choost Europt, Asia, Africa, Der Vestern Hemishpere Und a coaling-station in Japan— Dot vill pe all dis year. Hi-lee, hi-lo, der winds dey plow Choost like “Die Wacht am Rhein;” Und vat iss mein pelongs to Me, Und vat iss yours iss mein! Jah also, ven I vloat aroundt Mitin mein royal yacht I see so much vat iss nicht Dutch Dot—ach, du lieber Gott!— It gif me such a shtrange distress I gannot undershtand How volks gan lif in happiness Mitout no Vaderland! Hi-lee, hi-lo, der winds dey plow As I sail around apout To gif der Nations good advice Und sausages und kraut. Each hour I shange mein uniform, Put I never shange mein mindt, Und efery day I make ein spooch To penefit mankindt: Race Soosancide, der Nation’s Pride, Divorce and Public Sins— I talk so much like Rosenfeldt I dink ve must pe tvins! Hi-lee, hi-lo, der vinds dey plow Der maxim Rule or Bust— You gannot wreck our skyndicate Ven Gott is in der Trust! Being ein kviet Noodral Power, I know mein chob, you bet— I pray for Beace, und hope for War Und keep mein powder wet; Put ven I’ve nodings else to do, Put shtandt around und chat, Den der Right Divine talks nonsense t’rough Mein military hat. Hi-lee, hi-lo, der vinds dey plow Und softly visper dis: “Der Kaiser he iss more as yet Und all iss right vat Iss!”

I went to visit Grandma One cold Thanksgiving day; I shookt and freezed and chattered All along the way. Grandma was knitting stockings, So I tried to knit; I pulled the string the wrong way, And unmade every bit. Next day I tried to tackle A piggy for a horse, And tumbled in the pig-pen— And wasn’t Grandma cross! I’m sure it wasn’t my fault That my new dress was white, If mamma had made it pig-color It wouldn’t have shown a mite. My Grandma has a brick room Filled up with pans of milk. One day I took in pussy, She’s just as soft as silk— She’s a drefful funny pussy— All along the shelf she ran, And with her little nosey Made blue holes in every pan. My grandma’s dreffully stingy, She drove us both away, And said she’d half a mind To send me home that day. Sometimes this pussy’s naughty— One time she catched a mouse; She teased and scratched and bited it All up and down the house. I whipped her with the tater-masher Every time she made a turn, And got away poor mousey And hid him in the churn. Who ever knew that milk would drown? I thought ’twas only rivers. But when Grandma churned, My mousey was drowned all to shivers. I saw a tub of milk onct, We have ours in a dish. I thought ’twas good for nothing So I’d try to fish. I just got settled down there, My legs were nearly freezed, When Grandma came in screaming— “O that girl is in my cheese.” She jumped me out I tell you Right on the cold stone floor, And called my new boots dirty, And locked the dairy door. She gave the butter to the pigs, And put me straight to bed. And whipped poor pussy dreffully Right on her little head. I’s been drefully good to Grandma, Not made a bit of muss. But I’s going home to-morrow Cause, cause Grandma says I must.

My mamma says ’at w’en it rains ’Eyre washin’ Heaven’s window-panes, An’ careless angels ’ist do fill ’Eir pails too full an’ ’atway spill Some water down on us. ’At’s w’y It rains some days w’en maybe I Would like to play. An’ ’en she says It’s ’ist ’em angels’ carelessness ’At makes ’em raindrops fall ’at way At picnics an’ on circus day. My mamma says ’at w’en it snows ’Eyre angels pickin’ geese, she knows, An’ ’stead o’ usin’ ’em t’ stuff ’Eir pillow-cases, ’ey ’ist puff An’ blow an’ don’t clear up ’eir muss Till all ’em feathers fall on us. An’ she says ’ey ’ist pick ’atway Cuz ’ey want geese f’ Tristmas day. An’ ’at’s w’y ’eres e’ mostes’ snow Right close t’ Tristmas time, you know. My mamma says w’en e’ wind ’ist roars An’ blows, ’at’s w’en e’ angel snores, But w’en it lightnings, she says, w’y ’Eyre scratchin’ matches on the sky, An’ w’en it rumbles ’bove our heads ’Ey’re movin’ furniture an’ beds Up ’ere, an’ cleanin’ house, an’ shakes ’Eir moth-balls out an’ ’at’s w’at makes It hail. An’ weather, she ’ist ’clares Is ’ist w’at angels does upstairs.

Der poet may sing of “Der Oldt Oaken Pooket,” Und in schweetest langvich its virtues may tell, Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it, Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose from der well: I don’t take some stock in dot manner of drinking, It vas too much like hosses and cattle, I dink, Dher vas more sadisfaction in my way of drinking Mit dot long-handled dipper that hangs py der sink. “How schweet vrom der green mossy brim to receive it—” Dot would sound pooty good, eef it only vas true, Der water schbills ofer, you petter believe it, Und run down your schleeve und schlop indo your shoe: Den down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle, Und make your eyes water so quick as a wink! I dells you dot bookit don’t hold by a candle To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink. How nice it musd be in der cold vinter vedder, Vhen it settles right down to a cold, freezin’ rain, To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feather Und find dat der bookit vas broke off der chain! Den down in der well you go off a-fishing, While into your back comes an oldt fashioned kink! I bet you mine life all der time you vas vishing For dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink. Dhen give oup der bookit at vonce to der horses, Off mikrobes und tadpoles schust give dem their fill, Gife me dat pure vater dot all der time courses Droo dose pipes dot run from der schpring on der hill: Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I get rich in, Und friends all around me dheir glasses schuld clink, I still vill remember dot old country kitchen Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’, Keep silence fur yo’ betters!—don’t you heah de banjo talkin’? About the ’Possum’s tail she’s qwine to lecter—ladies, listen!— About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’: “Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn— Fur Noah tuk the “Harald,” an’ he read the ribber column— An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez. Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen: An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’. Now Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o’ beas’es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle— An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it comes so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters. De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’; De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; till whut wid all de fussin’, You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’. Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented. He wet der ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin; An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ tap’rin’; He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it? De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’; De ha’r so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’; Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces; An’ sorted ob ’em by de size, f’om little E’s to basses. He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twas “Nebber min’ de wedder,” She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder; Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers; An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers! Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’ Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’; An’ curious, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!

