ntf LEISURE HOUR SERIES PLAY-DAY POEMS HenryHolt&Co.Publish New York The Leisure Hour Series. A collection of works whose character is light and enter- taining, though not trivial. While they are handy for the pocket or the satchel, they are not, either in contents or ap- pearance, unworthy of a place on the library shelves. 1 61110, Cloth. PRICE REDUCED TO $1.00 PER VOLUME. ofTv!^f C, 1 A1L NOTICE-LIBRARY BINDING. A set of m, iKinl^u'r. is Preceded by an asterisk (*), may be" obtained in library st^e, extia cloth, gilt back, without extra charge. Single vols, in library style §1 10 VOLUMES PUBLISHED. ABOUT, E The Man with the Bro- ken Ear. The Notary's Nose. ALCESTIS. A Musical JS'ovel. ♦ALEXANDER, Mrs. The Wooing O't. Which Shall It Be? Ralph Wilton's Weird. Her Deares.t F.oe. Heritage o: *AUERBA( The Villa Rhine. 2v Black For. Stories. The Little Joseph in : Edelweiss. German Ta On the Hei The Convic LORLEY ANl Aloys. Poet and IM Landolin. BJORNSO The Fishei BUTT, B. M. Miss Molly. Eugenie. CADELL, Mrs Ida Craven. CALVERLEY, C. S. Fly-Leaves. A volume of verses. CHERBULIEZ, V. Joseph Noirel's Re- venge. Count Kostia. Prosper. CORKRAN, ALICE. Bessie Lang. CRAVEN, Mme. A. Fleurange. DROZ, GUSTAVE. Babolain. Around a Spring. ERSKINE, Mrs. T. Wyncote. FREYTAG, G. Ingo. Ingraban. GIFT, THEO. Pretty Miss Bellew. Maid ELLrcE. GOETHE, J. W. Von Elective Affinities. GRIFFITHS, Arthur ROBERTS, Misgf 1_ oge of St RICHARDSON, S. Clarissa H arlowk densed.) *RICHTER, J. P. F. Flower, Fruit, & Thobn Pieces. 2 Campaner Thal, etc. Titan. 2 vols. Hesperus. 2 vol? LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, "pTf //95 Shi HsTfr UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. t, H. ermeister. ;he FENS, H. and J. i Addke AGEN, F. Be Swallow ERAY,W. M. d Late Papers. (nieff, I. and Sons. H. M. JOHNSON. Rossiter Play-Day Poems. LAFFAN, MAY. The Hon. Miss Ferbard. MAJENDIE.Lady M. Giannetto. DlTA. MAXWELL. CECIL. A Story of Three Sisters MOLESWORTH,Mrs Hathercourt. OLIPHANT, Mrs. Whiteladies. PALGRAVE, W. G. Hermann Agha. PARR, LOUISA. Hero Carthew. POYNTER, E. F. My Little Lady. Ersilia. On the Eve. DlMTTRI ROUDINE. Spring Floods; Lear. Virgin Soil. TYTLER, C. C. F. Mistbess Judith. Jonathan. VERS DE SOCIETE. VILLARI, LINDA. In Change Unchanged. WALFORD, L. B. Mb. Smith. Pauline. *WINTHROP,THEO. Cecil Dreeme. n>. Canoe and Saddle. John Brent. Edwin Brothertoft. Life in the Open Air. Where readers have no retail stores within reach. Messrs. Henby Holt & Co. will send their publications, post-paid, on receipt of the advertised price. 25 Bond St., N. F., July 13, 1S78. THE LEISURE-HOUR SERIES, FOR THE SUMMER OF 1878. «»Th. Leisure Hour Series." i " Has a w»j Ion. ny one who wants a book that, will th entertaining and profH crature always is, ami does not know precisely what to ask for, we say ie of • The Leisure Hour S /i-ser. lias throughout been a most le one, commended as much to lit- aders for tbe literary e> i maintained in the selection of its b nary novel buyers by their clever- interest."— N. V. Tribune. Lng stories ami heard of until introduced in this manner. 1". Herald. " We do not recall one of this series that has not been deserving the high and noble company into which it has b Outwardly, with its cool linen cov< series is attractive. No less so are its various volumes, from the strong stalwart pictures of Russian life and character by Turgenieff, to trie delightful stories by Mrs. Alexander."— Cincinnati Times, No. 03. THE HONORABLE MISS FERRARD. By May Laffan. ,; It is not an abuse of terms to call it brilliant. The book cannot fail to excito the warmest interest.'*— Boston Post. ■•A brilliant novel . . . Unmistakably the work of a finished and a rei writer.'"— Boston Gazette. No. 94. LANDOLIN. By Berthold Aijerbach. '• We do not err, we think, in calling this one of his masterpieces, in which w his art at its best."— N. Y. Evening Po.st. " In every sense one of his best works. . . . It is evident throughout that he has neither 'written out, 1 nor lost the vein of originality and freshness which givo such a charm to his books."— Boston Post. "Likely to rank next to 'On the Heights.' "—Louisville Courier Journal. No. 95. MAID ELLICE. By Tiieo. Gift, author of "Pretty Miss Belle w." (New Revised Edit ion now Ready.) No. 96. HATHERCOURT. By Mrs. Molesworth, (Ennis Graham), author of u The Cuckoo Clock." No. 97. PLAY-DAY POEMS. Collected and edited by Rossiter Johnson. The best of the humorous poems pub- lished since Parton's collection in 1856, and also many of the old favorites. (Just Ready.) No. 98. GADDHNGS WITH A PRIMITIVE PEOPLE. By W. A. Baillie Groiiman. A remarkably entertaining volume of out-of-the-way life and adventure, which the London Saturday Review characterized as " singularly readable ; " the Spectator, as "a book such as the public seldom has the oppor- tunity of reading;" and the Westminster Review, as Lv u' bright and picturesque, and eminently readable." (Shortly. No. 99. PLAYS FOR PRIVATE ACTING. Translated from the French and Italian by members of the Bellevue Dra- matic Club of Newport, R. I. Over twenty plays for amateur acting, requiring little or no scenery and from one to seven characters, selected principally from the enormously successful Theatre de Campagne, recently published by the Leading French Dramatists. (Shortly.) No. 100. A CENTURY OF AMERICAN LITERA- TURE. Edited by Henry A. Beers, Professor m Yale Col- lege. Selections from writers no longer living, designed to present a sketch of that portion of our good literature which is not daily claiming attention. (Shortly. HE.YftVHOLTd: CO., Tublishers, 26 Bond St., J\\ ).'. LEISURE HOUR S E R IE S.—No. 97 PLAY-DAY POEMS COLLECTED AND EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON r Nay, of all the heart-springs none are purer Than the springs of the fountains of mirth. He that sounds them has pierced the heart's hollows, The places where tears chose to sleep ; For the foam-flakes that dance in life's shallows Are wrung from life's deep. — Elegy on A rtemus Ward, in London Spectator. NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1878 jt Copyright By HENRY HOLT & Co. ; 1878. PREFACE. It is now twenty-two years since James Parton pub- lished his "Humorous Poetry of the English Language, from Chaucer to Saxe." In that time, I believe, no exclu- sively humorous collection of verse has appeared ; j r et not only has a new school of wits arisen in our day, but the later productions of some of the brightest represented in Mr. Parton's volume — notably Holmes, Lowell, and Saxe — have far outshone their earlier ones. In the same year that that book was issued, Mr. Butler made his great hit with "Nothing to Wear," but it was not till fourteen years later that Bret Harte's "Heathen Chinee" and John Hay's au- dacious ballads almost made their reputations in a day. Of the humorists who came into notice during the civil war, some, like Halpine, unfortunately wrote only for the events and interests of the time, while others, like Newell and Arnold, have gained a more permanent place in our litera- ture. In England, Gilbert, author of the "Bab Ballads," Calverley, who has elevated parody to a fine art, and Dob- son, whose satire is as delicate as his verse is graceful, have all appeared within half a dozen years. The design of this volume is not so comprehensive as that of Mr. Parton's. It does not profess to give even a speci- men of every British or American poet whose verses have enjoyed a reputation for wit. The primary object has been to gather from the sources above indicated, and from fugi- tive publications, as many pieces of this character as can be put into a convenient volume. In doing this, I have striven to be guided by what I consider the first great principle of iv PREFAi the editorial art — to take a good thing wherever you can get it, find the second, which is like unto it, to reject a poor thing wherever it comes from. But it would have been un- natural to make any compilation of humorous poetry with- out adding largely from those poems which long since be- came classic, and which no lapse of time can rob of their merriment. I trust the collection will be found sumciently varied to present something for every taste, from the fine character-study in "A Virtuoso" to the louder humor of the " Lost Heir." And yet there is no species of composi- tion on whose merits any agreement is so uncertain. The editor of Punch might be supposed to know what is funny ; but the editor of Punch rejected " The Yarn of the Nancy Bell," now the most popular of the " Bab Ballads." " John Gilpin " had been published three years before it excited a smile. Locker's " Nice Correspondent " went begging among the English periodicals ; and if I had the author's permission T could name another poem in this collection which was re- jected by every one of our American magazines, but on be- ing published was immediately copied into nearly or quite every journal in the country. Several poems which would properly have found a place here have been omitted because they are already included in " Single Famous Poems," by the same editor, published last year, or in " Vers de Societe," a previous volume of the Leisure Hour Series. Both Editor and Publishers acknowledge with thanks their indebtedness to the American authors here repre- sented, and to their publishers, for permission to use selec- tions from copyrighted works. The reader who desires to extend his acquaintance with any of the writers selected from, will find the necessary bibliographical information in the Index of Authors, at the close of the book. R. J. New York, May 20 ; 1878. CONTENTS. page. ^Estivation, Oliver Wendell Holmes . 192 Amateur Orlando, The George T. Lanigan 115 Amateur Spelling-Match, The Earl Marble 239 American Traveler, The Robert H. Newell . 226 Babette's Love, . William S. Gilbert 208 Bachelor's Dream, The . Thomas Hood . 267 Bald-Headed Tyrant, The Mary E. Vandyne 16 Ballad .... Charles S. Calverley . . 157 Ballad of Bedlam, A . Anonymous 204 Barney Buntline, . William Pitt, R.N . . 180 Beauty, The Michael O Connor . 252 Belle, of the Ball, The . Winthrop M. Praed . . 37 Birth of Saint Patrick, The . . Samuel Lover . 121 Black Job, A Thomas Hood 72 Blind Men and the Ele- phant, The John Goq\frey Saxe . 160 Bumboat Woman's Story, The William S. Gilbert 54 Chinese Story, A Christopher Pearse Cranch. 89 Chiquita, Bret Harte 167 Cock and the Bull, The . Charles S. Calverley . , 66 Comic Miseries, John Godfrey Saxe 1 Contentment, . Oliver Wendell Holmes . 122 Country Courtship, A Francis O Connor . 231 CONTENTS. Country Sleighing, . Edmund Clarence Stedman 41 Cruise of the Flora, The George Arnold Crystal Palace, The Dirge, A Dobbs his Ferry Drury's Dirge, Editor's Wooing, The Elegy on a Mad Dog, Elegy on Mrs. Blaize, Evening, Fair Millinger, The Faithless Nelly G-ray, Faithless Sally Brown, . Fanny, To Folly of Brown, The Garden Idyl, A . Gentle Pieman, The Heathen Chinee, The Height of the Ridiculous, . William M. Thackeray William A. Croffut . William Allen Butler Horace Smith . Robert H Newell Oliver Goldsmith . . Oliver Goldsmith Oliver Wendell Holmes . Fred. W. Loring Thomas Hood . Thomas Hood William D. O Connor . William S. Gilbert Austin Dobson . William S. Gilbert . Bret Harte The Her Letter, Irishman, The John Gilpin, The His- tory of Jonathan to John, K. K. — Can't Calculate, Oliver Wendell Holmes . Bret Harte William Maginn . William Cowper James Russell LoweU Frances M. Whitcher Lady Ndirne . Laird o' Cockpen, The . Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, A . . . H. P. H. Brownell Lay of the Lover's Friend, The . . . William E. Aytoun 144 124 189 218 149 196 154 156 198 132 213 211 255 94 4 244 104 . 250 58 . 106 26 . 151 60 . 197 270 CONTENTS. vii Leedle Yawcob Strauss, Charles Follen Adams . 17 Little Billee, William M. Thackeray . 133 Little Breeches, John Hay . . 230 Lost Heir, The Thomas Hood . 19 Lovers, and a Reflection, Charles S. Calverley . . 152 Love's Moods and Tenses, Anonymous 205 March to Moscow, The . Robert Southey . . 30 Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College, Oliver Wendell Holmes 47 Merry Ballad of Three Sophomores and a Toll- Woman, A Henry A. Beers . . 44 Midges, Robert Bulvjer Lytton 96 Misadventures at Mar- gate, Richard Harris Bar ham . 22 Motherhood, Charles S. Calverley . 14 Mourner a la Mode, The John Godfrey Saxe . 99 Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball, William M. Thackeray . 70 Musical Frogs, The John Stuart Blackie . . 52 Mystery of Gtlgal, The John Hay 79 Nantucket Skipper, The James T. Fields . . 88 Needy Knife-G-rinder, The George Canning 141 Nice Correspondent, A . Frederick Locker . 248 Ninety-Nine in the Shade, Rossiier Johnson 193 Nocturnal Sketch, A Thomas Hood . . 148 Nose, The . Anonymous 83 Ode for a Social Meeting Oliver Wendell Holmes . 195 Old Village Choir, The Benjamin F Taylor 51 One-Hoss Shay, The Oliver Wendell Holmes . 100 Oubit, The . Charles Kingsley 298 Owd Pinder, Edwin Waugh . . 187 Paddy Blake's Echo, . Samuel Lover 207 viii CONTENTS. Perils of Invisibility, The William S. Gilbert . 164 Phrenology, William S. Gilbert 180 Pilgrims and the Peas, The John Wolcot . 81 Plain Language from Truthful James, . Bret Harte 104 Pretty School-Ma'am, To a . , Marc E. Cook . . 201 Pugilist to his Sweet- heart, The Anonymous . 203 Puzzled Census-Taker, A John Godfrey Saxe . 119 Rhyme of the Rail, John Godrey Saxe . 138 Rhyme of the Rain, A Rossiter Johnson . 62 Rich Young Lady, To a Michael O Connor . 204 Rory O'More, . , Samuel Lover . 241 Sailor's Apology for Bow-Legs, A . Thomas Hood 177 Sally Simpkins's Lament, Thomas Hood . 119 School and Schoolfellows, Winthrop M. Praed 35 Schoolmaster Abroad, The Charles S. Calverley . . 199 Society upon the Stan- islow, The Bret Harte 158 Sorrows of Werther, William M. Thackeray . GO Spring Thomas Hood . 83 Spring .... , James Russell Lowell . . 85 Stage-Driver's Story, Bret Harte 161 Stethoscope Song, The Oliver Wendell Holmes . 169 Supper Superstition, The Thomas Hood 129 Tam O'Shanter Robert Burns . 8 Threnody, A . George T. Lanigan 191 Toothache, To the . Robert Burns . 176 Topside G-alah, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 147 Treadmill Song, The Oliver Wendell Holmes . 183 Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott, The . James Russell Lowell 272 CONTENTS. University of G-ottingen, The . George Canning . 43 Virtuoso, A . Austin Dobson 185 What Mr. Robinson Thinks, , James Russell Lowell . . 142 When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas, William M. Thackeray . 229 Widow Machree, , Samuel Lover . 237 Will, The . John Donne . 216 Woman of Three Cows, The . , James Clarence Mangan . 91 Yarn of the Nancy Bell, The William S. Gilbert 135 Ye Lay of ye Wood- peckore, . , Henry A. Beers . 172 Youth and Art, . Robert Browning 242 Zero in the Sun, , Rossiter Johnson . 194 Index of First Lines, 299 Index of Authors, . 303 PLAY-DAY POEMS. My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a happy dog, • For all your merry ways ; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It 's such a very serious thing To be a funny man ! You 're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks, You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes ; A lady does n't catch the point, And begs you to explain — Alas for one that drops a jest And takes it up again ! You 're talking deep philosophy With very special force, PLAY-DAY POEMS. To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse, — You think you 've got him — when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you '11 say that funny thing You said the other day. You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about. The old authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun. By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While everybody marvels why Your mirth is under ban, — They think your very grief " a joke," You 're such a funny man. You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine) ; You 're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you 're thinking of, And why you don't begin. You 're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. That cloud your matrimonial sky And banish all repose. A solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news : You quarrel with your wife. My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a happy dog, For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It 's such a very serious thing To be a funny man. John Godfrey Saxe. Cfje Stetfltt of tt)e mibtculous. 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 a 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, PL A T-DA Y P OEMS. I added (as a trifling jest), " There '11 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 a 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. Oliver Wendell Holmes. a <£artjen Jftgl. A POET. The Lady. Sir Poet, ere you crossed the lawn (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon), Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, I watched you saunter round the garden. I saw you bend beside the phlox, Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, Review my well ranged hollyhocks, Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; A GARDEN IB YL. You paused beneath the cherry-tree, Where my marauder thrush was singing, Peered at the bee-hives curiously, And narrowly escaped a stinging ; And then — you see I watched — you passed Down the espalier walk that reaches Out to the western wall, and last Dropped on the seat before the peaches. What was your thought ? You waited long. Sublime or graceful, — grave, — satiric ? A Morris Greek-and-Grothic song ? A tender Tennysonian lyric? Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, So long as speech renown disperses, Illustrious as the spot where he — The gifted Blank — composed his verses. The Poet. Madam, — whose uncensorious eye Grows gracious over certain pages, Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, It may be, thicker than the Sage's — I hear but to obey, and could Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, Some verse as whimsical as Hood, As gay as Praed, should answer to you. But, though the common voice proclaims Our only serious vocation Confined to giving nothing names, And dreams a " local habitation; " Believe me, there are tuneless days, When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. PLAY-DAY POEMS. More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, More idle things than songs, absorb it ; The " finely-frenzied " eye, at times, Reposes mildly in its orbit ; And, painful truth, at times, to him, Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, " A primrose by a river's brim " Is absolutely unsuggestive. The fickle Muse !. As ladies will, She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; A goddess, yet a woman still, She flies the more that we pursue her. In short, with worst as well as best, Five months in six your hapless poet Is just as prosy as the rest, But cannot comfortably show it. You thought, no doubt, — The garden-scent Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation Of love that came and love that went, — Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, Born when the cuckoo changes song, Dead ere the apple's red is on it, That should have been an epic long, Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. Or else you thought. — The murmuring noon, He turns it to a lyric sweeter, With birds that gossip in the tune, And windy bough-swing in the metre ; Or else the zig-zag fruit-tree arms Recall some dream of harp-pressed bosoms, Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, And mediaeval orchard-blossoms, — Quite a la mode. Alas for prose, — My vagrant fancies only rambled A GARDEN IDYL. Back to the red-walled Rectory close, Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled, Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, And chased the kitten round the beeches, Till widening instincts made me wish For certain slowly-ripening peaches. Three peaches. Not the Graces three Had more equality of beauty : I would not look, yet went to see ; I wrestled with Desire and Duty ; I felt the pangs of those who feel The Laws of Property beset them ; The conflict made my reason reel, And, half-abstractedly, I ate them ;- Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair — More keen that one of these was rotten — Moved me to seek some forest lair Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, Attired in skins, by berries stained, Absolved from brushes and ablution ; — But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, Fate gave me up to execution. I saw it all but now. The grin That gnarled old G-ardener Sandy's features ; My father, scholar-like and thin, Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; I saw — ah me — I saw again My dear and deprecating mother ; And then, remembering the cane, Regretted— that I 'd left the other. Austin Dobsox. PLAY-DAY POEMS. Cam (©'Stmnter* When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate, While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin f ou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, whom ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L — d's house, e'en on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. TAM O'SHANTER. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night, Tarn had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; And aye the ale was growing better ; The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious : The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle, Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white — then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form 1* 1 PLA YD AY P OEMS. Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last ; The rattling showers rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow' d ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tarn skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks an' meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane ; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder' d bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars through the woods ■ TAM O'SRANTER. \ \ The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk- Alio way seem'd in a bleeze ; Through ilka bore the beams were glancing ; And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquabae we '11 face the devil ! — The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish' d, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light ; And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Nae cotillon brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Hick, in shape o' beast ; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge : He screw' d the pipes, and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantraip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; A thief new cutted frae a rape, 1 2 PL A Y-BA T P OEMS. Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; Five cimiters, wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The gray, hairs yet stack to the heft ; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark ! Now Tarn, Tam ! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies. But wither'd beldames, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was Avhat fu' brawlie. There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, TAM O'SUANTER 13 (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear.) Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('t was a' her riches,) Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang), And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch'd. And thought his very een enrich'd ; E'en Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, " Well done, cutty-sark ! " And in an instant all was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ) As eager runs the market-crowd, When " Catch the thief ! " resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs-, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 1 4 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. Ah, Tani ! ah, Tarn ! thou '11 get thy f airin ! In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy com in ! Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed : ' Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,- Remember Tarn O'Shanter's mare. Robert Burns. She. laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscanned upon the broken wall. Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mighty stone Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And Time with mosses had o'erlaid, MOTHERHOOD. 15 And fenced with many a tall grass-blade, And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled ; Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there. No human eye had marked her pass Across the linden-shadowed grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven j Only the innocent birds of heaven — The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elm- tree waves its crest — And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limbed hound that guards the door, Looked on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unappareled, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruined wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah ! she never knew its worth), Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing ! And there it might have lain forlorn From morn till eve, from eve till morn, But that, by some wild impulse led, The mother, ere she turned and fled, One moment stood erect and high, Then poured into the silent sky A cry so jubilant, so strange, That Alice — as she strove to 'range Her rebel ringlets at her glass — 16 PLAY-DAY POEMS. Sprang up and gazed across the grass ; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapped her soft hands so full of glee, And shrieked — her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shaking — " My hen has laid an egg, I know ; And only hear the noise she 's making ! Charles S. Calverley. O the quietest home on earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care ; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there. But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why ; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry ; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. He ordered us here, and he sent us there — Though never a word could his small lips speak — With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, " G-o up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land ! " But his abject slaves they turned on me ; Like the bears in Scripture, they 'd rend me there, The while they worshiped with bended knee This ruthless wretch with the missing hair ; LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. I) For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Till I finally thought of old Father, Time, And low before him I made my bow. " Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land ? " Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. "I '11 take the tyrant under my care : Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land." Old Time is doing his work full well — Much less of might does the tyrant wield ; But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell, And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land. For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; Like other vassals, I 've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth, And he rules me too with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Mary E. Vandyne. ILertiU gatocob Stcausg. T haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee,- 1 8 PL A T-BA Y P OEMS. Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts off der house. But vot off dot ? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measels und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot 's oudt ; He sbills mine glass off lager bier, Poots schnuff indo mine kraut ; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese — Dot vas der roughest chouse ; I 'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit — Mine cracious, dot vas drue ! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse ; But nefer mind, der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. He asks me questions sooch as dese : Who baints mine nose so red ? Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse ? How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss. I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazv poy THE LOST HEIR. 19 Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest TJnd beaceful dimes enshoy. But ven he vas ashleep in ped So quiet as a mouse, I brays der Lord, " Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." Charles Follen Adams. Ci)e Ho$t ffietr. One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High I heard a loud and sudden cry That chilled my very blood ; And lo ! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaubed with grease and mud. She turned her East, she turned her West, Staring like Pythoness possest, With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with man — Her right hand held a frying.-pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seemed to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone almost a screech, As wild as ocean birds, Or female ranter moved to preach, She gave her sorrow words : 11 Lord ! dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild ! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child ! 20 PL A YD AY P OEMS. Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way — A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab ! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies. I wonder he left the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one, He '11 be rampant, he will, at his child being lost ; and the beef and the inguns not done ! La bless you, good folks, mind your OAvn concarns, and don't be making a mob in the street; Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? Do, good people^ move on ! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Saints forbid ! but he 's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs ; He 'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair ; And his trousers considering not very much patched, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair. His shirt, it 's very lucky I 'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest ; But he 'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. THE LOST HEIR. 21 He 'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you ! 11 know by that if it 's him. And then he has got such dear winning ways — but 0, I never, never shall see him no more ! dear ! to think of losing him just after missing him back from death's door ! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ! And the threepence he 'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all, and, drat him ! made a seize of our hog. It 's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he 's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy — where are you, Billy, I say ? come, Billy, come home to your best of Mothers ! ^ 1 'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they 'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he 's stole by some chimbly-sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not, And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched and the chimbly 's red hot. 0, I 'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face : For he 's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon coma back, you '11 see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I 'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss him ! Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was— but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. 2 2 PL A Y-DA Y P OEMS. Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it 's that Billy as ^artain as sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I 'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin ! Thomas Hood. J^teafcbentutes at JKargate. I was in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy — I said, " What make you here ? The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;" Again I said, " What make you here, you little vulgar Boy ? " He frowned, that little vulgar Boy, he deemed I meant to And when the little heart is big, a little " sets it off." [scoff, . He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose — He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose ! " Hark ! don't you hear, my little man ? — it 's striking Nine," I said, [bed. " An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold — O fie! It 's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry ! " The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbbed with agony — he cried like anything ! I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur — "Ah! I have n't got no supper! and I have n't got no Ma ! " My father, he is on the seas — my mother 's dead and gone ! And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone ; I have not had, this livelong day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor ' brown ' to buy a bit of bread with — let alone a tart ! MIS AD VENTURES A T MARGA TE. 2 3 " If there 's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy); " And now I 'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed in- tent To jump as Mister Levi did from off the Monument ! " " Cheer up ! cheer up ! my little man — cheer up ! " I kindly said, " You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head ; If you should jump from off the pier, you 'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck — then Bogey 'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs ! " Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup j My landlady is Mrs. Jones — we must not keep her up — There 's roast potatoes at the fire — enough for me and you — Come home, you little vulgar Boy — I lodge at Number 2." I took him home to Number 2, the house beside " The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes — that little vulgar Boy — And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, u Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X ! " But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she " did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubbed the delf, Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself! " I did not go to Jericho — I went to Mr. Cobb— I changed a shilling (which in town the people call a Bob) — It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child — And I said, " A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!" 24 PLAY-DAY POEMS. When I came back I gazed about — I gazed on stool and chair — I could not see my little friend, because he was not there ! I peeped beneath the table-cloth, beneath the sofa too — I said, " You little vulgar Boy ! why, what 's become of you?" I could not see my table-spoons — I looked, but could not see The little fiddle-patterned ones I use when I 'm at tea ; I could not see my sugar-tongs, my silver watch — dear ! I know 't was on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer. I could not see my Macintosh — it was not to be seen ! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimmed and lined with green ; [soy — My carpet-bag — my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and My roast potatoes ! — all are gone ! — and so 's that vulgar Boy! I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, " Mrs. Jones, what do you think? — ain't this a pretty go ? That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, He 's stolen jny things and run away ! " Says she, " And sarve you right ! " Next morning I was up betimes — I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say, I 'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who 'd gone and used me so ; But when the Crier cried, " Yes ! " the people cried, " No!" I went to " Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor man a walking up and down. I told my tale — he seemed to think I *d not been treated well, [cannot tell. And called me "Poor old Buffer!" — what that means, I MI SAD VENTURES AT MARGATE. 25 That sailor-man, he said he 'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of — something — 't was a name I 'd never heard be- fore — A little " gallows-looking chap " — dear me, what could he mean ? — With a "carpet-swab" and "mucking- togs," and a hat turned up with green. He spoke about his " precious eyes," and said he 'd seen him " sheer "— It 's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer : And then he hitched his trousers up, as is, I 'm told, their use — It 's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose. I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He 'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning, swim away In Captain Large's Royal George, about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, " somewheres " about the Nore. A landsman said, " I twig the chap — he 's been upon the Mill— And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he 'd done me werry brown," and nicely " stowed the swag " — That 's French, I fancy, for a hat, or else a carpet-bag. I went and told the constable my property to track ; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back." I answered, " To be sure I do ! — it 's what I 'm come about." He smiled and said, " Sir, does your mother know that you are out ? " Not knowing what to do, I thought I 'd hasten back to town, 3 26 PLAY-DAY POEMS. And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the boy who 'd " done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he 'd try and find him out, But he " rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about." He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described " the swag," My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons and carpet-bag ; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ, But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy ! MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I 've heard my Grandma tell, " Be warned in time by others' harm, and you shall do full well ! " Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who 've got no fixed abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they " wish they may be blowed! " Don't take too much of double X! — and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout ! And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well ! Richard Harris Barham. gonatfjan to Stojm, 1862. It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, JONATHAN TO JOHN 27 To stump me to a fight, John,— Your cousin, tu, John Bull ! Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess We know it now," sez he, " The lion's paw is all the law, According to J. B., Thet 's fit for you an' me ! " You wonder why we 're hot, John ? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons : Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess There 's human blood," sez he, " By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More 'n it would you an' me." Ef /turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, I o'ny guess," sez he, " Thet ef Yattel on his toes fell, 'T would kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win, — ditto tails ? " J. B." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, (I 'm good at thet)," sez he, " Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me ! " 28 PLAY-DAY POEMS. When your rights was our wrongs, John, You did n't stop for fuss, — Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic 's good," sez he, " It does n't foller that he can swaller Prescriptions signed ' J. B.J Put up by you an' me ! " We own the ocean tu, John : You mus' n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It 's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef thet 's his claim," sez he, " The fencin'-stuff '11 cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You did n't care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He 's like the rest," sez he : " When all is done, it 's number one Thet 's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 't was right : It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he. L< I guess We 've a hard row,'' sez he, JONATHAN TO JOHN. 29 " To hoe jest now ; but thet somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess It is a fact," sez he, " The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me ! " Our folks believe in Law, John ; An' it 's for her sake, now, They 've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, Ef 't warn't for law," sez he, " There 'd be one shindy from here to Indy ; An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)" We know we 've got a cause, John, Thet 's honest, just, an' true: We thought 't would win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess His love of right," sez he, " Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton : There 's natur' in J. B. Ez wal ez you and me ! " The South says, "Poor folks down ! " John, An' "All men up I " say we, — 3 PL A T-DA T P OEMS. White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, John preaches wal," sez he ; " But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Why, there 's the old J. B. A crowdin' you an' me ! " Shall it be love, or hate, John ? It 's you thet 's to decide ; Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, " But not forget ; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The wuth o bein' free. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, God's price is high," sez he; " But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B. May lam, like you an' me ! " James Russell Lowell. €f)e i&arcf) to iftoscoto. The Emperor Nap he would set off On a summer excursion to Moscow ; The fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 31 Four hundred thousand men and more Must go with him to Moscow : There were Marshals by the dozen, And Dukes by the score : Princes a few, and Kings one or two ; While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue, Morbleu! Parbleu ! What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! There was Junot and Augereau, Heigh-ho for Moscow ! Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap ; Nothing would do While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! Nothing would do For the whole of this crew, But they must be marching to Moscow. The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big That he frightened Mr. Roscoe. John Bull, he cries, if you '11 be wise, Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please To grant you peace upon your knees, Because he is going to Moscow ! He '11 make all the Poles come out of their holes, And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians ; For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! And he '11 certainly march to Moscow 1 And Counselor Brougham was all in a fume At the thought of the march to Moscow : The Russians, he said, they were undone, 3 2 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. And the great Fee-Faw-Fum Would presently come, With a hop, step, and jump, unto London. For, as for his conquering Russia, However some persons might scoff it, Do it he could, and do it he would, And from doing it nothing would come but good. And nothing could call him off it. Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know. For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon' d : It was, through thick and thin, to its party true : Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! It serv'd them for Law and for Gospel too. But the Russians stoutly they turn'd to Upon the road to Moscow. Nap had to fight his way all through ; They could fight though they could not parlez-vous : But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! And so he got to Moscow. He found the place too warm for him, For they set fire to Moscow. To get there had cost him much ado, And then no better course he knew, While the fields were green, and the sky was blue. Morbleu ! Parbleu ! But to march back again from Moscow. The Russians they stuck close to him All on the road from Moscow. There was Tormazow and Jemalow, THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. < 33 And all the others that end in ow ; Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, And Karatschkowitch, And all the others that end in itch ; Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, And Schepaleff, And all the others that end in eff ; Wasiltschikoff, Kostomaroff, And Tchoglokoff, And all the others that end in off; Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, And Rieffsky, And all the others that end in effsky ; Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, And all the others that end in offsky ; And Platoff he play'd them off, And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, And Markoff he mark'd them off, And Krosnoff he cross' d them off, And Tuchkoff he touch'd them off, And Boroskoff he bor'd them off, And Kutousoff he cut them off, And Parenzoff he par'd them off, And Worronzoff he worri'd them off, And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off, And Rodionoff he flogg'd them off. And last of all, an Admiral came, A terrible man with a terrible name, A name which you all know by sight very well, But which no one can speak, and no one can spell. They stuck close to Nap with all their might, They were on the left and on the right, Behind and before, and by day and night ; He would rather panez-vous than fight ; But he look'd white and he look'd blue, 3* 34 % PLAY-DAY POEMS. Morbleu! Parbleu! When parlez-vous no more would do, For they remembered Moscow. And then came on the frost and snow, All on the road from Moscow. The wind and the weather he found in that hour Cared nothing for him nor for all his power ; For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod, Put his trust in his fortune and not in his G-od, Worse and worse every day the elements grew, The fields were so white and the sky so blue, Sacrebleu ! Ventrebleu ! What a horrible journey from Moscow. What then thought the Emperor Nap Upon the road from Moscow ? Why, I ween he thought it small delight To fight all day and to freeze all night ; And he was besides in a very great fright, For a whole skin he liked to be in ; And so not knowing what else to do, When the fields were so white and the sky so blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu ! He stole away, — I tell you true, — Upon the road from Moscow. 'T is myself, quoth he, I must mind most ; So the Devil may take the hindmost. Too cold upon the road was he ; Too hot had he been at Moscow ; But colder and hotter he may be, For the grave is colder than Moscovy ; And a place there is to be kept in view, Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue, Morbleu ! Parbleu I SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLO W& 35 Which he must go to, If the Pope say true, If he does not in time look about him ; Where his namesake almost He may have for his Host ; He has reckon' d too long without him; If that Host get him in Purgatory, He won't leave him there alone with his glory, But there he must stay for a very long day, For from thence there is no stealing away, As there was on the road to Moscow. Robert Southey. jocijool an* Scf)ool^elloto0» Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics : I wondered what they meant by stock ; I wrote delightful sapphics : I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supped with fates and furies ; Twelve year-s ago I Was a boy, A happy boy at Drury's. Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures Those whispered syllables have brought From memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books, The glories and disgraces, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familiar faces. Where are my friends ? — I am alone, No playmate shares my beaker — Some lie beneath the church-yard stone, And some before the Speaker ; 3 6 PL A YDAY P OEMS. And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondo ; And some draw sword for liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes, Without the fear of sessions ; Charles Medler loathed false quantities, As much as false professions ; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic ; And Medler's feet repose unscanned Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martext's duty ; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a beauty ; And Darrel studies, week by week, His Mant and not his Manton ; And Ball, who was. but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton. And I am eight-and-twenty now — The world's cold chain has bound me ; And darker shades are on my brow, .And sadder scenes around me : In Parliament I fill my seat, With many other noodles ; And lay my head in G-ermyn-street, And sip my hock at Doodle's. But often when the cares of life Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife, When duns await my waking, THE BELLE OF THE BALL; 37 When Lady Jane is in a pet, Or Hobby in a hurry, When Captain Hazard wins a bet, Or Beaulieu spoils a curry : For hours and hours, I think and talk Of each remembered hobby : I long to lounge in Poet's Walk — Or shiver in the lobby ; I wish that I could run away From House, and court, and levee, Where bearded men appear to-day, Just Eton boys, grown heavy ; That I could bask in childhood's sun, And dance o'er childhood's roses ; And find huge wealth in one pound one, Vast wit in broken noses ; And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milk-maids Houris ; That I could be a boy again — A happy boy at Drury's ! WlNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED. Cje 13elU of tfje Ball. Years — years ago — ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty ; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ; Years, years ago, while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly ; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 4 S 8 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. I saw her at a country ball ; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Grave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing ; She was our queen, our rose, our star ; And when she danced — oh, heaven, her dancing Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist so slender ; Her very look, her very smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she 'd left her sparrows. She talked of politics or prayers ; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets ; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets ; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling ; My father frowned ; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling ? THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 39 She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic ; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second-cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents.. And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh ! what are they to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading ; She warbled Handel ; it was grand — She made the Catalani jealous ; She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories: Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns of trimmings, Persian stories ; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter ; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes of elder-water. 4 PL A YD A T P OEMS. And she was flattered, worshiped, bored, Her steps were watched, her dress was noted, Her poodle-dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad As if the taxes were abolished ; She frowned, and every look was sad As if the opera were demolished. She smiled on many just for fun — I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute ; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, and oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded ! Our love was like most other loves — A little glow, a little shiver ; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly not yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows — and then we parted. We parted — months and years rolled by ; We met again four summers after ; Our parting was all sob and sigh — Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs. — Something — Rogers. WlNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED. COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 41 (Eoutttrg Sleigijmg. In January, when down the dairy The cream and clabber freeze, When snow-drifts cover the fences over, We farmers take our ease. At night we rig the team, And bring the cutter out ; Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, And heap the furs about. Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, And sleighs at least a score ; There John and Molly, behind, are jolly,— Nell rides with me, before. All down the village street We range us in a row : Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, And over the crispy snow ! The windows glisten, the old folks listen To hear the sleigh-bells pass ; The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, The road as smooth as glass. Our muffled faces burn, The clear north-wind blows cold, The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, Each in her lover's hold. Through bridge and gateway we 're shooting straightway, Their toll-man was too slow ! He '11 listen after our song and laughter As over the hill we go. The girls cry, " Fie ! for shame ! " Their cheeks and lips are red, 4 2 PL A Y-DAT P OEMS. And so with kisses, kisses, kisses, They take the toll instead. Still follow, follow ! across the hollow The tavern fronts the road. Whoa, now ! all steady ! the host is ready, — He knows the country mode ! The irons are in the fire, The hissing flip is got ; So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it, sip it, And sip it while 't is hot. Push back the tables, and from the stables Bring Tom, the fiddler, in ; All take your places, and make your graces, And let the dance begin. The girls are beating time To hear the music sound ; Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, And swing your partners round. Last couple toward the left ! all forward ! Cotillons through, let 's wheel : First tune the fiddle, then down the middle In old Virginia Reel. Play Money Musk to close, Then take the "long chasse," While in to supper, supper, supper, supper, The landlord leads the way. The bells are ringing, the ostlers bringing The cutters up anew ; The beasts are neighing, too long we 're staying, The night is half way through. Wrap close the buffalo robes, We 're all aboard once more; THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN. 43 Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, Away from the tavern-door. So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, And swiftly homeward glide. What midnight splendor ! how warm and tender The maiden by your side ! The sleighs drop far apart, Her words are soft and low ; Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 'T is safe to tell her so. Edmund Clarence Stedman. Cf)e 2Eniberj3ttj) of (Sottmgen. Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I 'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U- niversity of G-ottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [ Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds :] Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in — Alas, Matilda then was true ! At least I thought so at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! Ye bore Matilda from my view-; Forlorn I languished at the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. 44 PLAY-DAY POEMS. This faded form ! this pallid hue ! This blood my veins is clotting in ! My years are many — they were few When first I entered at the U- niversity of G-ottingen, niversity of G-ottingen. There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! Thou wast the daughter of my tu- tor, law -professor at the U- niversity of G-ottingen, niversity of Gottingen. Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in ; Here doomed to starve on water gru- el, never shall I see the U- niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. George Canning. a iHercg iSallati of &f)m £opJomores an* a Coiuraoman. It is a lordly Sophomore, The thirstiest one of three, And he hath stopped at the toll-house door All under the greenwood tree. " Come hither, come hither, my merry-men both, And stand on either side : What see ye on the toll-house wall By the toll-house door so wide ? " They ha' lookit north — they ha* lookit south — They ha' lookit aboon the sky : A MERRY BALLAD. 