My pa held me up to the moo-cow-moo So clost I could almost touch, En I fed him a couple of times, or two, En I wasn’t a ’fraid-cat—MUCH. But if my papa goes into the house, En mamma she goes in, too, I just keep still, like a little mouse, Fer the moo-cow-moo might Moo! The moo-cow-moo’s got a tail like a rope En it’s raveled down where it grows; En it’s just like feeling a piece of soap All over the moo-cow’s nose. En the moo-cow-moo has lots of fun Just swinging his tail about; En he opens his mouth and then I run— ’Cause that’s where the moo comes out! En the moo-cow-moo’s got deers on his head En his eyes sticks out of their place, En the nose of the moo-cow-moo is spread All over the end of his face. En his feet is nothing but finger-nails En his mamma don’t keep ’em cut, En he gives folks milk in water-pails Ef he don’t keep his handles shut. ’Cause ef you er me pulls the handles, why The moo-cow-moo says it hurts, But the hired man he sits down clost by En squirts en squirts en squirts!

Who dat knockin’ at de do’? Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu’ sho’! Come in, Ike. I’s mighty glad You come down. I t’ought you’s mad At me ’bout de othah night, An’ was stayin’ ’way fu’ spite. Say, now, was you mad fu’ true W’en I kin’ o’ laughed at you? Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f. ’Tain’t no use a-lookin’ sad, An’ a-mekin’ out you’s mad; Ef you’s gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don’t lak nobidy ’roun’ Dat jes’ shet dey mouf an’ frown— Oh, now, man, don’t act a dunce! Cain’t you talk? I tol’ you once, Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f. Wha’d you come hyeah fu’ to-night? Body’d t’ink yo’ haid ain’t right. I’s done all dat I kin do— Dressed perticler, jes’ fu’ you; Reckon I’d a’ bettah wo’ My ol’ ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I’s took, Cain’t you tell me how I look? Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

Dey is times in life when Nature Seems to slip a cog, an’ go Jes’ a-rattlin’ down creation, Lak an ocean’s overflow; When do worl’ jes’ stahts a-spinnin’ Lak a picaninny’s top, An’ yo’ cup o’ joy is brimmin’ ’Twell it seems about to slop, An’ you feel jes’ lak a racah, Dat is trainin’ fu’ to trot— When yo’ mammy says de blessin’ An’ de co’n pone’s hot. When you set down at de table, Kin’ o’ weary lak an’ sad, An’ you’se jes’ a little tiahed An’ purhaps a little mad; How yo’ gloom tu’ns into gladness, How yo’ joy drives out de doubt When de oven do’ is opened, An’ de smell comes po’in out; Why de ’lectric light o’ Heaven Seems to settle on de spot, When yo’ mammy says de blessin’ An’ de co’n pone’s hot. When de cabbage pot is steamin’ An’ de bacon’s good an’ fat, When de chittlins is a sputter’n’ So’s to show you whah dey’s at; Tek away yo’ sody biscuit, Tek away yo’ cake an’ pie, Fu’ de glory time is comin’, An’ it’s ’proachin’ mighty nigh, An’ you want to jump an’ hollah, Dough you know you’d bettah not, When yo’ mammy says de blessin’ An’ de co’n pone’s hot. I have hyeahd o’ lots o’ sermons, An’ I’ve hyeahd o’ lots o’ prayers, An’ I’ve listened to some singin’ Dat has tuck me up de stairs Of de Glory-Lan’ an’ set me Jes’ below de Mastah’s tr’one, An’ have lef’ my hea’t a-singin’ In a happy aftah tone; But dem wu’ds so sweetly murmured Seem to tech de softes’ spot, When my mammy says de blessin’, An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still Fur’z you can look or listen. Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, All silence an’ all glisten. Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown An’ peeked in thru’ the winder, An’ there sot Huldy all alone, ’Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room’s one side With a half a cord o’ wood in,— There warn’t no stoves (tel comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin’. The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An’ leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An’ in amongst ’em rusted The ole queen’s arm thet Gran’ the Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, ’cause she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’, An’ she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin’. ’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dog-rose bloomin’ to a brook Ain’t modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o’ man, A-1, Clean grit an’ human natur’; None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He’d sparked it with full twenty gals, He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells,— All is, he couldn’t love ’em. But long o’ her his veins ’ould run All crinky like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o’ sun Ez a south slope in Ap’il. She thought no v’ice had such a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin’-bonnet Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair O’ blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to’ve got a new soul, For she felt sartin’-sure he’s come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, A-raspin’ on the scraper,— All ways to once her feelin’s flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o’ the sekle; His heart kept goin’ pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An’ on her apples kep’ to work, Parin’ away like murder. “You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?” “Wal ... no ... I come designin’”— “To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” To say why gals act so or so, Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; Mebby to mean yes an’ say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t’other, An’ on which one he felt the wust He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther. Says he, “I’d better call agin;” Says she, “Think likely, Mister”; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An’ ... Wal, he up an’ kist her. When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, Huldy sot pale as ashes, All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips An’ teary roun’ the lashes. For she was jes’ the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin’, Tell mother see how matters stood, An’ gin ’em both her blessin’. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, An’ all I know is they was cried In meetin’ come next Sunday.

I simply cannot understand Why grown-ups always say, “Don’t spend your money, little boy; Save for a rainy day.” Once, when the circus was in town I asked Bob for a quarter; He said, “You’re so extravagant, For shame; I think you’d oughter— “Save all your pennies; after while You’ll need them, silly baby; For if you spend them all, you’ll go Out to the poorhouse—maybe.” And so I waited till next time When it rained cats and dogs; I took the big umbrella, and Put on my oldest togs. And when they stopped me with the words I knew of course they’d say, I hollered, “I must spend my dime, Cause it’s a rainy day.”

Well, I guess I’ll have to go— For school’s commenced again, you know; An’ now I’ll have to be polite, An’ watch my words wif all my might. I wish the school ’ud blow away, Or teachers all were sick to-day; For nen I’d be just what I am, An’ play all day wif Jake an’ Sam. I guess us boys ’ud ruther be The pirates on a stormy sea, That shoot wif guns an’ cut wif knives, Than spend in school most all our lives. I can’t see why Ma thinks ’at school Is better place than swimmin’ pool; Or that I’ll learn more in a book Than from my pal, the flowin’ brook. It may be so, but I don’t care, I’d ruther be a-dreamin’ there How fine it is to be like men, An’ never go to school again. My Ma an’ Pa both said that they Would be so glad when I’m away; An’ so, I guess I’ll have to go— For school’s commenced again, you know.