45 Then up and spake the first merry-man And thus he made reply : 11 1 ha' lookit north — I ha' lookit south — I ha' lookit aboon the sky, Yet I see naught on the toll-house wall, Or the toll-house door thereby." Then up and spake the next merry-man With " Alack and woe betide ! For I 've left my glass on the green, green grass, All by the burnie's side. " So though I look north, and though I look south, And though I look straight before, I see nothing at all on the toll-house wall, Nor yet on the toll-house door." " Now shame! now shame! my merry-men both, For see ye not written here These words that tell of cakes to sell, And eke of the small, small beer ? " 1 1 have never a penny left in my purse — Never a penny but three, And one is brass and another is lead, And another is white money.' " But haud out your pouches o' gude green silk, Or the skin of the red deer fleet, And we 'se tak' a draught of the wee sma' beer And a bite of the seed-cake sweet." He hadna rapped a rap, a rap,— A rap but only three, When out and came the toll-house dame, Was a grisly wight to see. PLAY-DAY POEMS. Her cheek was yellow, her throat was lean, Her eyes " baith blear and blin' : " No Soph hath half the beard, I ween, That flourished on her chin. " A boon ! a boon ! thou toll-woman, A boon thou 'se give to me, For a thirstier soul than I am one Lives not in Christiante. " I 've swallowed the sassafras in the wood And the dust on the king's highway. And the sorrel that grows on the sandy bank, Till my throat is as dry as hay." " seek ye of the red, red wine, Or seek ye of the white, To moisten your dainty clay withal, And your whistles both shrill and slight? " " We seek not of the red, red wine — We seek not of the white : We seek but a draught of the small, small beer, Of the seed-cake only a bite." " Then show me the red, red gold," quo' she. " And show me the silver fine, And show me a roll of the green, green back, Or you 'se get no beer of mine." Then up and spake the first merry-man, — By several saints he swore ; " I have but an Index-check* in my pouch, And the devil a penny more." * Entitling the holder to one Index to the Yale Literary Magazine. MEETING OF HAR YARD COLLEGE ALU MNL 4 7 Then up and spake the next merry -man — " And I 've but a soda-ticket, And a crumpled two-cent revenue stamp With no gum-stickum to stick it." "Aroint! Aroint! ye beggarly loons, From under my threshold tree! What good to me is a revenue stamp, Or an Index-check perdy ? " A soda ticket ? A soda fiddle- Stick ! Pesky belly- wash ! Them folks as like it may swill sick fizz, In their stomachs to rumble and swash : " But as for me, I '11 stick to my cider, And eke to the small, small beer, And sell it to them as have money to pay ; But you — get out o' here ! " Then beerless to the dusty road Turned each bold Sophomore, While with a slam behind him closed The heavy toll-house door. Henry A. Beers. Meeting of tfje &lumm of J^arbar* College. 1857. I thank you, Mr. President, you 've kindly broke the ice ; Virtue should always be the first, — I 'm only Second Vice — (A vice is something with a screw that 's made to hold its jaw Till some old file has played away upon an ancient saw.) Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, the babes of days gone by, All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose milk is never dry, 4 8 PL A Y-DAY P OEMS. We come again, like half-grown boys, and gather at her beck About her knees, and on her lap, and clinging round her neck. We find her at her stately door, and in her ancient chair, Dressed in the robes of red and green she always loved to wear. Her eye has all its radiant youth, her cheek its morning flame; We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish still the same. We have been playing many an hour, and far away we 've strayed, Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some lingering in the shade ; And some have tired, and laid them down where darker shadows fall, — Dear as her loving voice may be, they cannot hear its call. What miles we 've traveled since we shook the dew-drops from our shoes We gathered on this classic green, so famed for heavy dues ! How many boys have joined the game, how many slipped away, Since we 've been running up and down, and having out our play ! One boy at work with book and brief, and one with gown and band, One sailing vessels on the pool, one digging in the sand, One flying paper kites on 'change, one planting little pills, — The seeds of certain annual flowers well known as little bills. What maidens met us on our way, and clasped us hand in hand! What cherubs, — not the legless kind, that fly, but never stand 1 MEETING OF HARVARD COLLEGE ALUMNI. 49 How many a youthful head we 've seen put on its silver crown ! What sudden changes back again to youth's empurpled brown ! But fairer sights have met our eyes, and broader lights have shone, Since others lit their midnight lamps where once we trim- med our own ; A thousand trains that flap the sky with flags of rushing fire, And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, Thought's million- chorded lyre. We 've seen the sparks of Empire fly beyond the mountain bars, Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, they joined the setting- stars ; And ocean trodden into paths that trampling giants ford, To find the planet's vertebrae and sink its spinal cord. We 've tried reform, — and chloroform, — and both have turned our brain ; When France called up the photograph, we roused the foe to pain ; Just so those earlier sages shared the chaplet of renown, — Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours brought their light- ning down. We 've seen the little tricks of life, its varnish and veneer, Its stucco-fronts of character flake off and disappear ; We 've learned that oft the brownest hands will heap the biggest pile, And met with many a " perfect brick " beneath a rimless "tile." 5 50 PLAY-BAY POEMS. What dreams we 've had of deathless name, as scholars, statesmen, bards, While Fame, the lady with the trump, held up her picture cards ! Till, having nearly played our game, she gayly whispered, "Ah! I said you should be something grand, — you '11 soon be grandpapa." Well, well, the old have had their day, the young must take their turn; There 's something always to forget, and something still to learn ; But how to tell what 's old or young, the tap-root from the sprigs, Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce de Leon Twiggs? The wisest was a Freshman once, just freed from bar and bolt, As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a colt ; Don't be too savage with the boys, — the Primer does not say The kitten ought to go to church because "the cat doth prey." The law of merit and of age is not the rule of three ; Non constat that A. M. must prove as busy as A- B. When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning through the skies, He taught a lesson to the old, — go thou and do like Wise ! Xow then, old boys, and reverend youth, of high or low degree, Remember how we only get one annual out of three, And such as dare to simmer down three dinners into one Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper well with fun. THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 51 I 've passed my zenith long ago, it 's time for me to set; A dozen planets wait to shine, and 1 am lingering yet, As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and- watery moon Stains with its dim and fading ray the lustrous blue of noon. Farewell ! yet let one echo rise to shake our ancient hall : God save the Queen, — whose throne is here, — the Mother of us all ! Till dawns the great commencement-day on every shore and sea, And " Expectantur " all mankind, to take their last Degree! Oliver Wendell Holmes. €f)e (Bits ^Tillage OHjoir. I have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest, From the pillow of stone to the blue of the Blest, And the angels descending to dwell with us here, "Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," and "Mear. All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to heaven and God. Ah ! " Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road — Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed — But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir, To the girl that sang alto, the girl that sang air ! " Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said. All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at " York; " Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork, 5 2 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. And the vicious old viol went growling along At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song. I need not a wing — bid no genii to come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time, When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme ; And the stream of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow. That across it there floated the song of a sparrow ; For a sprig of green caraway carries me there, To the old village church and the old village choir, Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung, Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in Grod's temple begun ! You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down ; And dear sister Green, with more goodness than grace, Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place, And where "Coronation" exultingly flows, Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes ! To the land of the leal they have gone with their song, Where the choir and the chorus together belong. 0, be lifted, ye gates ! Let me hear them again ; Blessed song, blessed singers, forever, Amen ! Bexjamix F. Taylor. Cije JEtusfcal JFioqz. Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy, happy frogs I How sweet ye sing! would G-od that I Upon the bubbling pool might lie, And sun myself to-day THE MUSICAL FROGS. 53 With you! No curtained bride, I ween, Nor pillowed babe, nor cushioned queen, Nor tiny fay on emerald green, Nor silken lady gay, Lies on a softer couch. Heaven ! How many a lofty mortal, riven By keen-fanged inflammation, Might change his lot with yours, to float On sunny pond, with bright green coat, And sing with gently throbbing throat Amid the croaking nation, Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy, happy frogs ! Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy, happy frogs ! Happy the bard who weaves his rhyme Recumbent on the purple thyme, In the fragrant month of June ; Happy the sage whose lofty mood Doth with far-searching ken intrude Into the vast infinitude Of things beyond the moon ; But happier not the wisest man Whose daring thought leads on the van Of star-eyed speculation, Than thou, quick-legged, light-bellied thing, Within the green pond's reedy ring. That with a murmurous joy dost sing Among the croaking nation, Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy happy frogs ! Brekekekex! coax! coax! happy, happy frogs! Great Jove with dark clouds sweeps the sky, Where thunders roll and lightnings fly, And gusty winds are roaring ; Fierce Mars his stormy steed bestrides, And, lashing wild its bleeding sides, 5 4 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. O'er dead and dying madly rides, Where the iron hail is pouring. 'T is well — such crash of mighty powers Must be : the spell may not be ours To tame the hot creation. But little frogs with paddling foot Can sing when gods and kings dispute, And little bards can strum the lute Amid the croaking nation, With Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy, happy frogs ! Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy; happy frogs ! Farewell ! not always I may sing Around the green pond's reedy ring With you, ye boggy muses ! But I must go and do stern battle With herds of stiff-necked human cattle, Whose eager lust of windy prattle The gentle rein refuses. if — but all such ifs are vain ; 1 '11 go and blow my trump again, With brazen iteration ; And when, by Logic's iron rule, I 've quashed each briskly babbling fool, I '11 seek again your gentle school, And hum beside the tuneful pool Amid the croaking nation, Brekekekex ! coax ! coax ! happy, happy frogs ! John Stuart Blackie. Cije ^umioat Roman's ietorg, [ 'm old, my dears, and shriveled, with age, and work, and grief, My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the thief ! THE BUMBO AT WOMAN'S STORY. 55 For terrible sights I 've seen, and dangers great I 've run — I 'm nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done ! Ah! I 've been young in my time, and I 've played the deuce with men — I 'm speaking of ten years past — I was barely sixty then : My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet, Poll Pineapple's eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet. A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships With apples and cakes, and fowls and beer, and halfpenny dips, And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights, And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midship- mites. Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay, By far the sweetest of all was kind Lieutenant Belaye. Lieutenant Belaye commanded the gun-boat Hot Cross Bun, She was seven-and-thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun. With the laudable view of enhancing his country's naval pride, When people inquired her size, Lieutenant Belaye replied, " Oh, my ship? my ship is the first of the hundred and sev- enty-ones ! " Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns. 56 PLA YDA Y POEMS. Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down be- low, "Come down, Little Buttercup, come" (for he loved to call me so). And he 'd tell of the fight at sea in which he 'd taken a parr. And so Lieutenant Belaye won poor Poll Pineapple's heart ! But at length his orders came, and he said one da}-, said he. 1; I 'm ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea." And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day, For every Portsmouth maid loved good Lieutenant Belaye. And I went to a back, back street, with plenty of cheap, cheap shops, And I bought an oilskin hat, and a second-hand suit of slops, And I went to Lieutenant Belaye (and he never suspected me), And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea. We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one, — Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun. I 'm sorry to say that I 've heard that sailors sometimes swear, But I never yet heard a Bun say anything wrong. I declare. When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a " Messmates, ho ! What cheer?" But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was " How do you do, my dear? " When Jack Tars growl. I believe they growl with a big. big D , But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Bun was a mild " Dear me ! " THE B UMB OA T WOMAN ' S S TOR Y. 5 7 Yet, though they were all well-bred, you could hardly call them slick : And whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick; And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair, They spent more time than a sailor should on his back, back- hair. They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run, And they screamed when Lieutenant Belaye discharged his only gun. And as he was proud of his gun — such pride is hardly wrong — The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long. They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said That Bill had a way of his own of making his lips look red — That Joe looked quite his age — or somebody might declare That Barnacle's long pig-tail was never his own, own hair. Belaye would admit that his men were of little use to him, "But then," he would say, " there is little to do on a gun- boat trim. I can haul, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too — And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle, well-bred crew." I saw him every day ! How the happy moments sped ! Reef topsails! Make all taut! There 's dirty weather ahead ! (I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun : In that case I don't know whatever we should have done !) After a fortnight's cruise, we put into port one day, And off on leave for a week went kind Lieutenant Belaye, 5* 58 PLAY-DAY POEMS. And after a long, long week had passed (and it seemed like a life), Lieutenant Belay e returned to his ship with a fair young wife ! He up and he says, says he, " crew of the Hot Cross Bun, Here is the wife of my heart, for the church has made us one ! " And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits, And all fell down in so many fainting fits. And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be, And lo ! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me, Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor's blue array, To follow the shifting fate of kind Lieutenant Belaye. It 's strange to think that / should ever have loved young men, But I 'm speaking of ten years past — I was barely sixty then, And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow ! And poor Poll Pineapple's eyes have lost their lustre now ! William S. Gilbert. Cj)e Jtrtejjman. There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man — And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman— A nasty, ugly Irishman — A wild, tremendous Irishman — A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman. THE IRISHMAN. 59 His face was no ways beautiful, For with small pox 't was scarred across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. 0, the lump of an Irishman — The whisky devouring Irishman — The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue — the lighting, rioting Irishman. One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear ; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear ! 0, the great big Irishman — The rattling, battling Irishman — The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman. He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle oh ; And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. 0, the horrible Irishman — The thundering, blundering Irishman — The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman. His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He 'd not rest till he filled it full again ; The boozing, bruising Irishman — The 'toxicated Irishman — The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irish- man. This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality ; 60 PLAY-DAY POEMS. And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity ; 0, the leathering Irishman — The barbarous, savage Irishman — The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads wen bothered I 'm sure by this Irishman. William Maginn. irotrotos of fc&lectijei;. Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter. Would you know how first he met her ? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married \s.dy, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out. And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. William Makepeace Thackerav. Ci)e Uatttj o' OTocfcpnt. The laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's great. His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state THE LAMB 0' COCKPEN. 61 He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she 'd look well M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouthered, and as gude as new ; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the gray mare, and rade cannily — And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : " Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine: " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ? " She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa down. And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, And what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na"; And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. Dumbfounded he was — nae sigh did he gie ; He mounted his mare — he rade cannily ; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ; " Oh ! for ane I '11 get better, it 's waur I '11 get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 6 62 PLAY-BAY POEMS. Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen, They were gaim arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green. Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen — But as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen. Lady Nairne. a Mijgme of tije l&am. Like a blotch upon a beauty, Comes a cloud across the sky ; Like an unrelenting duty, Fall the rain-drops from on high ; Like death upon a holiday, Like sleigh-ride upon wheels, Like jilting on a jolly day, Like medicine at meals, Sets in a storm preposterous, Of every plan the bane ; Now sullen, and now boisterous, Malicious, mean, or roisterous, But always moist and moisture -ous, Forever on the gain, And never on the wane, Bringing sudden consternation, And a long-drawn botheration, To the men upon the house-top, and the cattle in the plain. How it pours, pours, pours, In a never-ending sheet! How it drives beneath the doors ! How it soaks the passer's feet ! How it rattles on the shutter ! How it rumples up the lawn ! How 't will sigh, and moan, and mutter, From darkness until dawn ! — Making human life a burden, Making joy a flimsy wile, A RHYME OF THE RAIN. QQ Making bondage seem a guerdon In the rainless fields of Egypt, by the clever river Nile. Yet how pleasantly the rain, With its delicate refrain, May sing away the sultriness of summer day or night! Set the drooping grass a-springing, And the robin's throat a-ringing, Fill the meadow-lands with verdure, and the hills with glis- tening light ! Or in April fickle-hearted, Ere the chill has quite departed, That the frosts, and the snows, and the howling winds, have brought, When all the signs of gladness Take a sombre tinge of sadness, For days and deeds that come no more, and dreams that fell to naught ! Then in half -unwelcome leisure, 'T is a sort of solemn pleasure To sit beside the ingle, Or to lie beneath the shingle, And listen to the patter of the rain, rain, rain, To the drip, drip, drip, And the patter, patter, patter, On the roof, and the shutter, and the pane, pane, pane. But whether night or day-time, In harvest-time or play-time, And whether pour or patter, The early rain or latter Reigns over human purpose, and plays with human fears — ■ Sets mighty armies shouting, Sends little Cupid pouting, Turns trusting into doubting, And triumph into tears. 64 PLA YD A Y POEMS. Oh ! sadly I remember One treacherous September, When the autumn equinoctial came a week or so too soon. I had started with a cousin, For the church, among a dozen Maids and matrons who were airing The "fall styles," and gayly wearing The very newest, sweetest thing in bonnets 'neath the moon. And midway of the journey, Like a thousand knights in tourney, The leveled lances of the rain drove furious at our breast ; And the "fall styles" fell and wilted, On the dames so proudly kilted, And by sudden transformation worse than worst became the best. Though I now am sere and yellow, I was then a valiant fellow, And esteemed it more a joy to serve the ladies than to live. Imagine, then, my feelings, 'Mid the shrinkings and the squealings, When my "water-proof" umbrella proved a sieve, sieve, sieve ! When my shiny new umbrella proved a sieve ! What a sorr}'- lot of mortals Sat within the sacred portals, In their mermaid millinery looking sad, sad, sad ! Nothing dry except the sermon, Which discoursed on dews of Hermon And the streams which, saith the Scripture, do make glad, glad, glad! So the preacher praised the waters To those mothers, wives, and daughters, Every dripping, draggled one of whom was mad, mad, mad-! And my bright and handsome cousin, Sweetest girl among the dozen. A BHYME OF THE BAIN. 65 Or among a dozen dozen you might meet along the way, Then a hopeful, sprightly lassie, Now, I fear, a little passee, Dates the ruin of her chances from that rainy Sabbath-day. She had spent her last round dollar For the bonnet, gloves, and collar, That should have proved effective on the smart young pul- piteer ; But he rode home in the carriage Of her rival, and their marriage Was solemnized (my cousin's word) in less than half a year. But gladly I remember One crimson-hued September, When we strayed along the hedges and within the gorgeous wold; A merry autumn party Of men and maidens hearty, Rejoicing in the foliage of scarlet and of gold; And ere we thought of turning, Or saw a sign of warning, We heard upon the fallen leaves the footsteps of the rain. Away went rules conventional ! And I, with haste intentional, Just clapped my good old broad-brim on the head of Annie Blaine. That extemporized umbrella Threw cold water on a fellow Who was courting, in a lazy sort of way, Miss Annie Blaine ; While it made me quite a gallant, And a fine young man of talent, In the eyes and estimation of the beauteous Annie Blaine. In the dreamy summer haze Of my far-off boyish days, I had chased the luring butterfly across the grassy plain, 66 PLAY-DAY POEMS. But I never threw my hat O'er a prize so fair as that When it sheltered, caught, and gave me, the lovely Annie Blaine. And I 've blessed that gentle rain Again and yet again, For the flowers it set blooming in my life; For the crimson and the gold That adorn the little fold Where I find an autumn shelter with my wife. Rossiter Johnson.! Cf)e OTocfc an* tjje iSulL You see this pebble-stone ? It 's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day — I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia, play o' words ?) Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, and gave for same By way, to- wit, of barter or exchange — " Chop " was my snickering dandiprat's own term — One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. O-n-e one and f-c—u-r four Pence, one and fourpence — you are with me sir ? — What hour it skills not : ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was !) In February, eighteen sixty-nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei Hm — hm — how runs the jargon? being on throne. Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum — what you will — Of the impending eighty thousand lines. THE COOK AND THE BULL. 67 " Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit. Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling — and for matter o' that the pence — I had o' course upo' me — wi' me say — (Mecum 's the Latin, make a note of that) When I popped pen i' stand, blew snout, scratched ear, Sniffed — tch ! — at snuff-box ; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-hawed (not hee-hawed, that's another guess thing:) Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the door ope wi' my omoplat ; And in vestibulo, i' the entrance hall, Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth ; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you !), case o' rain, I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins ! on my own ten toes, (I do assure you there be ten of them,) And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. Put case I had n't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy, This pebble-thing o' the boy-thing ? Q. E. D. That 's proven without aid from mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal. (Is n't it, old Fatchaps ? You 're in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling — having i' fact a lot — And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis-di-dem-de — What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh ?) 0' the boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun, For one and fourpence. Here we are again. 68 PLAY-DAT POEMS. Now Law steps in, big-wigged, voluminous-jawed ; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal ? Law shakes head. Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case. At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Per juris operationem, vests I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom ; (In scecula sceculo-o-o-orum ; I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them. Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should, (Subaudi ccetera — clap we to the close — For what 's the good of law in a case o' the kind) Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale. Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. He says a gen'l'man bought a pebble of him, (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand) — And paid for 't, like a gen'l'man, on the naiL Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny ? Devil a bit. Fiddlestick's end ! Get out, you blazing ass ! Gabble o' the goose. Do n't bugaboo-baby me ! Go double or quits ? Yah ! tittup ! What 's the odds ? — There 's the transaction viewed in the vendor's light. Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy-blowsy brats o' babes, The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap — Faugh ! Aie, aie, aie, aie! otototototoc, THE CO CK AND THE B ULL. 6 9 ('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty-toighty now) — And the baker and candlestick-maker, and Jack and Gill, Bleared Goody this and greasy Gaffer that. Ask the school-master. Take school-master first. He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily, Propria quce maribus, gentleman's property now (Agreeably to the law explained above), In proprium usum, for his private ends. The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit I' the face the shilling : heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by, (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) Then abiit — what 's the Ciceronian phrase ? — Excessit, evasit, erupit — off slogs boy ; Off in three flea-skips. Hactenus, so far, So good, tarn bene. Bene, satis, male, — Where was I ? who said what of one in a quag ? I did once hitch the syntax into verse : Verbum personate, a verb personal, Concordat — ay, " agrees," old Fatchaps — cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i' the point o' gender, numero, 0' number, et persona, and person. TJt, Instance : Sol ruit, down flops sun, et and, Monies umbrantur, snuffs out mountains. Pah ! Excuse me, sir, I think I 'm going mad. You see the trick on 't though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at : And might, odds-bobs, sir ! in judicious hands, Extend from here to Mesopotamy. Charles S. Calverley. 