Dhe contrariest t’ing on dhe erd is men, Aber wimmens arr twice so contrary again, Andt I am twice so contrary as you, Andt you arr as worse as dhe worst one too; Now, ain’d dhat zo? You like to haf hoonger by dinner, you say, Aber vhy do you eadt, so dat hoonger go ’vay? You like to be tired, so you schleep like a top, Andt you like to go schleep, so dhat tired feeling shtop; Now, ain’d dhat zo? You like to haf sugar on sauer t’ings you eadt Andt you like to haf sauer mit dhe t’ings vhat arr sweet, You like to be cold when dhe vetter is hot; Andt it is cold, ach, how varm you vould got! Now, aindt dhat zo? How you shdare at dhe man vhat can valk up dhe street On his hands, yet you valk twice so goodt on your feet, Vhat a long mind you haf, if I’m in your debt, Budt if you arr in mine, O, how quick you forget! Now, aindt dhat zo? Are you single? You like to be married, of course. Are you married? Most likely you like a divorse! Andt if you vas get unmarried, why dhen You go righd avay and got married again. Now, ain’d dhat zo? It is bedter to laugh; it is foolish to fight Yoost because I am wrong and because you ain’d right, It is better to laugh mit dhe vorld, up and down From dhe sole of our headt to the foot of our crown; Now, ain’d dhat zo? Zo, dhen you laugh at me andt dhen I laugh at you, Andt dhe more dhat you laugh vhy dhe more I laugh, too, Andt ve laugh till ve cry! Vhen ve cry, aber dhen, Ve will bot’ feel zo goot ve go laughing again! Now, ain’d dhat zo?

Examination’s over ’n’ I don’t care if I passed, An’ I don’t care if I didn’t fer vacation’s come at last! I thought ’twould never git here, fer the days dragged by as slow As Davy Jones’s ma, who calls ’n’ don’t know when to go. Pop says I ort to go to work, but ma says she knows best, ’N’ what a boy of my age needs is just a thurru’ rest. So me an’ Dave’ll get up every mornin’ bright ’n’ soon, An’ pitch ’n’ ketch till breakfast, ’n’ bat up flies till noon. ’Cause after dinner every day the Hustlehards—his nine— Is goin’ to play a series fer the champeenship with mine: The one behind at dark has got to say the other’s best. Gee! ain’t I glad vacation’s here ’n’ I got time to rest. Then I’m a-goin’ to learn the other fellers how to dive, An’ rassle Billy Potter, best thirteen in twenty-five! ’N’ after supper Dave ’n’ I are goin’ to have a race, Ten times around the block, ’n’ if I win he’ll bust my face. That’s what he says! But he’ll find out which one of us is best; I’m feeling pretty strong now since I’m havin’ such a rest. There’s goin’ to be a picnic ’n’ you bet yer life I’m goin’; I’m entered in the swimmin’ race, ’n’ greasy pole, ’n’ rowin’, The sack race ’n’ potato race are mine, I bet a dime, ’N’ in “the mile” I simply got to win the prize fer time, ’Cause it’s a ticket to the Gym. I like that prize the best, Fer a feller needs some exercise as well as just a rest. I’m goin’ to visit Uncle’s farm. He lets me do the chores ’N’ work just like the farm-hands do, right in the fields out-doors. I’m goin’ to git a bag to punch, so’s I won’t git too fat: We’re goin’ to have a six-day race—I got to train fer that. I want to do so many things, I don’t know which is best; I bet vacation’s over ’fore I get a thurru’ rest!

There ain’t no Declaration. Naw There ain’t no Fourth-July. There ain’t no “free ’n’ equal” law, ’N’ Washin’ton could lie. They never dumped no Boston tea; It’s fakey, all you hear, Fer pop says there ain’t goin’ to be No shootin’ off this year. They talk about pertectin’ us To keep the Fourth in peace; But we ain’t makin’ any fuss, Ner askin’ fer police. We ain’t afraid of smoke ’n’ noise, Er little lumps of lead; ’N’ why should they blame livin’ boys Because some boys is dead? It ain’t my fault the fuse went out ’N’ Tom went up ’n’ blew; Besides he’s just as well without His extry ear er two. They cut off Oscar’s leg, but he Don’t seem to miss it much; He’d beat us hoppin’ yet, if we ’Ud let him use his crutch. It ain’t my fault that Willie blew His hand off, like a chump; I told him what those big ones do; He needn’t ’a’ took the stump. It ain’t my fault a rocket flies ’N’ hits some him er her; Somebody’s got to wear glass eyes; That’s what glass eyes is fer! It ain’t my fault the stuff was bad They made Jim’s pistol of; Besides the preacher said, “We’re glad He’s happier up above!” Bet I’d be happier, anyhow, Most any place but here, Where they ain’t goin’ to allow No shootin’ off this year!

O Oi wuz a loafin’ lubber but bedad I learned to wurrk Whin Oi loighted out o’ County Corrk along wid Paddy Burrke. We stowed abarrd a coaster an’ her skipper wuz a brick; Begorrah if yez didn’t moind, he’d boost yez wid a kick! Away, haal away, haal away, Joe! Th’ pigs wuz lane in County Corrk, th’ men all starrved on taties, But Oi shipped upon a Yankee barrk, and better, faith, me fate is! Och Oi hed an Irish darlint, but she ghrew so fat an’ lazy Thet Oi bounced her fur a Yankee gurrl, an’ surre but she’s a daisy! Away, haal away, haal away, Joe! O since Oi lift auld Ireland Oi’ve poaked thro’ miny plaices, Oi’ve wurrked me way, Oi’ve arrned me pay at haalin’ shates an’ braces; On farrin’ shorres Oi’ve sot me eye on gurrls iv iv’ry nashin, Me Yankee gurrl hes ne’er a mate throughhout th’ woid creashin! Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

Yo ho, ma hahties, da’s a hurricane a-brewin’, Fo’ de cook he hasn’t nuffin fo’ de sailah-men a-stewin’,— He am skulkin’ in his bunk, am dat niggah of a cook, An’ his chaowdah ’m in de ocean while de pot am on de hook. You can chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick, But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum when de cook am lyin’ sick. Ah remembah in de cane-fiel’ we hed pone-cakes ebry day; Slack yo line a bit, ma hahties! pull away! pull away! An’ Ah ’low Ah’m feelin’ homesick, jes’ t’ mention ob ma honey,— She’s a libbin’ at de cabin an’ she’s out o’ cloes an’ money. While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick, But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick. O ma po’ neglected Liza an’ her piccaninny Jo, Ah’s ben roamin’ sence Ah left her case Ah wanted fo’ to go! Ah’s ben hustlin’ roun’ de islands, navigatin’ all de sea, While ma honey specs a hungry shark done stuff hisself wid me. While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick, But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.

Josiah loved Symanthy And Symanthy loved Josi’, Which you couldn’t fail to notice In the rollin’ of the eye; But they never told each other, On account o’ bein’ shy, ’Pears to me! But they kept right on a-lovin’ Jes like any couple would. Weren’t no reason why they shouldn’t, Ner no reason why they should, ’Cause there wa’n’t no p’ints about ’em Cupid reckoned on as good, ’Pears to me! Now this love disease is mortal, ’Cause it tackles mortals so, An’ the oftener you have it The worse it seems to grow; More you try to hide the symptoms, More the symptoms seem to show, ’Pears to me! Josiah was uneasy When Symanthy wasn’t near, An’ he got still more uneasy Whenever she’d appear. But sittin’ down beside ’er Got his joints clean out o’ gear, ’Pears to me! He put his arm behind ’er, An’ then he pulled it back Until Symanthy giggled: “Guess yer gittin’ on the track By the way yer flusticatin’; Kind a-lookin’ fer a smack, ’Pears to me!” Then Josiah stopped a minute, Jes consid’rin’ how ’twould be An’ how best to go about it, ’Cause he hadn’t much idee; But he knew ’twas waitin’ fer him, By Symanthy’s shy te-he! ’Pears to me! Then Symanthy got pretending, She was bitin’ off her thumb, But she wasn’t—she was waitin’ For whatever chose to come; While Josiah’s tongue kept rollin’ In his cheek, like chewin’-gum, ’Pears to me! When Josiah was persuaded That Symanthy wouldn’t shout, Wa’n’t a-jokin’, ner a-foolin’, Ner a-fixin’ to back out,— Then he buckled up his courage: Kissed her cheek or thereabout, ’Pears to me! Then he asked ’er if she’d have him, An’ she answered: “What d’ ye guess?” Said he wa’n’t no good at guessin’; So she smiled an’ snickered: “Yes! Since I git ye all fer nothin’ I couldn’t do no less, ’Pears to me!” When the Squire asked ’em the questions— On the weddin’-day they set— Which some people answer quickly An’ about as soon forget,— Symanthy said: “I reckin!” An’ Josiah said: “You bet!” ’Pears to me! When they took their weddin’ journey Up an’ down the city street, Josiah told Symanthy That he guessed they’d have a treat: So they went an’ got some oysters— What they never yet had eat, ’Pears to me! Then Josiah, sort o’ thinkin’, Said: “I thought they had a shell; What the slipp’ry things resemble I’ll be switched if I can tell; An’ they look so pale an’ sickly Kind o’ reckon they ain’t well, ’Pears to me!” “I wonder how they eat ’em?” Said Symanthy, “How’d I know? I’ve eat everythin’ that you have Ever since you’ve been my beau! But I’ll bet a cent ye dasn’t Put one in an’ let ’er go! ’Pears to me!” While Symanthy eat the crackers Josiah let one slip; Said it didn’t taste like nothin’; Wasn’t ripe; then closed his lip; Vowed he wouldn’t eat another, Fear ’twould spile his weddin’ trip, ’Pears to me! When the tip-expectin’ beggar Bowed, an’ smilin’ meekly, said: “Colonel hasn’t feed the waitah!” Then Josiah jerked his head— “You can feed on them ’ere oysters If the pesky things ain’t dead, ’Pears to me!”

I don’t care if Charlie Jones Is better ’an I be; An’ I don’t care if teacher says He’s smart ’long side er me; An’ I don’t care, w’en vis’tors come, If she on him does call; He ain’t got measles, like I have— He don’t have luck at all. He never had the whoopin’ cough, Ner mos’ cut off his thumb, Ner ever fell an’ broke his leg An’ had a doctor come. He hardly ever stubs his toe, An’ if he does, he’ll bawl! There’s nothin’ special comes to him— He don’t have luck at all. An’ I don’t care if he can say More tex’s an’ things ’an I; He never burnt both hands to once ’Long ’bout the Fo’th July. He never had the chicken-pox, Ner p’isen oak—las’ Fall! He can’t be proud o’ nothin’ much— He don’t have luck at all. —From “Lays for Little Chaps.”

Some say that kissing’s a sin; But I think it’s nane ava, For kissing has wonn’d in this warld Since ever that there was twa. O, if it wasna lawfu’, Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it. If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna take it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folks wadna get it.

I’d like to be a cowboy, an’ ride a firey hoss Way out into the big and boundless West; I’d kill the bears an’ catamounts an’ wolves I come across, An’ I’d pluck the bal’ head eagle from his nest! With my pistol at my side, I would roam the prarers wide, An’ to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride— If I darst; but I darsen’t. I’d like to go to Afriky an’ hunt the lions there, An’ the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An’ beard the cannybull that eats folks raw. I’d chase the pizen snakes An’ the pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes— If I darst; but I darsen’t. I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag a-flyin’ overhead; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, An’ dye the sea a gouty, gory red. With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I’d stand And to deeds of heroism I’d incite my pirut band— If I darst; but I darsen’t. And, if I darst, I’d lick my pa for the times that he’s licked me, I’d lick my brother an’ my teacher, too, I’d lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An’ I’d keep on lickin’ folks till I got through. You bet. I’d run away From my lessons to my play, An’ I’d shoo the hens, and tease the cat, an’ kiss the girls all day— If I darst; but I darsen’t.