6* 70 PLAT-DAY POEMS. Mx. Jfloiong's account of tje ISall GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY. will ye choose to hear the news ? Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er : 1 '11 tell you all about the ball To the Naypaulase ambassador. Begor! this fete all balls does bate At which I worn a pump, and I Must here relate the splendthor great Of th' Oriental company. These men of sinse dispoised expinse, To fete these black Achilleses. "We'll show the blacks," says they, "Ahnack's, And take the rooms at Willis's." With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, They hung the rooms of Willis up, And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, With roses and with lilies up. And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, So sweetly in the middle there, And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, And violins did fiddle there. And when the coort was tired of spoort, I 'd lave you, boys, to think there was A nate buffet before them set, Where lashings of good dhrink there was ! At ten, before the ball-room door His moighty excellency was ; He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd — So gorgeous and immense he was. MB. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. 71 His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, Into the door-way followed him ; And oh the noise of the blackguard boys, As they hurrood and hollowed him ! The noble chair stud at the stair, And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he Did thus evince to that black prince The welcome of his company. fair the girls, and rich the curls, And bright the oys you saw there, was ; And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, On G-ineral Jung Bahawther was ! This gineral great then tuck his sate, With all the other ginerals, (Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, All bleezed with precious minerals ;) And as he there, with princely air, Recloining on his cushion was, All round about his royal chair The squeezin and the pushin was. Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls, Such fashion and nobilitee ! Just think of Tim, and fancy him Amidst the hoigh gentility ! There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese Ministher and his lady there ; And I reckonized, with much surprise, Our messmate, Bob 0' Grady, there. There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, And Baroness Rehausen there, And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar Well in her robes of gauze, in there. 72 TLA T-BA Y POEMS. There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first When only Mr. Pips he was), And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, That after supper tipsy was. There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife — I wondther how he could stuff her in. There was Lord Belfast, that by me passed, And seemed to ask how should / go there ; And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, And the marchioness of Sligo there. Yes, jukes and earls, and diamonds and pearls, And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; And some beside (the rogues !) I spied Behind the windies, coorting there. 0, there 's one I know, bedad, would show As beautiful as any there ; And I 'd like to hear the pipers blow, And shake a fut with Fanny there ! William Makepeace Thackeray. & ISlacfe gofc. The history of human-kind to trace Since Eve — the first of dupes — our doom unriddled. A certain portion of the human race Has certainly a taste for being diddled. Witness the famous Mississippi dreams ! A rage that time seems only to redouble — The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams. A BLACK JOB. 73 That cost our modern rogues so little trouble. No matter what, — to pasture cows on stubble, To twist sea-sand into a solid rope, To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble, Or light with gas the whole celestial cope — Only propose to blow a bubble, And Lord ! what hundreds will subscribe for soap ! Soap ! it reminds me of a little tale, Though not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory, When rustic games and merriment prevail — But here 's my story : Once on a time — no matter when — A knot of very charitable men Set up a Philanthropical Society, Professing on a certain plan, To benefit the race of man, And in particular that dark variety, Which some suppose inferior — as in vermin, The sable is to ermine, As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster, As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow, As blacking, or as ink to "milk below," Or yet, a better simile to show, As ragman's dolls to images in plaster ! However, as is usual in our city, They had a sort of managing committee, A board of grave responsible Directors — A Secretary, good at pen and ink — A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink, And quite an army of Collectors ! Not merely male, but female duns, Young, old, and middle-aged — of all degrees — With many of those persevering ones, Who mite by mite would beg a cheese ! 7 74 PL A Y-DA Y P OEMS. And what might be their aim ? To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters — To save their bodies from the burning shame Of branding with hot letters — Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes, Their necks from iron yokes ? To end or mitigate the ills of slavery, The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery ? To school the heathen negroes and enlighten 'em, To polish up and brighten 'em, And make them worthy of eternal bliss ? Why, no — the simple end and aim was this — Eeading a well-known proverb much amiss — To wash and whiten 'em ! They looked so ugly in their sable hides ; So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides, However the poor elves Might wash themselves, Nobody knew if they were clean or not — On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot! Not to forget more serious complaints That even while they joined in pious hymn, So black they were and grim, In face and limb, They looked like Devils, though they sang like Saints ! The thing was undeniable ! They wanted washing ! not that slight ablution To which the skin of the white man is liable, Merely removing transient pollution — But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing And scrubbing, Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head With stiff, strong saponaceous lather And pails of water — hottish rather, But not so boiling as to turn 'em red ! A BLACK JOB. ^5 So spake the philanthropic man Who laid and hatched and nursed the plan — And oh ! to view its glorious consummation ! The brooms and mops, The tubs and slops, The baths and brushes in full operation I To see each Crow, or Jim, or John, Go in a raven and come out a swan ! While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels, Black Venus rises from the soapy surge, And all the little Niggerlings emerge As lily-white as mussels. Sweet was the vision — but alas ! However in prospectus bright and sunny, To bring such visionary scenes to pass One thing was requisite, and that was — money I Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks, and collars, shirts, and frills, Cravats and kerchiefs — money, without which The negroes must remain as dark as pitch ; A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals, And living — so to speak — in Satan's livery ! Money — the root of evil — dross and stuff! But oh ! how happy ought the rich to feel, Whose means enabled them to give enough To blanch an African from head to heel ! How blessed — yea, thrice blessed — to subscribe Enough to scour a tribe ! While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one, Although he gave but pence, how sweet to know He helped to bleach a Hottentot's great toe, Or little one ! 76 PLA T-DA Y P OEMS. Moved by this logic, or appalled, To persons of a certain turn so proper, The money came when called, In silver, gold, and copper, Presents from "friends to blacks," or foes to whites, "Trifles," and "offerings," and "widow's mites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions, With other gifts And charitable lifts, Printed in lists and quarterly transactions. As thus — Elisha Brettel, An iron kettle. The Dowager Lady Scannel, A piece of flannel. Eebecca Pope, A bar of soap. The Misses Howels, Half-a-dozen towels. The Master Rushes, Two scrubbing-brushes. Mr. T. Groom, A stable broom. And Mrs. Grubb, A tub. Great were the sums collected I And great results in consequence expected. But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavor, According to reports At yearly courts, The blacks, confound them ! were as black as ever ! Yes ! spite of all the water soused aloft, Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft, Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand, Brooms, brushes, palm of hand, A BLACK JOB. 77 And scourers in the office strong and clever, In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing, The routing and the grubbing, t The blacks, confound them ! were as black as ever I In fact, in his perennial speech, The chairman owned the niggers did not bleach, As he had hoped, From being washed and soaped, A circumstance he named with grief and pity ; But still he had the happiness to say, For self and the Committee, By persevering in the present way, And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day, Although he could not promise perfect white, From certain symptoms that had come to light, He hoped in time to get them gray I Lulled by this vague assurance, The friends and patrons of the sable tribe Continued to subscribe, And waited, waited on with much endurance — Many a frugal sister, thrifty daughter — Many a stinted widow, pinching mother — With income by the tax made somewhat shorter, Still paid implicitly her crown per quarter — Only to hear, as every year came round, That Mr. Treasurer had spent her pound; And as she loved her sable brother, That Mr. Treasurer must have another ! But, spite of pounds or guineas, Instead of giving any hint Or turning to a neutral tint, The plaguy negroes and their piccaninnies 7 8 PLA Y-DA Y P OEMb. Were still the color of the bird that caws — Only some very aged souls Showing a little gray upon their polls, Like daws! However, nothing dashed By such repeated failures, or abashed, The Court still met ; the Chairman and Directors, The Secretary, good at pen and ink, The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink, And all the cash Collectors ; With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous, Without whose help no charlatan alive, Or bubble Company could hope to thrive, Or busy Chevalier, however sedulous — Those good and easy innocents in fact, Who willingly receiving chaff for corn, As pointed out by Butler's tact> Still find a secret pleasure in the act Of being pluck'd and shorn I However, in long hundreds, there they were, Thronging the hot, and close, and dusty court, To hear once more addresses from the Chair, And Eegular Eeport. Alas ! concluding in the usual strain, That what with everlasting wear and tear, The scrubbing-brushes had n't got a hair — The brooms — mere stumps — would never serve again— The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds, The towels worn to threads, The tubs and pails too shattered to be mended — And what was added with a deal of pain, But as accounts correctly would explain, Though thirty thousand pounds had been expended — The Blackamoors had still been washed in vain I THE MYSTERY OF GTLQAL. 79 " In fact the negroes were as black as ink, Yet, still as the Committee dared to think, And hoped the proposition was not rash, A rather free expenditure of cash — " But ere the prospect could be made more sunny — Up jumped a little, lemon-colored man, And with an eager stammer, thus began, In angry earnest, though it sounded funny : " What ! More subscriptions ! No — no — no, — not I ! You have had time — time — time enough to try ! They won't come white ! then why — why — why — why — why, More money?" " Why ! " said the Chairman, with an accent bland, And gentle waving of his dexter hand, " Why must we have more dross, and dirt and dust, More filthy lucre, in a word more gold, The why, sir, very easily is told, Because Humanity declares we must ! We 've scrubbed the Negroes till we 've nearly killed 'em, And finding that we cannot wash them white, But still their nigritude offends the sight, We mean to gild 'eml u Thomas Hood. Cjje JHgsterg at (gtlgai. The darkest, strangest mystery I ever read, or heern or see, Is 'long of a drink at Taggart's hall, — Tom Taggart's of Grilgal. I 've heern the tale a thousand ways, But never could git through the maze That hangs around that queer day's doin's But I '11 tell the yarn to youans. 80 PLA Y-DA Y POEMS. Tom Taggart stood behind his bar, The time was fall, the skies was far, The neighbors round the counter drawed, And ca'mly drinked and jawed. At last came Colonel Blood of Pike And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus like, And each, as he meandered in, Remarked, " A whisky-skin." Tom mixed the beverage full and far, And slammed it smoking on the bar, Some says three fingers, some says two, — I '11 leave the choice to you. Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, " I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn — Jest drap that whisky-skin." No man high-toneder could be found Than old Jedge Phinn the country round, Says he, " Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins I " He went for his 'leven inch bowie-knife : " I tries to f oiler a Christian life ; But I 'U drap a slice of liver or two, My bloomin' shrub, with you." They carved in a way that all admired, Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso 'twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise. Then coats went off", and all went in ; Shots and bad language swelled the din ; THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. 81 The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse. They piled the stiffs outside the door ; They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin' -school I 've sarched in vain from Dan to Beer- Sheba, to make this mystery clear ; But I end with hit as I did begin : Who got the whisky-skin ? John Hay. Cije ^flgrim* atrtr tfje ^eas. A brace of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel : In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes : A nostrum famous in old Popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes : A sort of apostolic salt, Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray : But very different was their speed, I wot : 82 FLA Y-DA Y POEMS. One of the sinners galloped on, Swift as a bullet from a gun ; The other limped as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon — -peccavi cried — Had his soul white-washed all so clever ; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half way — Hobbling, with out-stretched hands and bending knees ; Damning the souls and bodies of the peas ; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. " How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke " You lazy lubber ! " " Ods curse it," cried the other, " 't is no joke — My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as any blubber. " Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear — As for Loretto I shall not get there ; No ! to the Devil my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha' n't lost ev'ry toe. " But, brother sinner, pray explain How 't is that you are not in pain : What power hath worked a wonder for your toes : While /just like a snake am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, While not a rascal comes to ease my woes ? " How is 't that you can l'ke a greyhound go, Merry, as if that naught had happened, burn ye ? " SPRING. 83 "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my peas." John Wolcot. Cj)e Nose, How very odd that poets should suppose There is no poetry about the nose, When plain as is man's nose upon his face, A noseless face would lack poetic grace ; Noses have sympathy, a lover knows, Noses are always touched when lips are kissing — And who would care to kiss if nose was missing ? Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose — And where would be the mortal means of telling Whether a vile or wholesome odor flows Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling ? I know a nose — a nose no other knows — 'Neath starry eyes, o'er ruby lips it grows — There 's beauty in its form, and music in its blows ! Anonymous. Spring. 11 Come, gentle Spring ! ethereal mildness, come I " Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason, How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum ? There 's no such season. The Spring I I shrink and shudder at her name ! For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter 1 And suffer from her blows as if they came From Spring the Fighter. 84 PLAY-DAY POEMS. Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing, And be her tuneful laureates and upholders, Who do not feel as if they had a Spring Poured down their shoulders I Let others eulogize her floral shows ; From me they cannot win a single stanza, I know her blooms are in full blow — and so 's The Influenza. Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale, Her honey blossoms that you hear the bees at, Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale, Are things I sneeze at I Fair is the vernal quarter of the year ! And fair its early buddings and its blowings — But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear With other sowings ! For me, I find, when eastern winds are high, A frigid, not a genial inspiration ; Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy An inflammation. Smitten by breezes from the land of plague, To me all vernal luxuries are fables, 1 where 's the Spring in a rheumatic leg, Stiff as a table's ? 1 limp in agony — I wheeze and cough ; And quake with Ague, that great Agitator ; Nor dream, before July, of leaving off My Respirator. What wonder if in May itself I lack A peg for laudatory verse to hang on ? — SPRING. 85 Spring, mild and gentle ? — yes, a Spring-heeled Jack To those he sprang on. In short, whatever panegyrics lie In fulsome odes too many to be cited, The tenderness of Spring is all my eye, And that is blighted I Thomas Hood. Spring. Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, An' it clings hold like precerdents in law : Your gra'ma'am put it there, — when, goodness knows, — To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es ; But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife, (For 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life ?) An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread 0' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides ; But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' musk. Jes' so with poets : wut they 've airly read Grits kind o' worked into their heart an' head, So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers With furrin countries or played-out ideers, Nor hev a feelin', ef it doos n't smack 0' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back : This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things, Ez though we 'd nothin' here that blows an' sings, — (Why, I 'd give more for one live bobolink Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)- This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May, Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can say. 8 86 PZAT-D AT POEMS. little city-gals, don't never go it Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet ! They 're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks Up in the country ez it doos in books ; They 're no more like than hornets' -nest an' hives, Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. I, with my trouses perched on cowhide boots, Tuggin my foundered feet out by the roots, Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse Your muslin nosegay from the milliner's, Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes : 1 've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood. Pleasure does make us Yankees kind o' winch, Ez though 't wuz sunthin' paid for by the inch ; But yit we do contrive to worry thru, Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing 's to du, An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, Ez stiddily ez though 't wuz a redoubt. I, country-born an' bred, know where to find Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, An' seem to metch the doubtin' blue-bird's notes, — Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl, — But these are jes' Spring's pickets ; sure ez sin, The rebble frosts '11 try to drive 'em in ; For half our May 's so awfully like May n't, 'T would rile a Shaker or an evrige saint ; Though I own up I like our back'ard springs Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more words Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds : Thet 's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out ! SPRING. 87 Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An' settlin' things in windy Congresses, — Queer politicians, though, for I '11 be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, — The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, Then gray hoss-ches'nuts leetle hands unfold Softer 'n a baby's be at three days old : Thet 's robin-redbreast's almanick ; he knows Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom-snows ; So choosin' out a handy crotch and spouse, He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. Then seems to come a hitch, — things lag behind, Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft, Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, Then all the waters bow themselves an' come, Suddin', in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, — Jes' so our spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from April into June : Then all comes crowdin' in ; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink ; The catbird in the lay lock-bush is loud: The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud ; Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it> An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet ; The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; In ellum-shrouds the nashin' hangbird clings An' for the summer ^Yg& his hammock slings; 88 PLAY-DAY POEMS. All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try With pins, — they '11 worry yourn so, boys, bimeby ! But I don't love your cat'logue style, — do you ? — Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo ; One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two; 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here ; Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, Euns down a brook o' laughter, thru the air. James Russell Lowell. Cije Nantucftet i&tpper. 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 " douse 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. A CHINESE STORY. 89 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 't was Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag — the pedlar's son ; And so he mused, (the wanton wretch !) " To-night I '11 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 1 " 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, And opened 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 Harden, " Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden ! " James T. Fields. None are so wise as they who make pretense To know what fate conceals from mortal sense. 90 PLAT-DAY POEMS. This moral from a tale of Ho-hang-ho Might have been drawn a thousand years ago, When men were left to their unaided senses, Long ere the days of spectacles and lenses. Two young, short-sighted fellows, Chang and Ching, Over their chopsticks idly chattering, Fell to disputing which could see the best; At last they agreed to put it to the test. Said Chang, " A marble tablet, so I hear, Is placed upon the Bo-hee temple near, With an inscription on it. Let us go And read it (since you boast your optics so), Standing together at a certain place In front, where we the letters just may trace ; Then he who quickest reads the inscription there, The palm for keenest eyes henceforth shall bear." "Agreed," said Ching, " but let us try it soon: Suppose we say to-morrow afternoon." " Nay, not so soon," said Chang : "I'm bound to go To-morrow a day's ride from Ho-hang-ho, And sha' n't be ready till the following day : At ten a. m. on Thursday, let us say." So 't was arranged ; but Ching was wide awake : Time by the forelock he resolved to take ; And to the temple went at once and read Upon the tablet : " To the illustrious dead, The chief of mandarins, the great G-oh-Bang." Scarce had he gone when stealthily came Chang, Who read the same ; but peering closer, he Spied in a corner what Ching failed to see — The words, " This tablet is erected here By those to whom the great G-oh-Bang was dear." TEE WOMAN OF TEEEE COWS. 91 So on the appointed day — both innocent As babes, of course — these honest fellows went, And took their distant station ; and Ching said, u I can read plainly, ' To the illustrious dead, The chief of mandarins, the great Groh-Bang.' " "And is that all that you can spell? " said Chang, " I see what you have read, but furthermore, In smaller letters, toward the temple door, Quite plain, ' This tablet is erected here By those to whom the great G-oh-Bang was dear.' " u My sharp-eyed friend, there are no such words ! " said Ching. "They 're there," said Chang, "if I see anything, As clear as daylight." " Patent eyes, indeed, You have ! " cried Ching ; " do you think I cannot read? " "Not at this distance as I can," Chang said, "If what you say you saw is all you read." In fine they quarreled, and their wrath increased, Till Chang said, "Let us leave it to the priest; Lo ! here he comes to meet us." " It is well," Said honest Ching ; " no falsehood he will tell." The good man heard their artless story through, And said, " I think, dear sirs, there must be few Blest with such wondrous eyes as those you wear : There 's no such tablet or inscription there ! There was one, it is true ; 't was moved away And placed within the temple yesterday." Christopher Pearse Cranch. C^e ffliomatt of Cfjree (Ectog. O Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle ! don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cat- tle! 92 PLAT-DAT POEMS. I 've seen — and here 's my hand to you, I only say what 's true — A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you 1 don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser ; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser ; And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows ; Then don't be stiff and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows ! See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's de- scendants, — 'T is they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If they were forced to bow to fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows? The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning ; Movrone ! for they were banished, with no hope of their re- turning. Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house ? Yet you can give yourself these airs, Woman of Three Cows! think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted, — See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted ! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse ; Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows? THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 93 O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story, — Think how their high achievements once made Erin's great- est glory I Yet now their bones He mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, Woman of Three Cows ! The O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the bold- est, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest ; Yet who so great as they of yore, in battle or carouse ? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows! Your neighbor 's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, Because, forsooth, you 've got three cows, — one more, I see, than she has ; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity al- lows, But if you 're strong be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows! Now, there you go ! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I 'm too poor to hinder you ; but, by the cloak I 'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I 'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows! James Clarence Mangan 8* 94 PLA T-BA Y P OEMS. &Se dFclig of Proton, BY A GENERAL AGENT. I knew a boor — a clownish card, (His only friends were pigs and cows and The poultry of a small farm-yard) Who came into two hundred thousand. Good fortune worked no change in Brown, Though she 's a mighty social chymist: He was a clown — and by a clown I do not mean a pantomimist. It left him quiet, calm, and cool, Though hardly knowing what a crown was- You can't imagine what a fool He scouted all who wished to come And give him monetary schooling; And I propose to give you some Idea of his insensate fooling. I formed a company or two — (Of course I don't know what the rest meaL /formed them solely with a view To help him to a sound investment). Their objects were — their only cares — To justify their Boards in showing A handsome dividend on shares, And keep their good promoter going. But no — the lout prefers his brass, Though shares at par I freely proffer : Yes — will it be believed ? — the ass Declines, with thanks, my well meant offer ! TEE FOLLY OF BROWN. 95 He added, with a bumpkin's grin, (A weakly intellect denoting) He 'd rather not invest it in A company of my promoting ! " You have two hundred ' thou ' or more," Said I. " You '11 waste it, lose it, lend it: Come, take my furnished second floor, I '11 gladly show you how to spend it" But will it be believed that he, With grin upon his face of poppy, Declined my aid, while thanking me For what he called my " philanthroppy ? ' Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice In doubting friends who would n't harm them, They will not hear the charmer's voice, However wisely he may charm them. I showed him that his coat, all dust, Top boots and cords provoked compassion, And proved that men of station must Conform to the decrees of fashion. I showed him where to buy his hat, To coat him, trouser him, and boot him ; But no — he would n't hear of that, " He did n't think the style would suit him I " I offered him a country-sea't, And made no end of an oration ; I made it certainly complete, And introduced the deputation. But no — the clown my prospects blights — (The worth of birth it surely teaches !) 9 6 PL A Y-DA T P OEMS. u Why should I want to spend my nights In Parliament, a-making speeches ? " I have n't never been to school — I ain't had not no eddication — And I should surely be a fool To publish that to all the nation ! " I offered him a trotting horse — No hack had ever trotted faster — I also offered him, of course, A rare and curious " old Master." I offered to procure him weeds — Wines fit for one in his position — But, though an ass in all his deeds, He 'd learned the meaning of "commission." He called me " thief " the other day, And daily from his door he thrusts me ; Much more of this, and soon I may Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me. So deaf to all sound Reason's rule This poor uneducated clown is, You can not fancy what a fool Poor rich, uneducated Brown is. William S. Gilbert. She is talking aesthetics, the dear clever creature ! Upon Man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile, Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature, The Sublime, the Heroic, and Mr. Carlyle. MIDGES 97 I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now ; So I follow with my surreptitious cigar ; While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now. Who quotes Wordsworth and praises her " Thoughts on a Star." Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower A swarm of young midges ! They dance high and low. 'T is a sweet little species that lives but one hour, And the eldest was born half an hour ago. One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring In the ear of a shy little wanton in gauze, His eternal devotion, his ceaseless adoring ; Which shall last till the Universe breaks from its laws. His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever Of a rapturous moment. It knows no control : It will burn in his breast through existence forever, Immutably fixed in the deeps of his soul ! She wavers ; she flutters : . . . male midges are fickle : Dare she trust him her future ? . . . she asks with a sigh : He implores . . . and a tear is beginning to trickle : She is weak : they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by. While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lighted A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn : His existence is withered ; its future is blighted : His hopes are betrayed : and his breast is forlorn. By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived, now, In the virtue of midges no more he believes : From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, now, He will bury his desolate life in the leaves. His friends would console him . . . the noblest and sagest Of midges have held that a midge lives again. 9 98 PLAY-DAY POEMS. In eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagest With sorrow, shall cease . . . but their words were in vain ! Can eternity bring back the seconds now wasted In hopeless desire ? or restore to his breast The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted, Embracing the midge that his being held best ? His friends would console him . . . life yet is before him ; Many hundred long seconds he still has to live : In the state yet a mighty career spreads before him : Let him seek in the great world of action to strive ! There is Fame ! there 's Ambition ! and grander than either, There is Freedom! . . . the progress and march of the race! .... But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neither Ambition nor action her loss can replace. If the time had been spent in acquiring aesthetics I have squandered in learning this language of midges, There might, for my friend in her peripatetics, Have been now two asses to help o'er the bridges. As it is, ... I '11 report her the whole conversation. It would have been longer; but, some how or other, (In the midst of that misanthrope's long lamentation,) A midge in my right eye became a young mother. Since my friend is so clever, I '11 ask her to tell me Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg) Can make a man's tears flow, as now it befel me . you dear, clever woman, explain it I beg. Robert Bulwer Lttton. THE MOURNER A LA MODE. 99 &i)e i^tournec a la JHotoe. I saw her last night at a party (The elegant party at Mead's), And looking remarkably hearty For a widow so young in her weeds ; Yet I know she was suffering sorrow Too deep for the tongue to express, — Or why had she chosen to borrow So much from the language of dress ? Her shawl was as sable as night ; And her gloves were as dark as her shawl ; And her jewels — that flashed in the light — Were black as a funeral pall ; Her robe had the hue of the rest, (How nicely it fitted her shape !) And the grief that was heaving her breast Boiled over in billows of crape ! What tears of vicarious woe, That else might have sullied her face, Were kindly permitted to flow In ripples of ebony lace ! While even her fan, in its play, Had quite a lugubrious scope, And seemed to be waving away The ghost of the angel of Hope ! Yet rich as the robes of a queen Was the sombre apparel she wore ; I 'm certain I never had seen Such a sumptuous sorrow before ; And I could n't help thinking the beauty, In mourning the loved and the lost, Was doing her conjugal duty Altogether regardless of cost! 1 00 PLA YD A Y POEMS. One surely would say a devotion Performed at so vast an expense Betrayed an excess of emotion That was really something immense ; And yet as I viewed, at my leisure, Those tokens of tender regard, I thought : — It is scarce without measure— The sorrow that goes by the yard ! Ah ! grief is a curious passion ; And yours — I am sorely afraid The very next phase of the fashion Will find it beginning to fade ; Though dark are the shadows of grief, The morning will follow the night, Half-tints will betoken relief, Till joy shall be symboled in white ! Ah well ! it were idle to quarrel With Fashion, or aught she may do ; And so I conclude with a moral And metaphor — warranted new : — When measles come handsomely out, The patient is safest, they say ; And the Sorrow is mildest, no doubt, That works in a similar way ! John Godfrey Saxe. a logical story. Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way ? It ran a hundred years to a day, And then of a sudden, it — ah, but stay. THE ONE-HOSS SHA Y. 101 I '11 tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; It should be so built that it could rC break daowr — " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't 's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest." 102 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills ; He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs of logs from the " Settler's ellum," — Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." — " There ! " said the Deacon, " naow she '11 dew ! " Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less . Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren, — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen hundred ; — it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; — Running 1 as usual; much the same. THE ONE-HOSS SUA Y. 103 Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. — You 're welcome. — No extra charge.) First of November, — the Earthquake-day. — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There could n't be, — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! First of November, 'Fifty-five ! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. " Huddup ! " said the parson. — Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming 1 next. 1 04 PLA Y-DA T P OEMS. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. — First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock ! Just the hour of the earthquake shock! — What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground ! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, — All at once, and nothing first, — Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That 's all I say. Oliver Wendell Holmes. ^lat'n Uanguage from Crutfjful fames. Table Mountain, 1870. Which I wish to remark — And my language is plain — That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name ; And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply. But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 105 It was August the third j And quite soft was the skies : Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise ; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand : It was euchre. The same He did not understand ; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve. And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve ; Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, * And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see — Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor " — And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand ; 9* 1 06 PLA T-DA Y P OEMS. But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand." In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs — Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts ; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers — that 's wax. Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar — Which the same I am free to maintain. Beet Harte. Wfyt ©tbertmg Jgtetorj) of gjojjn (gtlpm. John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown. A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton. All in a chaise and pair. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 107 My sister, and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we. He soon replied, I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend, the calender, Will lend his horse to go. Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That 's well said ; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear. John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; O'erjoyed was he to find, That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed Where they did all get in ; Six precious souls, and all agog Do dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad, 108 PLAY-DAY POEMS. The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Grilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again ; For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When turning round, his head he saw Three customers come in. So down he came ; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore ; Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. 'T was long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stair ' The wine is left behind ! ' Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword, When I do exercise. Now mistress Grilpin (careful soul !) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 109 Then over all, that he might he Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush' d and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat. So, fair and softly, John he cried, But John he cried in vain ; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp' d the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig ; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, 10 HO PL A Y-BAY P OEMS. Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung ; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all ; And every soul cried out, Well done ! As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin — who but he ? His fame soon spread around, He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 'T is for a thousand pound ! And still, as fast as he drew near, 'T was wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low. The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced ; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. \\\ Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay ; And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. Stop, stop, John G-ilpin ! — Here 's the house — They all at once did cry ; The dinner waits, and we are tired ; Said Gilpin — So am I ! But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there ! For why ? — his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong ; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went G-ilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, 112 PL A Y-DAY P OEMS. Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him : What news ? what news ? your tidings tell ; Tell me you must and shall — Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all ? Now Grilpin had a pleasant wit> And loved a timely joke ; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke : I came because your horse would come, And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road. The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Eeturn'd him not a single word, But to the house went in ; Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus shew'd his ready wit, My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. But let me scrape the dirt away, That hangs upon your face ; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case. TEE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 113 Said John, It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware. So turning to his horse, he said, I am in haste to dine ; 'T was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine. Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast ! For which he paid full dear ; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear ; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Grilpin, and away •Went Gilpin's hat and wig : He lost them sooner than at first, For why ? — they were too big. Now mistress Grilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half-a-crown ; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well. The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain ; 114 PLAY-DAY POEMS. Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein ; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. AAvay went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry : Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman! Not one of them was mute ; And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space ; The toll-man thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town : Nor stopp'cl till where he had got up He did again get down. Xow let us sing, Long live the king, And Gilpin long live he ; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see ! William Cowtkr. THE AM A TEUR ORLAND 0. 115 Ct)e Amateur (©rlanfoo. It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., (Kind reader, although your Knowledge of French is not first-class, Don't call that Amature.) It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., The which did warfare wage On the dramatic works of this And every other age. It had a walking gentleman, A leading juvenile, First lady in book-muslin dressed, With a galvanic smile ; Thereto a singing chambermaid, Benignant heavy pa, And oh, heavier still was the heavy vill- Ain, with his fierce "Ha! Ha! " There was n't an author from Shakespeare down — Or up — to Boucicault, These amateurs were n't competent (S. Wegg) to collar and throw. And when the winter time came round — " Season " 's a stagier phrase — The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one Of the Bard of Avon's plays. 'T was " As You Like It " that they chose ; For the leading lady's heart Was set on playing Rosalind, Or some other page's part. And the President of the Am. Dram. Ays., A stalwart dry-goods clerk, Was cast for Orlando, in which role He felt he 'd make his mark. 116 PLAY-DAY POEMS. " I mind me," said the President, (All thoughtful was his face,) " When Orlando was taken by Thingummy That Charles was played by Mace. Charles hath not many lines to speak, Nay, not a single length — Oh, if find we can a Mussulman (That is, a man of strength), And bring him on the stage as Charles — But alas, it can't be did — " "It can," replied the Treasurer; " Let 's get The Hunky Kid." This Hunky Kid of whom they spoke, Belonged to the P. R. ; He always had his hair cut short, And always had catarrh. His voice was gruff, his language rough, His forehead villainous low, And 'neath his broken nose a vast Expanse of jaw did show. He was forty-eight about the chest, And his fore-arm at the mid- Die measured twenty-one and a half — Such was The Hunky Kid ! The Am. Dram. Ass., they have engaged This pet of the P. R. ; As Charles the Wrestler he 's to be A bright particular star. And when they put the programme out, Announce him thus they did : Orlando .... Mr. Romeo Jones ; Charles .... Mr. T. H. Kid. The night has come ; the house is packed, From pit to gallery, THE AMATEUR ORLANDO. 11 7 As those who through the curtain peep Quake inwardly to see. A squeak 's heard in the orchestra, As the leader draws across Th' intestines of the agile cat The tail of the noble hoss. All is at sea behind the scenes, Why do they fear and funk ? Alas, alas, The Hunky Kid Is lamentably drunk ! He 's in that most unlovely stage Of half-intoxication When men resent the hint they 're tight As a personal imputation ! ; Ring up! ring up ! " Orlando cried, " Or we must cut the scene; For Charles the Wrestler is imbued With poisonous benzine ; And every moment gets more drunk Than he before has been." The wrestling scene has come and Charles Is much disguised in drink ; The stage to him 's an inclined plane, The footlights make him blink. Still strives he to act well his part Where all the honor lies, Though Shakespeare would not in his lines His language recognize. Instead of " Come, where is this young — ? ' This man of bone and brawn, He squares himself and bellows : " Time ! Fetch your Orlandos on ! " 10* 118 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. " Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man,' Fair Rosalind said she, As the two wrestlers in the ring Grapple right furiously ; But Charles the Wrestler had no sense Of dramatic propriety. He siezed on Mr. Romeo Jones, In Graeco-Roman style; He got what they call a grapevine lock On that leading juvenile; He flung him into the orchestra, And the man with the ophicleide, On whom he fell, he just said — well, No matter what — and died ! When once the tiger has tasted blood And found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more Than he can possibly eat. And thus it was with The Hunky Kid ; In his homicidal blindness, He lifted his hand against Rosalind Not in the way of kindness, He chased poor Celia off at L., At R. U. E. Le Beau, And he put such a head upon Duke Fred, In fifteen seconds or so, That never one of the courtly train Might his haughty master know. And that 's precisely what came to pass, Because the luckless carles Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass. Cast The Hunky Kid for Charles! George T. Lantgak. SALL Y SIMP KIN S'S LAMES T. \ \ 9 a ^u??UtJ (tfensui^Cafcec. " Got any boys? " the Marshal said To a lady from over the Rhine ; And the lady shook her flaxen head. And civilly answered, " Nein ! " " Got any girls ? " the Marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine ; And again the lady shook her head, And civilly answered, " Nein I " "But some are dead? " the Marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine ; And again the lady shook her head, And civilly answered, " Nein I " " Husband of course ? " the Marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine ; And again she shook her flaxen head, And civilly answered, " Nein I " " The devil you have! " the Marshal said To the lady from over the Rhine; And again she shook her flaxen head, And civilly answered, " Nein ! " " Now what do you mean by shaking your head, And always answering, ' Nein ' ? " " Ich kann nicht Englisch ! " civilly said The lady from over the Rhine. John Godfrey Saxe. ifcallj) jfchnpfcms'g Uamem. linor in. " what is that comes glidi And quite in middling haste ? 120 PL A Y-DA T P OEMS. It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist. " It is not painted to the life, For where 's the trousers blue ? Jones, my dear ! — dear ! my Jones, What is become of you ? " " Sally dear, it is too true, — The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark ! " Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do ! A bite in one place seems enough, But I 've been bit in two. " You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share ! But let that pass, — for now to you I 'm neither here nor there. " Alas ! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea : It has divided me from you, And even me from me ! " Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights To haunt, as people say ; My ghost can't walk, for 0, my legs Are many leagues away ! And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a half Without ' a quarter's notice.' THE BIR TH OF SAINT PA TRICK \ 2 J " One half is here, the other half Is near Columbia placed ; Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist. " But now, adieu, — a long adieu ! I 've solved death's awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle ! " Thomas Hood. Cfje ^irtf) of Saint latricfe. On the eighth day of March it was, some people say, That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day; While others declare 't was the ninth he was born. And 't was all a mistake between midnight and morn ; For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock, And some blam'd the baby — and some blam'd the clock — 'Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know, If the child was too fast — or the clock was too slow. Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say, • Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday, Some fought for the eighth — for the ninth more would die, And who would n't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye ! At last, both the factions so positive grew, That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two, Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins, Said, " No one could have two birthdays, but a twins." Says he, " Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, Don't be always dividin' — but sometimes combine ; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birthday." — " Amen," says the clerk. 122 PLAY-DAY POEMS. " If ho was n't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show — That, at least, he 's worth any two saints that we know ! " Then they all got blind dhrunk — which complated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this. Samuel Lover. (Contentment. " Man wants but little here below." Little I ask ; my wants are few ; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own ; And close at hand is such a one,' In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me ; Three courses are as good as ten ; — If nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! I always thought cold victuals nice ; — My choice would be vanilla ice. I care not much for gold or land ; — Give me a mortgage here and there, — Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share, — I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend. Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names ; I would perhaps be Plenipo, — But only near St. James ; I 'm very sure I should not care To fill our G-ubernator's chair. CONTENTMENT. \ 2 3 Jewels are baubles; 't is a sin To care for such unfruitful things ; — One good-sized diamond in a pin, — Some, not so large, in rings, — A ruby, and a pearl or so, Will do for me; — I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good heavy silks are never dear ;) — I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare ; An easy gate, — two forty-five, — Suits me ; I do not care ; — Perhaps, for just a single spurt. Some seconds less would do no hurt. Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Eaphaels three or four, — I love so much their style and tone, — One Turner, and no more, (A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — The sunshine painted with a squirt). Of books but few, — some fifty score For daily use and bound for wear ; The rest upon an upper floor ; — Some little luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream. Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, Which others often show for pride, 124 PLAY-DAY POEMS. I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride ; — One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums I would fain possess. Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl ? Give grasping pomp its double share, — I ask but one recumbent chair. Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, — Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. Cf)e Gtrgstal palace. With ganial foire Thransfuse my loyre, Ye sacred nymphths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing The Palace made o' windows ! Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial What power was lint You to invint This coinbineetion cristial. THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 125 would before That Thomas Moore Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of Godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron ! And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums. My Muse's words Is like the birds That roosts beneath the panes there ; Her wings she spoils 'G-ainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there. This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which imperors might covet, Stands in Hide Park Like Noah's Ark A rainbow bint above it. The towers and faynes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, St. Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo. 'T is here that roams, As well becomes 126 PLAY-DAY POEMS. Her dignitee and stations, Victoria great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations. Her subjects pours From distant shores, Her Injians and Canajians, And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance. Here comes likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian ; From East and West They sent their best To fill her Coornocopean. I seen (thank Grace !) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honor Misteer H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there.) With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And could n't see for staring. There 's holy saints And window paints, THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 127 By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones . Of yellow and gambouge in. There 's fountains there And crosses fair : There 's water-gods with urrns ; There 's organs three, To play, d' ye see, " G-od save the Queen," by turns. There 's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver and of copper, And some in zink, And some, I think, That is n't over proper. There 's staym Ingynes, That stand in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort, Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing. There 's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs ; There 's dibblers and there 's harrows, And plows like toys, For little boys, And illegant wheel-barrows. For them gen tools Who ride on wheels, I 128 PLA Y-DA T P OEMS. There 's plenty to indulge 'em ; There 's Droskys snug From Paytersbug And vayhycles from Belgium. There 's Cabs on Stands, And Shandthry danns; There 's wagons from New York here ; There 's Lapland Sleighs, Have crossed the seas, And Jaunting Cars from Cork here. Amazed I pass From glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em ; Fresh wondthers grows Beneath me nose In this sublime Musayum. Look here 's a fan From far Japan, A saber from Damasco ; There 's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow. There 's G-erman flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples Macaronies ; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay, Polonia her polonies. There 's granite flints That 's quite imminse THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. 129 There 's sacks of coals and fuels, There 's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And Ginger-bread and Jewels. There 's taypots there, And cannons rare; There 's coffins filled with roses; There 's canvas tints, Teeth instruments, And shuits of clothes by Moses. There 's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber ; JSTor could disclose Did I compose From May-time to jSTovimber. Ah, Judy thru ! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it ! And could I screw But tu pound tu 'T is I would thrait you to it. So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Crystal Exhibition. William Makepeace Thackeray. C^e Supper Superstition. 'T was twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, 11* 130 PLA Y-DA Y POEMS. Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim. Said he, " Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup," — When, whiter than the tablecloth, A GHOST came rising up ! " 0, father dear, 0, mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim, — You know when some one went to sea, — Don't cry — but I am him ! " You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your absent Jack. But oh, I am come here to say I 'm never coming back ! " From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering ' too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs ! " The Ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops ; When down she went with all our hands, Bight in the Channel's Chops. " Just give a look in JSTorey's chart, The very place it tells ; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells. "Well there we are till 'hands aloft,' We have at last a call ; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all. THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. 131 "But oh, my spirit cannot rest, In Davy Jones's sod, Till I 've appeared to you and said, — Don't sup on that 'ere Cod 1 " You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea ; Last Sunday week, at 2 p. m. That Cod was picking me ! " Those oysters too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one. " 0, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps ; When I was in my briny grave, They sucked my blood like imps ! " Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They '11 know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat ! " The Spirit fled — they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack ! At last up started brother Jim, " Let 's try if Jack was Jack ? " They called the Dog, they called the Cat, And little Kitten too, And down they put the Cod and sauce, To see what brutes would do. Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, 132 PL A Y-DA T P OEMS. But munched the Cod, — the little Kit Quite feasted on the shrimps ! The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts ; 0, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts ! Thomas Hood. W$z dFat'r Jftfilmger. BY THE WATERTOWN HORSE-CAR CONDUCTOR. It was a millinger most gay, As sat within her shop ; A student came along that way, And in he straight did pop. Clean shaven he, of massive mould, He thought his looks was killing her ; So lots of stuff to him she sold : ( ' Thanks ! " says the millinger. He loafed around and seemed to try On all things to converse ; The millinger did mind her eye, But also mound his purse. He tried, then, with his flattering tongue, With nonsense to be filling her ; But she was sharp, though she was young ; " Thanks," said the millinger. He asked her to the theatre, They got into my car ; Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir, He thought the way not far. LITTLE BILLEK 133 A pretty pict-i-ure she made, No doctors had been pilling her ; Fairly the fair one's fare he paid : " Thanks ! " said the millinger. When we arrived in Bowdoin Square, A female to them ran ; Then says that millinger so fair : " 0, thank you, Mary Ann ! She 's going with us, she is," says she, " She only is fulfilling her Duty in looking after me : Thanks ! " said that millinger. "Why," says that student chap to her, "I 've but two seats to hand." " Too bad," replied that millinger, " Then you will have to stand." " I won't stand this," says he, " I own The joke which you 've been drilling her; Here, take the seats and go alone ! " " Thanks I " says the millinger. That ere much-taken-down young man Stepped back into my car. We got fresh horses, off they ran ; He thought the distance far. And now she is my better half, And oft, when coo-and-billing her, I think about that chap and laugh : " Thanks ! " says my millinger. Fred W. Loring. tUttle ISiUee. There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, 12 134 PLAY-DAY POEMS. But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee ; Now when they 'd got as far as the Equator They 'd nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, " We 've nothing left, us must eat we." Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, " With one another we should n't agree ! There 's little Bill, he 's young and tender, We " Billy ! we 're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie. " First let me say my catechism Which my poor mother taught to me." " Make haste ! make haste ! " says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps — " There 's land I see ! " " Jerusalem and Madagascar And North and South Amerikee, There 's the British flasr a riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." TEE YARN OF TEE "NANCY BELL." 135 So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three. William Makepeace Thackeray. ftje ¥ant of tf)e "Kancg fceli," 'T was on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he ; And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key : " 0, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo' sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." And he shook his fists and tore his hair Till I really felt afraid, For I could n't help thinking the man had been drink- ing, And so I simply said : " elderly man, it 's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I '11 eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be " At once a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, 1 3 6 PL A Y-J) A Y P OEMS. And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig ! " Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen lam, And having got rid of a thumping quid He span this painful yarn : " 'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me. " And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul) ; And only ten of the Nancy's men Said ' Here ' to the muster-roll. " There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. " For a month we 'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and, accordin', shot The captain for our meal. " The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made ; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. THE YARN OF THE « NANCY BELL." 137 " Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, ' Which Of us two goes to the kettle ? ' arose, And we argued it out as sich. " For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshiped me ; But we 'd both be blowed if we 'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. " ' I '11 be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, ' you '11 be. I 'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And ' Exactly so,' quoth he. " Says he ' Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For do n't you see that you can't cook me, While I can — and will — cook you ? ' " So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too. " ' Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell ; ' 'T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you '11 smell.' "And he stirred it round, and round, and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth ; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I eat that cook in a week or less, And as I eating be 138 PLAY-DAY POEMS. The last of his chops, why I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see. " And I never larf , and I never smile, And I never lark nor play ; But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have — which is to say : " 0, I am a cook and a captain bold And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig! " William S. Gilbert. l&Sgmeof tf)el£atl. Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale, — Bless me ! this is pleasant, Riding on the Rail! Men of different stations In the eye of Fame Here are very quickly Coming to the same. High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level Traveling together. Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall ; BHYME OF THE BAIL. 139 Gentleman at large, Talking very small ; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien ; Gentleman in gray, Looking rather green. Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news; Gentleman in black, In a fit of blues ; Gentleman in claret, Sober as a vicar ; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor ! Stranger on the right, Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean ? Faith, he 's got the Knicker- Bocker Magazine ! Stranger on the left, Closing up his peepers ; Now he snores amain, Like the Seven Sleepers ; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From " Association " ! Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, 140 PLAY-DAY POEMS. That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks ! Roguish-looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, it 's his opinion She is out of danger ! Woman with her baby, Sitting vis-a-vis ; Baby keeps a squalling; Woman looks at me ; Asks about the distance, Says it 's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking ! Market-woman careful Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket ; Feeling that a smash, If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot Rather prematurely ! Singing through the forest, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale ; Bless me ! this is pleasant, Riding on the Rail ! John Godfrey Saxe. THE NEED Y KNIFE- GRINDER. \ \ \ Cfje iaertig ftntfe'^rtntier. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going ? Eough is the road; your wheel is out of order. Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't; So have your breeches! Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 't is crying all clay 'Knives and Scissors to grind ! ' Tell me, knife-grinder, uoav came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney ? Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit ? (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. KNIFE-GRINDER. Story ! Ood bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into ■ Custody ; they took me before the justice 12* 142 PL A Y-DAY P OEMS. Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to ven- geance — Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast! [Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transpoi t of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.'] George Canning. Gtuvener 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 Gruvener B. My ! ain't it terrible ? Wut shall we du ! We can't never choose him o' course, — thet 's flat : G-uess 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 Gruvener B. WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. , 143 G-ineral C. is a dreffle smart man : He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf ; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — He 's ben true to one party, — an' thet is himself; — So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote for 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 gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old ideas o' wut 's right an' wut ain't, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts wor n'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 oilers 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, f aw, f urn : 1 4 4 PL A Y-DAY P OEMS. An' that 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 did n't know every thin' down in Judee. Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow, — G-od 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 '11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! James Russell Lowell. Cje ©wise of t\\t jFlora. Last week I went to Barnegat, All on a shooting spree ; And I will take and eat my hat If 't was not jollity. The piping winds across the sky Full many a cloud did blow, The while we piped, my friends and I, A jollier cloud below. Though Barnegat boasts no great man Who paints, or speaks, or writes, THE CRUISE OF THE FLORA. 145 Whoever threads her channel can Descry some shining lights. And there we lay three days, I ween, Nor moved with sails or oars ; The only game that we had seen Was euchre, or all fours. But M T hen the sun, one morning, shone, Dispelling cold and cough, Good gracious ! how we all went on, And how our guns went off! The ducks and geese came flying round, And though they were no fools, A number fell upon the ground, 'T was said, between two stools. In Manahawkin swamp, we heard, That one, with gun or snare, Might capture bear ; but some averred The swamp was bare of bear. So hunting bear we did not go, Our sport was quantum suff ; And several tore their trousers so, They had bare-skin enough. We sailed 'twixt island shores of grass : The channel there is shoal : And as we bowled along the pass, We passed along the bowl. A wreck on shore outlived the gale, But sailors none were here, So when they wanted to make sale They got an auctioneer. 13 146 FLA Y-DAY POEMS. (These 'long-shore sales, as I suspect, Are humbug and a curse. The ship by breakers may be wrecked, But brokers are far worse.) For Tuckerton our sails we set, Some stores and things to buy ; And though we all got very wet, We all felt very dry. And if you want to take us down . . . Our looks, and what we wore . . . The people of that little town Can tell you something more. Our week was up; we headed toward Egg Harbor's bar of foam ; We were not free to go abroad, So w r e were bound for home. At Little Egg . . . the pass, you know . , The wind was blowing free; We doubted if 't was safe to go, But we went out to sea. 'T was growing cold, and dark, and late, We saw nor moon nor star ; Our skipper steered for one thing straight, The buoy behind the bar. All night our northward course we lay Till off the first Hook light, Where, as we hankered for the day, We anchored for the night. Next morn we rose betimes, and saw The billows wash and comb, TOPSIDE QALAH! 147 "While we went dirty as before, Until we reached our home. Thus closed our trip to Barnegat, 'T was finished up and done ; And I will take and eat my hat If 't was n't jolly fun. George Arnold. That nightee teem he come chop chop, One young man walkee, no can stop ; Colo makee, icee makee ; He got flag ; chop b'long welly culio, see — Topside Gralah! He too muchee folly ; one piecee eye Lookee sharp — so fashion — alia same mi; He talkee largee, talkee stlong, To muchee culio ; alia same gong — Topside Gralah ! Inside any housee he can see light ; Any piecee loom got fire all light ; He lookee see plenty ice more high ; Inside he mouf he plenty cly — Topside Gralah! " No can walkee ! " olo man speakee he ; "Bimeby lain come, no can see; Hab got water welly wide ! " Maskee, mi must go topside — Topside Gralah! "Man-man," one galo talkee he, " What for you go topside look see ? " 148 PLAT-DAY POEMS. " Nother teem," he makee plenty cly, Maskee, alia teem walkee plenty high — Topside G-alah! " Take care that spilum tlee, young man ; Take care that icee I " he no man-man That coolie. chin-chin he good-night; He talkee "mi can go all light" — Topside Galah ! Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin, Morning teem that Joss chin-chin, No see any man. he plenty fear, Cause some man talkee, he can hear — Topside G-alah! Young man makee die; one largee dog see Too muchee bobbery, findee he. Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop Alia same piecee flag, got culio chop — Topside G-alah! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Anonymous translation. % i&ccturnal £feetcj). Even is come ; and from the dark Park hark, The signal of the setting sun — one gun ! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain, — Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Den}ang to his frantic clutch much touch ; — Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span ; Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you. quiz his phiz. DRURY'S DIRGE. 149 Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung ; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pail-Mall Sal, "Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, And while they 're going, whisper low, — " No go ! " Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers waking, grumble — " Drat that cat ! " Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor G-eorgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; — But Nursemaid in a nightmare's rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears — what faith is man's ! — Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice ; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes ! Thomas Hood. BY LAURA MATILDA. Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing ; On Parnassus' summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing. 150 PL A T-DA Y P OEMS. Softly slept the dome of Drury O'er the empyreal crest, When Alecto's sister-fury Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest. Lo ! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire. Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness ; Mercy holds the veil to Truth. See Erostratus the second Fires again Diana's fane ; By the Fates from Orcus beckon' d, Clouds enveloped Drury Lane. Lurid smoke and frank suspicion Hand in hand reluctant dance : While the G-od fulfills his mission, Chivalry resign thy lance. Hark ! the engines blandly thunder, Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie, And the firemen, mute with wonder, On the son of Saturn cry. See the bird of Ammon sailing, Perches on the engine's peak, And, the Eagle firemen hailing, Soothes them with its bickering beak. Lost the prize that Paris gave : K K— CAN'T CALCULATE. 151 Jealousy's ensanguined chalice. Mantling pours the orient wave. Pan beheld Patroclus dying, Nox to Niobe was turn'd; From Busiris Bacchus flying, Saw his Semele inurn'd. Thus fell Drury's lofty glory, Levell'd with the shuddering stones ; Mars, with tresses black and gory, Drinks the dew of pearly groans. Hark ! what soft Eolian numbers Gem the blushes of the morn ! Break, Amphion, break your slumbers, Nature's ringlets deck the thorn. Ha ! I hear the strain erratic Dimly glance from pole to pole ; Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic Fire my everlasting souL Where is Cupid's crimson motion ? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow. Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart ; See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part ! Horace Smith. It. It— OTan't Calculate, What poor short-sighted worms we be ; For we can't calculate. 152 PLAY-DAY POEMS. "With any sort of sartintee, What is to be our fate. These words Prissilla's heart did reach, And caused her tears to flow, When first she heard the Elder preach, About six months ago. How true it is what he did state, And thus affected her, That nobody can't calculate What is a-gwine to occur. When we retire, can't calculate But what afore the morn Our housen will conflaggerate, And we be left forlorn. Can't calculate when we come in From any neighborin' place, Whether we '11 ever go out agin To look on natur's face. Can't calculate upon the weather, It always changes so ; Hain't got no means of telling whether It 's gwine to rain or snow. Can't calculate with no precision On naught beneath the sky ; And so I 've come to the decision That 't ain't worth while to try, Frances M. Whitcher. Hobers, atttJ a Inflection* In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean ; LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION. 153 Meaning, however, is no great matter), Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween; Through God's own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (0 love my love) : I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitter bats wavered alow, above : Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite,) And sands were a ribbon of green endowing And the sun-dazzle on bark and bight ! Through the rare red heather we danced together, (0 love my Willie !) and smelt for flowers : I must mention again it was gorgeous weather, Ehymes are so scarce in this world of ours : — By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green. We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes : Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds ; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky — They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds ! But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem : They need no parasols, no goloshes ; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. 13* 154 PLAY-DAT POEMS. Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather), That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms ; And snapt — (it was perfectly charming weather) - Our ringers at Fate and her goddess glooms : And Willy 'gan sing— (0, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea) — Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of " ancientry " : Bowers of flowers encounted showers In William's carol — (0 love my Willie !) Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow I quite forget what — say a daffodilly : A nest in a hollow, " with buds to follow," I think occurred next in his nimble strain, And clay was " kneaden" of course in Eden — A rhyme most novel, I do maintain : Mists, bones, the singer himself, love stories, And all the least furlable things got "furled " ; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with " world." if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted, or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out — ay me ! How much fewer volumes of verse there 'd be! Charles S. Calverley. ISUgg on a Jftafc Bog* Good people, all of every sort, Give ear unto my song ; ELEGY ON A MAD DOG. 155 And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye : And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied : The man recovered of the bite. The dog it was that died. Oliver Goldsmith. 156 PL A YD A Y P OEMS. ISlegg on tf)e <©lcrg of jer &ex, iHFlrs. iHarg ISlat>e. Good people all, with one accord Lament for Madame Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning ; And never followed wicked ways — Unless when she was sinning. With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew — But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has folloAved her — When she has walked before. But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all, The doctors found, when she was dead — Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament in sorrow sore, For Kent street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, She had not died to-day. Oliver Goldsmith. BALLAD. 157 ISaUa*. The auld wife sat at her ivied door (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), A thing she had frequently done before ; And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), Till the cow said " I die," and the goose asked " Why ? ' ; And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas. The farmer he strode through the square farm-yard (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; His last brew of ale was a trifle hard — The connection of which with the plot one sees. The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes (Butter and eggs and a 'pound of cheese) ; She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these. She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she did n't even sneeze. 14 158 PLA Y-DA T P OEMS. She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her best chemise. She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks {Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks ; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it 's what you please. Charles S. Calverlet. CJe Soctetj) upon tfje Stanteloto. I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James. I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games ; And I '11 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 ; THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLOW. 159 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 happened 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 palaeozoic 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 Thomp- son 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. Bret Harte. 1 60 PLA T-DA T POEMS. €f)e mixCH Mm an* tf)e IHlepjant It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl : " GTod bless me ! but the Elephant Is very like a wall ! " The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, " Ho ! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp ? To me 't is mighty clear This wonder of an elephant Is very like a spear ! " The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake : "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a snake ! " The Fourth reached out his eager hand, And felt about the knee. " What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain," quoth he ; " 'T is clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree ! " THE STA GE-DRIVER'S STOR Y. 161 The Fifth, who chanced to touch an ear, Said: "E'en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can. This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan ! " The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, ! I see," quoth he, " the Elephant Is very like a rope ! " And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong ! So oft in theologic wars, The disputants, I ween, Rail on in utter ignorance Of what each other mean, And prate about an Elephant Not one of them has seen ! John Godfrey Saxe. ^Tfje Stage^Enber's Jctotg. It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly necking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco; 162 PLAY-DAY POEMS. While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight, We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending. " Danger ! Sir, I believe you, — indeed, I may say on that subject, Y"ou your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager. [ have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you: 'T was only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon. " It was the G-eiger Grade, a mile and a half from the sum- mit: Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens. Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying Over the precipice side, — a thousand feet plumb to the bottom. " Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creaking, Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canon ; Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me, The off hind wheel of the coach just loosed from its axle, ' and following. " One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my rib- bons, Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle ; THE STAGE-DRIVERS STORY. 163 Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy, While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle thundered. " Speed was our only chance, and again came the ominous rattle : Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness. Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- tum, Upright, erect, and sustained on tivo wheels, the vehicle thundered. " As some huge bowlder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain, Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far- leaping, So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending. " But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level, Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my statement, A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be, We traveled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the sta- tion. " Then, sir, we sank in a heap : but picking myself from the ruins, I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the distance 164 PLAY-DAY POEMS. The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling, Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the station. " This is my story, sir : a trifle, indeed, I assure you. Much more, perchance, might be said; but I hold him, of all men, most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale — No, thank you — Well, since you are pressing, Perhaps I do n't care if I do : you may give me the same, Jim, — no sugar." Bret Harte. W$z perils of Jfobfetfcilttfi. Old Peter led a wretched life — Old Peter had a furious wife ; Old Peter too was truly stout, He measured several yards about The little fairy Picklekin One summer afternoon looked in, And said, " Old Peter, how de do ? Can I do anything for you ? " I have three gifts — the first will give Unbounded riches while you live ; The second, health where'er you be ; The third, invisibility." " little fairy Picklekin," Old Peter answered with a grin, " To hesitate would be absurd, — Undoubtedly I choose the third." THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY. 165 "'T is yours," the fairy said; "be quite Invisible to mortal sight Whene'er you please. Remember me Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P." Old Mrs. Peter overheard Wee Picklekin's concluding word, And jealous of her girlhood's choice, Said, " That was some young woman's voice ! " Old Peter let her scold and swear — Old Peter, bless him, did n't care. " My dear, your rage is wasted quite — Observe, I disappear from sight ! " A well-bred fairy (so I 've heard) Is always faithful to her word : Old Peter vanished like a shot, But then — Ms suit of clothes did not. For when conferred the fairy slim Invisibility on him, She popped away on fairy wings, Without referring to his "things." So there remained a coat of blue, A vest and double eye-glass too, His stock, his shoes, his socks as well, His pair of — no, I must not tell. Old Mrs. Peter soon began To see the failure of his plan, And then resolved (I quote the Bard) To " hoist him with his own petard." Old Peter woke next day and dressed, Put on his coat and shoes and vest, 14* 1 GG PLA Y-DA Y POEMS. His shirt and stock — but could not find His only pair of — never mind ! Old Peter was a decent man, And though he twigged his lady's plan, Yet, hearing her approaching, he Resumed invisibility. " Dear Mrs. P., my only joy," Exclaimed the horrified old boy ; l ' Now give them up, I beg of you — You know what I 'm referring to ! " But no ; the cross- old lady swore She 'd keep his — what I said before — To make him publicly absurd ; And Mrs. Peter kept her word. The poor old fellow had no rest; His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest, Were all that now met mortal eye — The rest, invisibility ! " Now, madam, give them up, I beg — I 've bad rheumatics in my leg ; Besides, until you do, it 's plain I cannot come to sight again ! " For though some mirth it might afford To see my clothes without their lord, Yet there would rise indignant oaths If he were seen without his clothes ! " But no ; resolved to have her quiz, The lady held her own — and his — And Peter left his humble cot To find a pair of — you know what. CHIQU1TA. ID! But — here 's the worst of this affair — Whene'er he came across a pair Already placed for him to don, He was too stout to get them on ! So he resolved at once to train, And walked and walked with all his main ; For years he paced this mortal earth, To bring himself to decent girth. At night when all around is still, You '11 find him pounding up a hill ; And shrieking peasants whom he meets, Fall down in terror on the peats. Old Peter walks through wind and rain, Resolved to train, and train, and train, Until he weighs twelve stone or so — And when he does I '11 let you know. William S. Gilbert. (Kijtqtutta. Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her match in the country. Is thar, old gal ? Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ! Feel of that neck, sir — thar 's velvet ! Whoa ! Steady — ah, will you. you vixen! Whoa ! I say, Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look at her paces. Morgan ! — She ain't nothin' else, and I 've got the papers to prove it. Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her. 168 PLAY-DAT POEMS. Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne ? — Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco. Hed n't no savey — hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that '11 do — quit that foolin' ! Nothin' to what she kin do, when she "s got her work cut out before her. Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys ; And 't ain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him. Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flannigan's leaders ? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water ! Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge, and his nevey, Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us ; Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake creek just a bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevy, Chiquita ; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the canon. Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat and a-driftin' to thunder! THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. \ G9 Would ye b'lieve it, that night, that hoss — that ar' filly— Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping ! Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork — that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita. That 's what I call a hoss! and — what did you say? — Oh, the nevey ? Drowned, I reckon — leastways, he never kem back to deny it. Ye see the derned fool had no seat — ye could n't have made him a rider ; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses — well, hosses is hosses ! Bret Harte. Cfje Stetfjogcope Song. There was a young man in Boston town, He bought him a Stethoscope nice and new, All mounted and finished and polished down, With an ivory cap and stopper too. It happened a spider within did crawl, And spun a web of ample size, Wherein there chanced one day to fall A couple of very imprudent flies. The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue, The second was smaller, and thin and long ; So there was a concert between the two, Like an octave flute and a tavern gong. Now being from Paris but recently, This fine young man would show his skill ; And so they gave him, his hand to try, A hospital patient extremely ill. 15 I V PLA YD A Y POEMS. Some said that his liver was short of bile, And some that his heart was over size, While some kept arguing all the while He was crammed with tubercles up to his eyes. This fine young man then up stepped he, And all the doctors made a pause ; Said he, — The man must die, you see, By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws. But since the case is a desperate one, To explore his chest it may be well ; For if he should die and it were not done, You know the autopsy would not tell. Then out his stethoscope he took. And on it placed his curious ear; Mon Dieu ! said he, with a knowing look, Why here is a sound that 's mighty queer ! The bourdonnement is very clear, Amphoric buzzing, as I 'm alive ! Five doctors took their turn to hear ; Amphoric buzzing, said all the five. There 's empyema beyond a doubt ; We '11 plunge a trocar in his side. — The diagnosis was made out, They tapped the patient ; so he died. Now such as hate new-fashioned toys Began to look extremely glum ; They said that rattles were made for boys, And vowed that his buzzing was all a hum. There was an old lady had long been sick, And what was the matter none did know: THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. 171 Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick : To her this knowing youth must go. So there the nice old lady sat, With phials and boxes all in a row ; She asked the young doctor what he was at, To thump her and tumble her ruffles so. Now, when the stethoscope came out, The flies began to buzz and whiz ; — ho ! the matter is clear, no doubt ; An aneurism there plainly is. The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie And the bruit de diable are all combined; How happy Bouillaud would be, If he a case like this could find ! Now, when the neighboring doctors found A case so rare had been descried, They every day her ribs did pound In squads of twenty ; so she died. Then six young damsels, slight and frail, Received this kind young doctor's cares ; They all were getting slim and pale, And short of breath on mounting stairs. They all made rhymes with " sighs " and " skies," And loathed their puddings and buttered rolls, And dieted, much to their friends' surprise, On pickles and pencils and chalk and coals. So fast their little hearts did bound, The frightened insects buzzed the more ; So over all their chests he found The rale sifflant, and rale sonore. 172 PL A T-DA T P OEMS. He shook his head; — there 's grave disease, — I greatly fear you all .must die ; A slight post-mortem, if you please, Surviving friends would gratify. The six young damsels wept aloud, Which so prevailed on six young men, That each his honest love avowed, Whereat they all got well again. The poor young man was all aghast ; The price of stethoscopes came down ; And so he was reduced at last To practice in a country town. The doctors being very sore, A stethoscope they did devise, That had a rammer to clear the bore, With a knob at the end to kill the flies. Now use your ears, all you that can, But don't forget to mind your eyes, Or you may be cheated, like this young man, By a couple of silly, abnormal flies. Oliver Wendell Holmes. $e Uage of j)e fcSiocrtjpecfcote. PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. whither goest thou, pale student, Into the woods so fur ? Art on the chokesome cherry bent ? Dost seek the chestnut burr ? pale student. it is not for the mellow chestnut, That I so far am come, YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORK 173 Nor yet for puckery cherries, t)ut For Cypripedium. A blossom hangs the choke-cherry, And eke the chestnut burr, And thou a silly fowl must be, Thou red-head wood-pecker. PICDS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. Turn back, turn back, thou pale student, Nor in the forest go ; There lurks beneath his bosky tent, The deadly mosquito, And there the wooden-chuck doth tread, And from the oak-tree's top The red, red squirrels on thy head, The frequent acorn drop. PALE STUDENT. The wooden-chuck is next of kin Unto the wood-pecker : I fear not thy ill-boding din, And why should I fear her ? What though a score of acorns drop, And squirrels' fur be red ! 'T is not so ruddy as thy top — So scarlet as thy head. rarely blooms the Cypripe- Dium upon its stalk ; And like a torch it shines to me Adown the dark wood-walk. joy to pluck it from the ground, To view the purple sac, 1 7 4 PLA Y-DA Y POEMS. To touch the sessile stigma's round — And shall I then turn back ? PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. black and shining is the bog That feeds the sumptuous weed, Nor stone is found nor bedded log Where foot may well proceed. . Midmost it glimmers in the mire, Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark, Lighting with phosphorescent fire The green umbrageous dark. There while thy thirsty glances drink The fair and baneful plant, Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink, And eke thine either pant. PALE STUDENT. G-ive o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peckore ; The bark upon the tree Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore, But peck and bore not me. Full two long hours I 've searched about, And 't would in sooth be rum, If I should now go back without The Cypripedium. PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. Farewell! farewell! But this I tell To thee, thou pale student, Ere dews have fell, thou 'It rue it well, That woodward thou didst went : YE LATE OF YE WOODPECKOUE. 175 Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose And wip'st the pensive eye — There where the sad Symplocarpus fcetidus grows, Then think— think of I ! Loud flouted there that student wight Swich warnynge for to hear : — : I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might, And eke thy ill grammere. Go peck the lice (or green or red) That swarm the bass-wood tree, But wag no more thine addled head, Nor clack thy tongue at me." The wood-peck turned to whet her beak, The student heard her drum, As through the wood he went to seek The Cypripedium. Alas! and for that pale student The evening bell did ring, And down the walk the Freshmen went, Unto the prayer-meeting. Upon the fence loud rose the song, The weak, weak tea was o'er — Ha ! who is he that sneaks along Into South Middle's door ? The mud was on his shoon, and ! The briar was in his thumb, His staff was in his hand, but no — No Cypripedium. Henry A. Bkers. 176 PL A YD AY P OEMS. Co tije Cootfjacje. My curse upon thy venom' d stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance ; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! When fever burns or ague freezes, Eheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes, Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan ; But thee, thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan ! Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup ; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. 0' a' the num'rous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see ! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a' ; A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOB. BOW-LEGS. 177 thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ; — Grie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache ! Eobert Burns. & Sailor's &polcgg foe Boto-Uegs. There 's some is born with their straight legs by natur — And some is born with bow-legs from the first — And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, But they were badly nurs'd, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs Astride of casks and kegs : I 've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs. 'T was all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip ; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship, I sees the mail GTet under sail, The only one there was to make the trip. Well — I gives chase, But as she run Two knots to one, There war n't no use in keeping on the race ! Well — casting round about, what next to try on, And how to spin, 15* 178 PLAY-DAY POEMS. I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn, Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable : "Well — there they stand, four kickers in a row, And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding is n't in a seaman's natur — So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter, To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn ! My eyes ! how she did pitch ! And would n't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, But always making lee-way to the ditch, And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. The devil sink the craft I And was n't she trimendous slack in stays ! We could n't no how, keep the inn abaft. "Well — I suppose We had n't run a knot — or much beyond — ( What will you have on it ? ) — but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond ! There I am ! — all a-back ! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears. To heave her head round on the t' other tack ; But when I starts, The leather parts. And goes away right over by the ears ! "What could a fellow do, Whose legs like mine, you know, were in the bilboes. A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 179 But trim myself upright for bringing to, And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water ? I did n't like my berth tho', howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter, — Says I — I wish this job was rather shorter ! The chase had gain'd a mile Ahead, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking : Now, all the while Her body did n't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she 's letting out her reefs, I 'm thinking — And so she swell'd, and swell'd, And yet the tackle held, Till both my legs began to bend like winking. My eyes! but she took in enough to founder! And there 's my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder ! Well, there — off Hartford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, And can't contrive a signal of distress ; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho' sick of riding out — and nothing less ; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn : Hollo ! says I, come underneath her quarter ! — And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road, And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I '11 be blow'd ! — And that 's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd ! Thomas Hood. 180 PLAY-DAY POEMS. ISanteg Runtime. One night came on a hurricane, the sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turn'd his quid, and said to Billy Bowling : A strong sou'wester 's blowing, Bill, can't you hear it roar now ? God help 'em, how I pities all unhappy folks ashore, now. Fool-hardy chaps as lives in towns, wlaat danger they are all in! And now they 're quaking in their beds for fear the roof should fall in. Poor creatures, how they envies us, and wishes, I 've a no- tion, For our good luck in such a storm to be upon the ocean. Then as to them kept out all day on bus'ness from their houses, And, late at night, are walking home to cheer their babes and spouses, While you and I upon the deck are comfortably lying, My eye, what tiles and chimbley-pots about their heads are flying ! And often have we seamen heard how men are killed and undone By overturns in carriages, and thieves, and fires, in London ; We 've heard what risks all landsmen run, from noblemen to tailors, So Bill, let us thank Providence that } r ou and I are sailors. William Pitt, R.X. " Come, collar this bad man — Around the throat he knotted me PHRENOLOGY. 181 Till I to choke began — In point of fact, gar ro ted me ! " So spake Sir Herbert White To James, Policeman thirty-two — All ruffled with his fight Sir Herbert was, and dirty too. Policeman nothing said (Though he had much to say on it), But from the bad man's head He took the cap that lay on it. " No, great Sir Herbert White — Impossible to take him up. This man' is honest quite — Wherever did you rake him up ? " For Burglars, Thieves, and Co., Indeed I 'm no apologist, But I, some years ago, Assisted a Phrenologist. " Observe his various bumps, His head as I uncover it ; His morals lie in lumps All round about and over it." " Now take him," said Sir White, " Or you will soon be rueing it ; Bless me 1 I must be right, — I caught the fellow doing it ! " . Policeman calmly smiled, " Indeed you are mistaken, sir, You 're agitated — riled — And very badly shaken, sir. 1G 182 PLAY-DAY POEMS. " Sit down, and I '11 explain My system of Phrenology, A second, please, remain " — (A second is horology). Policeman left his beat-*- (The Bart., no longer fnrions, Sat down upon a seat, Observing, " This is curious ! ") " Oh, surely, here are signs Should soften your rigidity, This gentleman combines Politeness with timidity. " Of shyness here 's a lump — A hole for animosity — And like my fist his bump Of impecuniosity. "Oust here the bump appears Of Innocent Hilarity, And just behind his ears Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity. " He of true Christian ways As bright example sent us is — This maxim he obeys, ' Sorte tua contentus sis.' " There, let him go his ways, He needs no stern admonishing." The Bart., in blank amaze, Exclaimed, " This is astonishing ! " I must have made a mull, This mat.er I 've been blind in it: THE TREADMILL SONG. 183 Examine, please, my skull, And tell me what you find in it," That Crusher looked, and said With unimpaired urbanity, "Sir Herbert, you 've a head That teems with inhumanity. " Here 's Murder, Envy, Strife, (Propensitjr to kill any) And Lies as large as life, And heaps of Social Villainy. " Here 's Love of Bran New Clothes, Embezzling — Arson — Deism — A taste for Slang and Oaths, And Fraudulent Trusteeism. " Here 's Love of Groundless Charge — Here 's Malice, too, and Trickery, Unusually large Your bump of Pocket-Pickery." "Stop! " said the Bart., "my cup Is full — I 'm worse than him in all — > Policeman take me up — No doubt I am the criminal ! " That Pleeceman's scorn grew large (Phrenology had nettled it), He took that Bart, in charge — I don't know how they settled it. William S. G-ilbkrt. Cf)e CreatimiU £ong. The stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, 1 84 PL A T-DA Y P OEMS. And we can feel the rattling wheel Revolving as we go. Then tread away, my gallant boys, And make the axle fly ; Why should not wheels go round about, Like planets in the sky ? Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man, And stir your solid pegs ! Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, And shake your spider legs ; What though you 're awkward at the trade, There 's time enough to learn, — So lean upon the rail, my lad, And take another turn. They 've built, us up a noble wall, To keep the vulgar out ; We 've nothing in the world to do, But just to walk about ; So faster, now, you middle men, And try to beat the ends, — It 's pleasant work to ramble round Among one's honest friends. Here, tread upon the long man's toes, He sha' n't be lazy here, — And punch the little fellow's ribs, And tweak that lubber's ear, — He 's lost them both, — don't pull his hair, Because he wears a scratch, But poke him in the further eye, That is n't in the patch. Hark ! fellows, there 's the supper-bell, And so our work is done ; A VIRTUOSO. 185 It 's pretty sport, — suppose we take A round or two for fun ! If ever they should turn me out, When I have better grown, Now hang me, but I mean to have A treadmill of my own ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. & Uittuoso. Be seated, pray. " A grave appeal " ? The sufferers by the war, of course. Ah, what a sight for us who feel — This monstrous melodrame of Force ! We, sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls ; — Collections shattered at a blow. Museums turned to hospitals ! " And worse," you say ; " the wide distress ! " Alas ! 't is true distress exists ; Though, let me add, our worthy Press Have no mean skill as colorists. Speaking of color, next your seat There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand — Some Moscow fancy, incomplete, Yet not indifferently planned. Note specially the gray old guard, Who tears his tattered coat to wrap A closer bandage round the scarred And frozen comrade in his lap. But, as regards the present war — Now don't you think our pride of pence Goes — may I say it ? somewhat far For objects of benevolence ? 18G PLAY-DAY POEMS. You hesitate. For my part, I — Though ranking Paris next to Rome, ^Esthetically, — still reply That charity begins at home. The words remind me. Did you catch My so-named Hunt ? The girl 's a gem ; And look how those lean rascals snatch The pile of scraps she brings to them. " But 3*our appeal 's for home."' you say. •' For home and English poor." Indeed! I thought Philanthropy to-day- Was blind to mere domestic need, However sore. Yet, though one grants That home should have the foremost claims, At least these continental wants Assume intelligible names ; While here with us — ah! who could hope To verify the varied pleas, Or from his private means to cope With all our shrill necessities ? Impossible ! One might as well " Attempt comparison of creeds, Or fill that huge Malayan shell With these half-dozen Indian beads. Moreover, add that every one So well exalts his pet distress. 'T is, Give to all or give to none, If you 'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A's ; The same applies to B's and C's ; By my selection I should raise An alphabet of rivalries. OWD PJXDE1L 18' And life is short, — I see you look At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; You '11 find it etched in Jacquemart's book ; They say that Raphael painted it, — And life is short, you understand ; So, if I only hold you out An open though an empty hand, Why, you 'd forgive me, I 've no doubt. Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ; One can but be consistent, sir. 'T was on these grounds I just refused Some gushing lady-almoner, — Believe me, on these very grounds. Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity ! That cost ine quite three hundred pounds, That Diirer figure, '' Charity." Austin Dob son. LANCASHIRE DTALECT Owd Pinder were a rackless foo, An' spent his days i' spreein', At th' end of every drinkin'-do He 're sure to crack; o' deein' — " G-o, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon Aw 's never live to trail 'em ; My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune, An' th' wynt begins to fail 'em ! " Eawr Matty 's very fresh an' yung- 'T would ony mon bewilder ; Hoo '11 wed again afore it 's lung, For th' lass is fond o' childer ; 188 PL A YDAY P OEMS. My bit o' brass '11 fly, yo'n see, When th' coffin-lid has screened me; It gwos again my pluck to dee, An' lev her wick beheend me. " Come, Matty, come an' cool my yed, Aw 'm finished, to my thinkin'. " Hoo happed him nicely up, an' said, " Thae 's brought it on wi' drinkin'." "Nay, nay," said he, " my fuddle 's done; We 're partin' t' one fro' t' other ; So promise me that when aw 'm gwon, Thea '11 never wed another." " Th' owd tale," said hoo, an' laft her stoo, "It 's ray ley past believin' ; Thee think o' th' world thea 'rt goin' to, An' leave this world to th' livin'. What use to me can deead folk be ? Thae 's kilt thisel' wi' spreein' ; An iv that 's o' thae wants wi' me, Get forrud wi' thi deein' ! " He scrat his yed, he rubbed his e'e, An' then he donned his breeches; "Eawr Matty gets as fause," said he, " As one o' Pendle witches ; Iv ever aw 'm to muster wit, It mun be now or never ; Aw think aw '11 try to live a bit, It would n't do to lev her! " Edwin Waugh. Men dying make their wills ; but wives Escape a work so sad. Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had ? John Godfrey Saxe. A DTJIGE. 189 & Dirge. CONCERNING THE LATE LAMENTED KING OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS. And so our royal relative is dead ! And so he rests from gustatory labors ! The white man was his choice, but when he fed He 'd sometimes entertain his tawny neighbors. He worshiped, as he said, his " Fe-fo-fum," The goddess of the epigastrium. And missionaries graced his festive board, Solemn and succulent, in twos and dozens, And smoked before their hospitable lord, Welcome as if they 'd been his second cousins. When cold, he warmed them as he would his kin — They came as strangers, and he took them in. And generous ! — oh, was n't he ? I have known him Exhibit a celestial amiability : — He 'd eat an enemy, and then would own him Of flavor excellent, despite hostility. The cruelest captain of the Turkish navy He buried in an honorable grav — y. He had a hundred wives. To make things pleasant They found it quite judicious to adore him ; — And when he dined, the nymphs were always present — Sometimes beside him and sometimes — before him. When he was tired of one, he called her "sweet," And told her she was "good enough to eat." He was a man of taste — and justice, too ; He oped his mouth for e'en the humblest sinner, And three weeks stall-fed an emaciate Jew Before they brought him to the royal dinner. , 16* 1 90 PLA Y-DA Y POEMS. With preacher-men he shared his board and wallet And let them nightly occupy his palate ! We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses ; Good food exalts us like an inspiration, And missionary on the menu blesses And elevates the Feejee population. A people who for years, saints, bairns, and women ate Must soon their vilest qualities eliminate. But the deceased could never hold a candle To those prim, pale-faced people of propriety Who gloat o'er gossip and get fat on scandal — The cannibals of civilized society ; They drink the blood of brothers with their rations, And crunch the bones of living reputations. They kill the soul; he only claimed the dwelling. They take the sharpened scalpel of surmises And cleave the sinews when the heart is swelling, And slaughter Fame and Honor for their prizes. They make the spirit in the body quiver ; They quench the Light ! He only took the — Liver ! I 've known some hardened customers, I wot, A few tough fellows — pagans beyond question — I wish had got into his dinner-pot ; Although I 'm certain they 'd defy digestion, And break his jaw, and ruin his esophagus, Were he the chief of beings anthropophagous ! How fond he was of children ! To his breast The tenderest nurslings gained a free admission. Rank he despised, nor, if they came well dressed, Cared if they were plebeian or patrician. Shade of Leigh Hunt! Oh, guide this laggard pen To write of one who loved his fellow men ! . William A. Crofkut. A THRENODY. 