Derndest gal I ever knowed, Neatest gal I ever seen, Lived down in the Red Ravine Jest below the county road, Guess she wuz about sixteen— Sophy wuz her name, an’ she Wuz ez cute ez cute kin be. When I’d go t’ town I brung Her the biggest lot o’ stuff, Pop-corn, likrish, ’n’ enough Candy fer t’ fill a room. Once she hit me with a broom Cuz I kissed her on the cheek, An’ the midget wouldn’t speak T’ me fer, perhaps, a week. When I’d raise my eyes to hern Jeminny! my cheeks ’ud burn An’ git redder ’n’ a beet. Oh, she looked jest powerful sweet! When I’d try to call her dear, Why, I’d feel so doggoned queer That I’d lean ag’in’ th’ fence ’Zif I didn’ hev no sense, Twist th’ buttons on my vest, Ast her who she liked th’ best, Ast her if it wuzn’t Bill, Er old Jones thet run th’ mill, Keep a-hintin’ ’round, yuh see, Till she’d up an’ say ’twuz me. I wuz jellus o’ Jim Pike, Jellus ez th’ very deuce Though there didn’t seem much use, Fer his freckles wuz so thick, An’ his hair wuz so like brick Thet a feller one day said Yuh could toast a hunk o’ bread Ef yuh’d hold it nigh his head. He wuz awkarder’n sin, Never fished along the crick But he’d hev t’ tumble in. Sophy ’peared t’ pity Jim, While I thought if I wuz him I’d go off ’n’ hide somewhere, Else put plaster on my hair. But this homely, lantern-jawed Lookin’ cuss stood ’round ’n’ chawed On a plug o’ terbacker Half his time ’n’ talked t’ her Of his love, till I jest told Him t’ mosey, an’ he rolled Up his sleeves ’n’ landed me Plumb betwixt th’ eyes, then he Went to Sophy, an’, sir, she Married him! The pesky mule! Wuzn’t she a reg’ler fool? I wuz jest tetotally blowed— Derndest gal I ever knowed!

Oh, I am so orful humsick! An’ I feel so wretched queer! Ephrum, he has gone a-ridin’ on a wild eclectric keer, Rhody—that’s my only darter—she has gone an’ left me, tew, Both a trapesin’ ’round like ijits—wonder what’s th’ next they’ll do? They don’t seem to think they’re darin’ Providence right in th’ face, Ridin’ without hoss er engine ’n’ goin’ at a break-neck pace: Course I needn’t stand here waitin’, both insisted I should come, But I vow I’ll not be reckless when I am so fer from hum: Clear out here by th’ Pacific, jist as fur as we kin git, An’ if we stay here much longer I declare I’ll hev a fit. It’s th’ most deceivin’ kentry as ever’ one’ll say Ever’ drap o’ water salty in th’ hull o’ Frisco bay. Oh, I’ve tramped these pesky sidewalks till my feet is lame an’ sore, An’ a-yearnin’ ever’ minute fur Newbrasky’s fertile shore! Then they brag about their scenery! Californy! Humph! O dear! Scenery! Well, jest speaking plainly, I don’t see no scenery here: Nothin’ but the mount’in ranges rarin’ up so ’tarnal high Thet a buddy kint look nowheres ’cept the middle o’ th’ sky. Mount’ins, everlastin’ mount’ins, hills ’n’ woods ’n’ rocks ’n’ snow, Where th’ scenery is they’re braggin’ on I’m th’ one as wants t’ know. Let ’em stand in Lincoln county jest aback our cowyard fence, An’ if they don’t say there’s scenery they hain’t got a mite o’ sense; Why yuh kin look fur miles around yuh an’ see nothin’ but th’ flat Level prairie in th’ sunshine kivered in its grassy mat. That is scenery—yuh kin look there jest as fur as yuh kin see With no hills a-interposin’, er no rocks, er airy tree. Oh, I’ve told my husband, Ephrum, that I’d gallavant no more When ag’in I’d sot my foot on old Newbrasky’s fertile shore. Then I’m worried so ’bout Rhody, fur she’s missin’ ever’ day All her lessons on th’ melojun that paw bought fur her last May, An’ she could perform amazin’; she could play “Old Hundred” nice An’ another song beginnin’ “Happy Day that Fixed My Ch’ice.” Yes, th’ singin’ teacher told me as we parted at th’ keers, He was shore she’d play th’ organ in th’ church ’fore many years. Now her notion’s highkerflutin’, a pianner she wants now, An’ her paw sez he will get it soon as he kin sell a cow, Sez he kin dispose o’ Muly—I jest told him no sir-e-e Not fur no new-fangled nonsense—Muly’s my cow, an’ you see He’s jest got a spite ag’in her ’cause she’s got a lengthy tail An’ in fightin’ skeeters sometimes whicks it in th’ milkin’ pail. Oh, I’ll be the gladdest mortal when I reach th’ kitchen door Of that dear old farmhouse standin’ on Newbrasky’s fertile shore! No, I don’t enjoy th’ city where the wimmen folks is dressed Monday an’ clean through till Saturday all in their Sunday best. I jest like to ketch my wrapper up ’n’ pin it ’round my waist, Carin’ not a single copper if my shoe-string comes unlaced, Then go out an’ milk old Muly an’ turn out th’ spotted calf While th’ chickens giggle ’round me an’ the speckled roosters laff, Then go in th’ summer kitchen, set me down an’ churn a spell, Till time comes t’ put th’ victuals on an’ ring th’ dinner bell. Yes, I love th’ peaceful quiet o’ th’ farm where it’s so still, Nothin’ but th’ ducks a-quackin’ ’n’ pigs a-squealin’ fur their swill, Nothin’ but th’ geese a-clackin’ ’n’ the bawlin’ o’ th’ cows, An’ th’ nickerin’ o’ th’ hosses as they’re comin’ t’ th’ house; Oh, I want t’ leave th’ city with its racket an’ its roar An’ git back there t’ the silence o’ Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas, An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not: The paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot. We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im: ’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses, ’E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces. So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan; You’re a poor benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man; We give you your certifikit, and if you want it signed We’ll come an’ have a romp with you whenever you’re inclined. We took our chanst among the Kyber hills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills, An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style; But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller. Then ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went and did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ’ardly fair; But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square. ’E ’asn’t got no papers of ’is own, ’E ’asn’t got no medals nor rewards So we must certify the skill ’e’s shown In usin’ of ’is long two-handled swords; When ’e’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear, A ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last a ’ealthy Tommy for a year. So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which is no more, If we ’adn’t lost some mess-mates we would help you to deplore; But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair, For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumbled up the square! ’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An’, before we know, ’e’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead; ’E’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive, An’ ’e’s generally shammin’ when ’e’s dead. ’E’s a daisy, ’e’s a duck, ’e’s a lamb! ’E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, ’E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t care a damn For the Regiment o’ British Infantree. So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan; You’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man; An’ ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air— You big black boundin’ beggar—for you bruk a British square.

My name is Bub, ’cuz papa sed He’d ruther call me so than Ned. But mamma calls me ’ist her beau— W’en I am good, I mean, you know. So, I ’ist hardly knows my name I guess—I bet ’ist all the same, I’m papa’s boy an’ mamma’s dear, An’ I be glad ’ist ’cuz I’m here. It’s hard to make a name, I s’pose, W’en they have used ’bout all o’ those That they have heard or that they’ve read— O’ course, there’s more w’en people’s dead. An’ now I wonder if that I Will leave my name w’en I must die. I guess it’s so, ’cuz we ’ist call Angel’s last name for them all. I’m glad I’m not an angel yet, Whose names are less than mine, I bet, Still it must be nice to see All the folks that used to be. Oh, my, I don’t know what to say About my names, ’cuz every day My mamma finds a new one, too— I’m ’fraid she’s left no names for you. The bestest thing in all this worl’ Is, I’m a boy an’ not a girl, Girls are good as they can be, But boys are best you must agree. I guess I’ve tol’ you all I know From where names come to where they go; But ’member now ’ist what I sed, My name is Bub instead o’ Ned.

A Chinaman comes to our house each day Wif horses that’s colored both red an’ gray, An’ wagon ’ist full of things to eat— An’ up I climbs on his big high seat. This Chinaman’s name I cannot tell— But “veg’table man” will do as well; For corn an’ beans and cabbage, too, He grows in the fields for me an’ you. An’ w’en it’s time to drive to town He brings his wagon ’ist loaded down With veg’t’ble things an’ peaches too— He’ll peel you one if I ask him to. Gee, but I love this Chinaman; He stops an’ plays, an’ one day ran Aroun’ his wagon clear out of sight— But I found him there an’ held on tight. Then up he lifts me way up high, An’ laughs again wif his funny eye— I forgot to tell that he can see ’Ist half so well as you an’ me. ’Cause one day w’en he’s ’ist a boy An’ playin’ wif a home-made toy, It flew aroun’ an’ hit his face, An’ left that funny open place. But I don’t care if he is queer, He sees enough to know I’m here, An’ finds the time to stop an’ play W’en I am lonesome through the day. But ma an’ dad are not so kind As veg’t’ble man whose eye is blind. I guess I love them all I can, But most I love my Chinaman.

Ezekiel, the Puritan, Thus lifts his protestation: “By ginger, I’m American, And don’t like immigration. Naow I jest guess I got here fust And know what I’m abaout, When I declar’ we’ll all go bust Or keep them aliens out.” Max Heidelburg, the German, says: “Jah also. Right, mein frendt. If ve dot foreign trash admit Our woes will nefer endt. I am Americans as you Und villing to ge-shout ‘Hurray mit red und vite und plue, Und kiip dose aliens oudt!’” Ike Diamondstein, the Jew, exclaims: “Ah, Izzy, ain’t dat grandt! Ve Yangees haf such nople aims Und vill togeder standt, Ve’ve got der goods, ve’re nach’ralized— Vat hinters us from shouten ‘Americavich is civilzized, So keep dose aliens outen!’” Pietro Garibaldi says: “Here ever-r-ry man is king. I catch-a da fun, I mak-a da mon, I like-a da ever-r-yt’ing. American he gent-a-man— Watch-a da Dago shout, ‘Sell-a da fruit, shin-a da boot, Keep-a da alien out!’” The Irishman vociferates: “Sure, Mike, it’s sahft as jelly. I’ll take the shtick and crack the pates Of ivery foreign Kelly. If it’s the call o’ polyticks, Then I’m the la’ad to shout, ‘Down wid th’ Da-agos an’ th’ Micks, An’ keep th’ aliens out!’” But covered with ancestral tan, Beside his wigwam door, The only real American Counts idle talk a bore. “Ugh! Pale-face man he mighty thief. Much medicine talk about— It heap too late for Injun chief To keep-um alien out.”

Well, I went an’ joined the army, an’ I done my little bit— ’Ere’s the bloke wot put my pot on; yes, I keeps ’im in my kit— No, ’e ain’t no proper soft-nose; just the end off on the sly; ’E’s the only one wot got me—but I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by, God A’mighty! Yes, I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by. Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a little whistlin’ sigh, “Nearly got you that time, Sonny, just a little bit too high,” Or a crack like, “Jack, look out there: Keep yer ’ead down, mind yer eye!” But they’re gone an’ far behind yer ’fore you’ll ’ear ’em passin’ by. Yes, I lay from Toosday mornin’ till the Wensday afternoon; ’En the Black Watch took their trenches ’en it woke me from a swoon. I was flamin’, nearly mad wi’ thirst an’ pain, an’ fit to cry, But I cheered ’em as they trampled on me carcus, passin’ by. God A’mighty! Yes, I cheered ’em as I ’eard ’em passin’ by. Passin’ by; passin’ by; trippin’, failin’, gettin’ nigh. Gettin’ nearer to the trenches, ’en you ’eard a Tommy cry: “Don’t forget the Belgian wimmen, nor the little bairns forbye.” God! I wouldn’t be a German when them men was passin’ by. Then they gathered us together an’ they sorted out the worst— Wot they called the “stretcher cases”—and they ’tended to us first, They was overworked an’ crowded, an’ the Doc ’ud give a sigh— “Hopeless, that case”—“that one, also”—speakin’ softly, passin’ by. God! They watched ’im, silent, suff’rin’, watchin’, hopin’—passin’ by. Passin’ by; passin’ by; curt command an’ stifled sigh, For it ain’t no place for drama, an’ a man ’as got ter die; ’En I thought I ’eard a whimper an’ a little soft reply— “Greater love than this hath no man”—some one speakin’ passin’ by. So they ships me off to “Blighty,” ’en they sticks me in a ward, I was short a leg an’ peeper, but they treats me like a lord. I’d allus bin a lonely bloke, an’ so I used ter lie An’ watch the fren’s of other men continual passin’ by, Sisters, children, wives, an’ mothers, everlastin’ passin’ by. Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a smile or with a sigh; With their cigarettes an’ matches, flowers or shirt or pipe or tie; An’ one ’ud sometimes talk an’ speak—I used ter wonder why— Cos I ain’t no blame Adonis, not ter notice, passin’ by. I’m thinkin’ if the angels ’ave a Union Jack around, An’ sticks it somewhere prominent when Gabriel starts to sound, The people round that flag will be ’most half the hosts on high— The men who’ve passed, or waits to pass, or now are passin’ by, Big ’earted men an’ wimmen, white an’ black, a-passin’ by. Passin’ by; passin’ by; just to keep that flag on high, An’ all that flag ’as stood for in the days that’s now gone by; An’ when they pass before, I’m sure ’E’ll listen to their cry, An’ ’E’ll treat ’em very gentle, an’ forgive ’em, passin’ by.

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o’ life’s young day! The fire that’s blawn on Beltanes e’en May weel be black ’gin Yule; But blacker fa’ awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o’ bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi’ tears: They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o’ langsyne. ’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, ’Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time,—sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! ’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi’ ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. O, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi’ shame, Whene’er the scule-weans, laughin’, said We cleeked thegither hame? And mind ye o’ the Saturdays, (The scule then skail’t at noon,) When we ran off the speel the braes,— The broomy braes o’ June? My head rins round and round about,— My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O’ scule-time and o’ thee. O mornin’ life! O mornin’ luve! O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like summer blossoms sprang! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin’ dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood The throssil whusslit sweet; The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees,— And we, with Nature’s heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o’ joy, till baith Wi’ very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled,—unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae bin to thee As closely twined wi’ earliest thocts As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e’er your heart grows grit Wi’ dreamings o’ langsyne? I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west, I’ve borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luv o’ life’s young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young I’ve never seen your face, nor heard The music o’ your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O’ bygone days and me!

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi’ muckle faught an’ din; “Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrief rogues, Your faither’s comin’ in.” They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up an’ cry, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.” Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid— He aye sleeps next the wa’— Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece;” The rascal starts them a’. I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun’, Then draw the blankets up an’ cry, “Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.” But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries out, frae neath the claes, “Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at once, He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.” The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks, He’d bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up and cry, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.” At length they hear their faither’s fit, An’ as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa’, While Tam pretends to snore. “Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks, As he pits off his shoon; “The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An’ lang since cuddled doon.” And just afore we bed oorsels, We look at our wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck, And Rab his airm round Tam’s. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An’ as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.” The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me; But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who rules aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be beld “Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels— But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered “And afterward, what else?” Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There’s nobody on the house-tops now Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?” God might question; now instead, ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Often I think of the beautiful soul, The soul of Annabel Lee, And the man who loved, in the years gone by, The soul of Annabel Lee— His beautiful bride, who sleeps by his side, By the shores of the sounding sea. They say he was mad, but the world was mad, More mad and more wrong than he, For the soul was true that loved the soul Of the wondrous Annabel Lee, And the touch of that love was the love that made The soul of her lover free. In the days gone by, in the wreck of things, From the wave of Life’s wide sea, They were carried beyond by their kinsmen high, He and his Annabel Lee; Her heart was pure, too pure for the world That chills the heart of the free— And his was a life that chilled with the life That passed from Annabel Lee. But the angels are good; in heaven above They gather the wrecks of the sea, They gather the gold from the wrecks of love, And the soul in its purity free— So this is what they’ve done with the love Of Poe and his Annabel Lee. I’ve stood in the room where they lived and loved, And my soul touched the Life to be, And I felt the spell of the hidden light That lived in Annabel Lee; And I felt the hand of the man she loved, (That she loved far better than we,) And down in my soul the double soul Awoke the God in me. So down in my dreams I follow the beams Of Poe and his Annabel Lee, And deep in the night I see the pure light That flashes and quivers to me. Away in the years where the Future stands, In the world that is to be, I know that my hands will clasp the hands Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.

“I sleep, but my heart waketh.”

Tread lightly, love, when over my head, Beneath the daisies lying, And tenderly press the grassy bed Where the fallen rose lies dying. Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground, Save when, your foot-fall hearing, My heart awakes to the old-loved sound And beats to the step that’s nearing. Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came— Still, dust for dust hath feeling— The willow-roots whispered low the name Of him who weeps while kneeling. The lily-cup holds the falling tears, The tears you shed above me; And I know through all these silent years There’s some one still to love me. Oh, softly sigh; for I hear the sound And grieve me o’er your sorrow; But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound— I’ll give it back to-morrow. Whisper me, love, as in moments fled, While I dream your hand mine taketh; For the stone speaks false that says, “She’s dead;” I sleep, but my heart awaketh.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman’s boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor-lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But, O, for the touch of a vanish’d hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie With hands that folded are from every task; Sealed with the seal of the great mystery, The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask. The life-long struggle ended; ended quite The weariness of patience, and of pain, And the eyes closed to open not again On desolate dawn or dreariness of night. It must be sweet to slumber and forget; To have the poor tired heart so still at last: Done with all yearning, done with all regret, Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all forever past: Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet— It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!

I hear her rocking the baby— Her room is just next to mine— And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms That round her neck entwine, As she rocks, and rocks the baby, In the room just next to mine. I hear her rocking the baby Each day when the twilight comes, And I know there’s a world of blessing and love In the “baby bye” she hums. I see the restless fingers Playing with “mamma’s rings,” And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth, That to hers in kissing clings, As she rocks and sings to the baby, And dreams as she rocks and sings. I hear her rocking the baby, Slower and slower now, And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss On its eyes, and cheek, and brow. From her rocking, rocking, rocking, I wonder would she start, Could she know, through the wall between us, She is rocking on a heart, While my empty arms are aching For a form they may not press, And my emptier heart is breaking In its desolate loneliness? I list to the rocking, rocking, In the room just next to mine, And breathe a prayer in silence, At a mother’s broken shrine, For the woman who rocks the baby In the room just next to mine.

When dead, no imposing funeral rite, Nor line of praise I crave; But drop your tears upon my face— Put flowers on my grave. Close not in narrow wall the place In which my heart finds rest, Nor mark with tow’ring monument The sod above my breast. Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab A burning thought or deed. Or word of love, or praise, or blame, For stranger eyes to read. But deep, deep in your heart of hearts, A tender mem’ry save; Upon my dead face drop your tears— Put flowers on my grave.

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father’s dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces— How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife— I feel I’m growing auld; My steps are frail, my een are bleared, My pow is unco bauld. I’ve seen the snaws o’ fourscore years O’er hill and meadow fa’, And hinnie! were it no’ for you, I’d gladly slip awa’. I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife— I feel I’m growing auld; Frae youth to age I’ve keepit warm The love that ne’er turned cauld. I canna bear the dreary thocht That we maun sindered be; There’s naething binds my poor auld heart To earth, gude-wife, but thee. I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife— I feel I’m growing auld; Life seems to me a wintry waste, The very sun feels cauld. Of worldly frien’s ye’ve been to me, Amang them a’ the best; Now, I’ll lay down my weary head, Gude-wife, and be at rest.

Eef poor man goes An’ steals a rose Een Juna-time— Wan leetla rose— You gon’ su’pose Dat dat’s a crime? Eh! w’at? Den taka look at me, For here bayfore your eyes you see Wan thief, dat ees so glad an’ proud He gona brag of eet out loud! So moocha good I do, an’ feel, From dat wan leetle rose I steal, Dat eef I gon’ to jail to-day Dey no could tak’ my joy away. So, leesen! here ees how eet come: Las’ night w’en I am walkin’ home From work een hotta ceety street Ees sudden com’ a smal so sweet Eet maka heaven een my nose— I look an’ dere I see da rose! Not wan, but manny, fine an’ tall, Dat peep at me above da wall. So, then, I close my eyes an’ find Anudder peecture een my mind; I see a house dat’s small an’ hot Where many pretta theengs ees not, Where leetla woman, good an’ true, Ees work so hard da whole day through, She’s too wore out, w’en com’s da night, For smile an’ mak’ da housa bright. But presto! now I’m home, an’ she Ees seetin’ on da step weeth me. Bambino, sleepin’ on her breast, Ees nevva know more sweeta rest, An’ nevva was sooch glad su’prise Like now ees shina from her eyes; An’ all baycause to-night she wear Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. She ees so please’! Eet mak’ me feel I shoulda sooner learned to steal! Eef “thief’s” my name I feel no shame; Eet ees no crime— Dat rose I got. Eh! w’at? O! not Een Juna-time!

We are thirsty, Pedro mio! and the heat waves leap and beat Where the Spanish daggers quiver in the mighty desert heat, And the aching eye looks longing from Old Baldy to the east, Where the Panamint is crouching like some ugly, hidden beast; ’Tis a hell-wind, Pedro mio! and it beats the sandy hail; And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail. Oh, the loneliness of nature when she turns on you her frown! When you feel no eye upon you, save the fierce sun glaring down, Searing death into your body and despair into your soul, As you reel across the desert with the sky-line for your goal; When the breath begins to falter and the step begins to fail, And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail! Oh, the awfulness of Nature when she turns on you her frown! When an unseen hand above you is forever pressing down! When across the hungry desert flames the scorching sword of Death, And the eyes and lips are blackened in the Spirit’s blighting breath! Oh, the agony of dying, when the step begins to fail, And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail! Oh, the dry and flying sand that stings to fever cheek and brow! Rain of Hell, O, Pedro mio! and the flame is on us now! Spiral Phantoms on the desert writhe and wriggle slowly by, Reaching earthward from the bosom from the black and yellow sky; Oh, the spiral specters writhing where the yuccas beat and flail, And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail! I have seen it, Pedro mio!—seen it dimly through the wrack!— Over there beyond the basin where the cloud is whirling black! Streams of water, peaceful meadows and the shade of bending trees, Stirring gently—ah, so gently! in the coolest summer breeze. Let us turn aside and rest there from the fury of the gale; For the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail! Faster—faster, Pedro mio!—for the blood is in my eyes! I would reach the blessed water ere it o’er my vision dries! For it thunders in my temples the tumultuous refrain Of a mountain torrent singing to the first November rain! Stumble—stumble—onward—farther from the desiccating hail Where the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail! We have fallen, Pedro mio! and the vision fair is gone; But above us and around us yet the tempest hurtles on; Hark! a swirling raven settles with a flap of twisted wings; And I seem to feel about us many crawling, creeping things! We have fallen, Pedro mio! Hark the raging of the gale! And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail! I am dying, Pedro mio! and I fain would go to sleep. Faugh! the raven ’lights upon me! and the frightened lizards creep With a rush of tiny claws across my swollen lips! and swift O’er my breast, a burning blanket, rushing sand-waves eager drift; We are dying, Pedro mio! in the awful desert gale! And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by: There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton’s camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the arm’d sentry’s tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign. The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles ’neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance;— A dark wave, a plumed wave; On an emerald expanse. A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb. In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E’en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod. ’Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free. But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier’s battle-cry. From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn!

Dead! One of them shot in the sea by the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea! Dead! both my boys! when you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here,— The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead. What art can a woman be good at? O, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test. What art’s for a woman? to hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees And ’broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to doat! To teach them.... It stings there! I made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country’s a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed.... O my beautiful eyes!... I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels! God, how the house feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: “Ancona was free!” And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me,— My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand: “I was not to faint,— One loved me for two—would be with me ere long: And ‘Viva l’Italia!’ he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint!” My Nanni would add, “He was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls,—was impressed It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how ’twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest.” On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta!—Shot. Tell His Mother. Ah, ah, “his,” “their” mother,—not “mine,” No voice says “my mother” again to me. What! You think Guido forgot? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth’s affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! Both boys dead? but that’s out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. ’Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy’s made, for what end is it done, If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta’s taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short; When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy’s crown on his head (And I have my dead),— What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly! My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: My Italy’s THERE,—with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair! Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this,—and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea! Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast, You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me!