101 The Akhoond of Swat is dead.— London Papers of January 23, 1878. What, what, what, What 's the news from Swat ? Sad news, Bad news Cometh by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- iterranean — he 's dead — The Akhoond is dead! For the Akhoond I mourn. Who would n't ? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Akhoond 't. Dead, dead, dead ; (Sorrow, Swats ! ) Swats wha hae wi' Akhoond bled, Swats wham he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, — Sorrow, Swats ! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Akhoond is dead ! That 's Swat 's the matter ! Mourn city of Swat, Your great Akhoond is not, But laid 'mid worms to rot, — His mortal part alone, his soul was caught 192 PLAY-DAY POEMS. (Because lie was a good Akhoond !) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And skeptics mock the lowly mound And say " He 's now of no Akhoond! " His soul is in the skies — The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat, He sees, with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries — He knows what 's Swat. Let Swat bury the great Akhoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation ! Let Swat bury the great Akhoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattisli nation ! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned, Dead lies the great Akhoond, The great Akhoond of Swat Is not ! GrEORGE T. LaXIGAN. destination. BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR. In cadent ire the solar splendor flames ; The f oles, 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. NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE. 193 Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine ! To me alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum, — No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue ! Me wretched ! Let me curr to quercine shades I Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids ! 0, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,— Depart, — be off, — excede, — evade, — erump ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. i&metg-iRme tit tfje ifcjatfe, for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers ! for an iceberg or two at control ! for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers ! for a pleasure-trip up to the pole ! for a little one-story thermometer, With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row ! for a big double-barreled hygrometer, To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow ! that this cold world were twenty times colder I (That 's irony red-hot it seemeth to me) ; for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder ! what a comfort an ague would be ! for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven, Scooped in the rock under cataract vast I for a winter of discontent even ! for wet blankets judiciously cast ! 17 194 PL A T-DAY P OEMS. for a soda-fount spouting up boldly From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky ! for proud maiden to look on me coldly, Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye ! Then for a draught from a cup of cold pizen, And for a resting-place in the cold grave ! With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies on And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave. Eossiter Johnson. Ztxo in tfje Sun. As rail-tracks shorten in the cold, By nature's great metallic law, So shrinks the man of iron mould, When these rude winds their weapons draw These " eager airs " of icy breath, Whose myriad poniards, piercing, chilling, Seem dealing back a vengeful death, For cuts of that proverbial shilling. The fuel-vendors thank their stars That Lehigh higher yet must go ; And babies cuddle close to Mars, Because the Mercury is low ; And Sunday at the twilight hour, Once lit by tinder flames of Venus, My flame bewails, with visage sour, The coldness that has come between us. I 'd fly to her, I 'd break the ice By axing like an honest man ; But breaking ice is not so nice When it means, Fanny, be my Fan ! ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. 195 When ghosts of frozen smiles benumb The loving lips that shiver bluely ; And when the cool reply may come : " Ask pa," and pa is Mr. Cooley. I '11 don my double-worsted hose ; I '11 pile the grate with embers bright ; I '11 read my Burns, and toast my toes, And sing the songs the skalds indite ; Or hie me to some fur-rin shore — Fire Island, or a land of geysers, Or Hottentots, or hellebore — To check my chattering incisors : Drink ginger-tea as pudding thick, Compounded in a red-hot can, Stirred with a fire-wood toddy-stick, And ladled with a warming-pan — Unless some friendly foe, instead, Will hold me over Etna's crater, Heap coals of fire upon my head, And drop me like a hot potater. Eossiter Johnson. <©fie for a Social fflltttinq. WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER. Come ! fill a fresh bumper, — for why should we go logwood While the nectar still reddens our cups as they flow ? decoction Pour out the rioh juicc c still bright with the sun, dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run. half-ripened apples The purple ' globed cluotCF g their life-dews have bled ; taste sugar of lead How sweet is the bpooth of the fc -fc granco - feoj - ckod I PLAY-DAY POEMS. rank poisons wines For summer's lac - u rooeo lie hid in the stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by maidsria who laughed through the scowl bowl scoff sneer Then a smilo , and a gl s Gci , and a toaet , and a ohcor , strychnine and whisky, and ratsbane and beer For y.U the good ".vIao, and t i g 'yc oomo of it horo! In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all ! Long liro tho gay ocrrant that laughj for uo all ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. W$z IStiitor'js SHootng. We love thee, Ann Maria Smith, And in thy condescension, We see a future full of joys Too numerous to mention. There 's Cupid's arrow in thy glance, That by thy love's coercion Has reached our melting heart of hearts, And asked for one insertion. With joy we feel the blissful smart, And ere our passion ranges, We«freely place thy love upon The list of our exchanges. There 's music in thy lowest tone, And silver in thy laughter : And truth — but we will give the full Particulars hereafter. Oh ! we could tell thee of our plans All obstacles to scatter : INVOCATION TO SPRING. 197 But we are full just now, and have A press of other matter. Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths, Without more hesitation ; The very thought doth give our blood A larger circulation ! Robert H. Newell. JEnbocatum to Sptmg, BY A LAWYER. Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of Spring ! The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those said flowers. The birds aforesaid — happy pairs — Love, 'mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines In freehold nests ; themselves, their heirs, Administrators, and assigns. busiest term of Cupid's Court, Where tender plaintiffs actions bring, Season of frolic and of sport, Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring! H. P. H. Brownell. 198 PL A Y-DA Y P OEMS. <£bem'ng. BY A TAILOR. Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe ! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments. Is that a swan that rides upon the water ? no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. 1 well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a goose ; I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Winch chronicles the hour of young ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors j THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD WITH HIS SON. 199 They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir-loom From some remoter tailor of our race. It happened I did s^e it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me, — 0, most fearfully ! It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom ; — I can feel With all around me ; — I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle, — and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 2H)e Schoolmaster Efiroa* tot'tl) fjte Son, what harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward ! this wide-stretching wold (Look out wold) with, its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple, and gold ! Look well at it — also look sharp, it Is getting so cold. The purple is heather (erica) ; The yellow, gorse — called sometimes " whin." 200 PLAY-DAY POEMS. Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin. You would n't ? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion — and then, look behind you At yon barley-ears ! Don't they look brave As they undulate ? — (undulate, mind you, From unda, a wave.) The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here — (on account of our height) ! And this hillock itself — who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light ? Is it not — (never, Eddy, say " ain't it ") — A marvellous sight ? Then yon desolate eerie morasses, The haunts of the snipe and the hern (I shall question the two upper classes On aquatiles when we return) — Why, I see on them absolute masses Oiftlix or fern. How it interests e'en a beginner (Or tyro) like dear little JSTed ! Is he listening? As I am a sinner He 's asleep — he is wagging his head. Wake up ! I '11 go home to my dinner, And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie ; The splendor of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary ; The mighty pine-forests which shake TO A PRETTY SCHOOL-MA'AM. 201 In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake ; And this wold with its heathery garment — Are themes undeniably great. But — although there is not any harm in 't — It 's perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight. Charles S. Calverley. Co a Irettg Scjooklfta'am, If only fate would grant, thus late, the one thing I be- seech 'er — That I might go to school again, and have you for my teacher — I 'd pick up more of solid lore before a week was ended Than ever yet I 've chanced to get at all the schools I 've 'tended. I would n't ask again to bask in childhood's sunlight brisker — I 'd take my seat just as I am, with coat-tail and with whisker, And every rule laid down in school should have my strict alliance, I 'd fairly live on wisdom's bread, and drink of naught but science ! The irksome path which learning hath would turn to one of pleasure, And every musty " ology " become a precious treasure ; With porous mind, intent to find the truth of your instruc- tion, I 'd grow a sort of learned sponge — a philosophic suction ! 17* 202 PLAY-DAY POEMS. Astronomy would have for me a charm before unheeded, When neither chart nor telescope would ever once be needed ; I 'd never pore long hours o'er a problem wrong to right it, For I would make your face the sky, your eyes the stars that light it. From botany I 'd quickly cull the very germ and essence, And learn to tell the panicle or spadix inflorescence. Ah, little need I 'd have indeed of what the book deposes ; I 'd take your cheeks for specimens and analyze their roses. Conchology would no more be a science dull and prosy ; I 'd catch a sight of small teeth white between lips ripe and rosy, And then for bivalves I would crave, and wonder late and early If ever in a mollusk yet were hidden pearls so pearly. And as for ornithology — the cuckoo, C. canorus, Might chirp away the livelong day, I should n't heed his chorus; Your voice would be enough for me, and with its music ringing I 'd cease to think the bobolink knew anything of singing. Mythology would cease to be an antiquated fable, When I could turn, and there discern a Hebe at the table. Things pakeontological would live beneath your teaching — I 'd even take theology, if you would do the preaching. And thus together while we trod through learning's tan- gled mazes, And caught a peep at science deep amid its countless phases, We 'd learn at last by physic's laws, most rigidly enacted, How very natural it is that bodies are attracted ! Marc E. Cook. THE PUGILIST TO HIS SWEETHEART. 203 Cfje pugilist to i)te Stoeetfjeatt Molly, thy capacious mug Is one broad belt of smiles ; And for thy dexter mauley Come suitors many miles ; The mantling claret in thy cheek Unsteadies all our pins, But brilliant will thy skylights shine For him the stake who wins. Yet what can this avail me, If I must vainly sing — Dear Moll, put on the gloves with me, And come into the ring ? The mouse within thy hair is matched By one beneath my eye ; And thy waterfall befits a mill That 's fed with ancient rye. There 's power unmeasured stored in what The vulgar call a fist ; And fame and honor wait on him Who takes the golden grist. You see, Moll, I mean business ; And it would be just the thing, If you 'd put on the gloves with me And come into the ring. gentle Moll, incline thy flap For one more round of rhyme : Unclose thy sweet potato-trap, When the parson calls to time ; And when it 's done don't faint away, Or weakly holler 'Nough ! If you get your neck in chancery, 'T will only wear a rough. 204 PLAY-DAY POEMS. And I shall be as happy As Heenan or a king, When you 've put on the gloves with me And come into the ring. Anonymous. a ISalla* of WMam. lady wake ! — the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away ; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday. The early beam of rosy night The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake ! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free ; Till the creation I am thine. To some rich desert fly with me. Anonymous Co a Ifttcf) goung Eaiig, BY A MERCENARY LOVER. Maiden with the raven locks, And the fringed eyes so brown. If thy father hath " the rocks." Need thy heart be kindred stone ? If so, speak ! or by a frown Let the dismal fact be known. LOVE'S MO ODS AND TENSES. 2 5 Maiden with the swelling bust, Where the heart I covet lies, If thy father hath " the dust," Do not, by your many wiles, Seek to throw it in my eyes, Blinding hopes and quenching smiles. Thy father's fields I know are broad, Whilst my own are " gone to grass." By rogues from every rood outlawed, My heart 's the only acher left ; And now I see by you, a lass ! Of even that I '11 soon be reft. If thy father hath " the soap," Do not wash your hands of me. Make it mine, and then I hope To scour the country o'er and o'er, And keep my reputation free From all the stains it ever wore. Secured, like thieves, in public stocks, Maiden, what a life we '11 lead, With that "soap," that "dust," those "rocks" ! Oh, hear my prayer, as down I kneel ! Give me the hand I so much need, And I '11 be true to thee as steel. Michael O'Connor. tube's Jftoobs attfc Censes. Sally Salter, she was a young teacher who taught. And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught ! Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught. 16 206 PLAY-DAY POEMS. His heart when he saw her kept sinking, and sunk, And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk ; While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk. He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, And what he was longing to do then he doed. In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke ; So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke. He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode, They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode, And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode. Then homeward he said let us drive and they drove, And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove ; For whatever he could n't contrive, she controve. The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole : At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole, And he said " I feel better than ever I fole." So they to each other kept clinging, and clung, While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung : And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung: The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught — That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught — Was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she scraught. And Charley's warm love began freezing, and froze, While he took to teazing, and cruelly toze The girl he had wished to be squeezing, and squoze. PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. 207 " Wretch ! " he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left, " How could you deceive me, as you have deceft? " And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I 've cleft! " Anonymous. latog maWs IScfjo, In the gap of Dunlo There 's an echo, or so, And some of them echoes is very surprisin' ; You '11 think, in a stave That I mane to desaive, For a ballad 's a thing you expect to find lies in. But visible thrue In that hill forninst you There 's an echo as plain and as safe as the Bank, too ; But civilly spake " How d' ye do, Paddy Blake ? " The echo politely says, " Very well, thank you ! " One day Teddy Keogh With Kate Conner did go To hear from the echo such wondherful talk, sir; But the echo, they say, Was conthrairy that day, Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir. So Ted says to Kate, " 'T is too hard to be bate By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy, But if we both shout At each other, no doubt, We '11 make up an echo between us, my daisy ! " " Now, Kitty," says Teddy, " To answer be ready." 208 PLAY-DAY POEMS. "Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty then, sir; " Would yo u like to wed, Kitty darlin' ? " says Ted. " Oh, very well, thank you," says Kitty again, sir. " D' ye like me f " says Teddy ; And Kitty, quite ready, Cried, "Yery well, thank you! " with laughter beguiling Now won't you confess, Teddy could not do less Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling ? Oh, dear Paddy Blake, May you never forsake Those hills that return us such echoes endearing : And, girls, all translate The sweet echoes like Kate, No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing. And, boys, be you ready, Like frolicsome Teddy, Be earnest in loving, though given to joking ; And, when thus inclined, May all true lovers find Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they 're invoking. Samuel Lover. Babette she was a fisher gal, With jupon striped and cap in crimps, She passed her days inside the Halle, Or collaring of little shrimps. Yet she was sweet as flowers in May, With no professional bouquet. Jacot was, of the customs bold, An officer, at gay Boulogne, BABETTE' S LOVE 209 He loved Babette — his love he told And sighed, " Oh, soyez vous my own ! " But "JSTon! " said she, "Jacot, my pet, Yous etes trop scraggy pour Babette. " Of one alone I nightly dream, An able mariner is he, And gayly serves the G-en'ral Steam- Boat Navigation Companee, I '11 marry him, if he but will — His name, I rather think, is Bill. " I see him when he 's not aware, Upon our hospitable coast, Reclining with an easy air, Upon the port against a post, A thinking of, I '11 dare to say, His native Chelsea far away ! " Oh, mon! " exclaimed the Customs bold, " Mes yeux ! " he said, which means, " my eye," " Oh, chere ! " he also cried, I 'm told, " Par jove," he added, with a sigh. " Oh, mon ! oh, chere ! mes yeux ! par jove ! Je n'aime pas cet enticing cove ! " The Panther's captain stood hard by, He was a man of morals strict ; If e'er a sailor winked his eye, Straightway he had that sailor licked Mast-headed all (such was his code) Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or bio wed. He wept to think a tar of his Should lean so gracefully on posts, He sighed and sobbed to think of this, On foreign, French, and friendly coasts. 210 PLAY-DAY POEMS. " It 's human natur', p'raps — if so, Oh ; is n't human natur' low ! " He called his Bill, who pulled his curl, He said, " My Bill, I understand, You 've captivated some young gurl On this here French and foreign land. Her tender heart your beauties jog — They do, you know they do, you dog. " You have a graceful way, I learn, Of leaning airily on posts, By which you 've been and caused to burn A tender flame on these here coasts. A fisher gurl, I much regret, — Her age sixteen — her name Babette. " You '11 marry her, you gentle tar — Your union I myself will bless; And when you matrimonied are, I will appoint her stewardess." But William hitched himself and sighed, And cleared his throat, and thus replied : "Not so; unless you 're fond of strife, You 'd better mind your own all airs ; I have an able-bodied wife Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs ; If all this here to her I tell, She '11 larrup me and you as well. " Skin-deep, and valued at a pin, Is beauty such as Venus owns — Her beauty is beneath her skin, And lies in layers on her bones. The other sailors of the crew, They always call her ' Wapping Sue ! "' FAITHLESS SALL Y BRO WK 211 11 Oho ! " the captain said, " I see ! And is she then so very strong? " " She 'd take your honor's scruff," said he, "And pitch you over to Bolong! " " I pardon you," the captain said, " The fair Babette you need n't wed." Perhaps the Customs had his will, And coaxed the scornful girl to wed : Perhaps the captain and his Bill And William's little wife are dead ; Or p'raps they 're all alive and well : I cannot, cannot, cannot tell. William S. Gilbert. dFattijless Sallg Proton. Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade ; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid. But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew ; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'T was nothing but a feint. "Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head, He '11 be as good as me ; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be." 212 PL A Y-DA Y P OEMS. So when they 'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf. She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself. " And is he gone, and is he gone ? " She cried, and wept outright : " Then I will to the water-side, And see him out of sight." A waterman came up to her, "Now, young woman," said he, " If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea." "Alas! they We taken my beau Ben, To sail with old Benbow ; " And her woe began to run afresh, As if she 'd said, Gee woe ! Says he, " They 've only taken him To the Tender-ship, you see : " " The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, " What a hard-ship that must be ! " Oh ! would I were a mermaid now, For then I 'd follow him : But oh ! — I 'm not a fish- woman, And so I cannot swim. " Alas ! I was not born beneath The Yirgin and the Scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales." Now Ben had sailed to many a place That 's underneath the world ; FAITHLESS NELL Y GRA T. 213 But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furled. • But when he called on Sally Brown, To see how she got on, He found she 'd got another Ben, Whose Christian name was John. " Sally Brown, Sally Brown, How could you serve me so ? I 've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow ! " Then reading on his 'bacco-box, He heaved a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye. And then he tried to sing, " All 's Well," But could not, though he tried ; His head was turned, and so he chewed His pigtail till he died. His death, which happened in his berth, At forty-odd befell ; They went and told the Sexton, and The Sexton tolled the bell. Thomas Hood. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms ! 18* 214 PLAY-DAT POEMS. Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, " Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot ! " The army-surgeons made him limbs : Said he, " They 're only pegs ; But there 's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs 1 " Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray ; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay ! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off I " Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform ! " Said she, " I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave ; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave ! " Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now ! " " Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! For all your jeering speeches, FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 215 At duty's call, I left my legs In Badajos's breaches/" 11 Why then," said she, " you 've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now y ou cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms i " " 0, false and fickle Nelly Gray 1 I know why you refuse : Though I 've no feet — some other man Is standing in my shoes 1 "I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But now a long farewell ! For you will be my death ; — alas 1 You will not be my Nell!" Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got — And life was such a burthen grown, It made him take a knot ! So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line 1 And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off — of course, He soon was off his legs 1 And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town — For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down ! 216 PL A T-DA T P OEMS. A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside ! Thomas Hood. Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Great Love, some legacies : — Here I bequeathe Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see ; If they be blind, then Love, I give them thee ; My tongue to fame ; to embassadors mine ears ; To women or the sea, my tears. Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give ; My truth to them who at the court do live ; Mine ingenuity and openness To Jesuits ; to buffoons my pensiveness ; My silence to any who abroad have been ; My money to a Capuchin. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me To love there where no love received can be, Only to give to such as have an incapacity. My faith I give to Eoman Catholics ; All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam ; my best civility And courtship to a university ; My modesty I give to soldiers bare ; My patience let gamesters share ; Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity, Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. THE WILL. 217 I give my reputation to those Which were my friends ; mine industry to foes ; To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness ; My sickness to physicians, or excess ; To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ ; And to my company my wit. Thou, Love, by making me adore Her who begot this love in me before, Taught' st me to make as though I gave* when I do but re- store. To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls I give my physic-books ; my written rolls Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give ; My brazen medals unto them which live In want of bread; to them which pass among All foreigners, mine English tongue ; Thou, Love, by making me love one Who thinks her friendship a fit portion For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. Therefore I '11 give no more, but I '11 undo The world by dying ; because love dies too. Then all your beauties will no more be worth Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth ; And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sun-dial in a grave. Thou, Love, taught' st me, by making me Love her who doth neglect both thee and me, To invent and practice this one way to annihilate all three. John Donne. If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'T is a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father. 19 Samuel Johnson*. 218 PLAY-DAY POEMS. A LEGEND OF THE LOWER HUDSON. The days were at their longest, The heat was at its strongest, When Brown, old friend and true, Wrote thus : " Dear Jack, why swelter In town when shade and shelter Are waiting here for you ? Quit Bulls and Bears and gambling, For rural sports and rambling Forsake your Wall Street tricks ; Come without hesitation, Check to Dobbs' Ferry Station. We dine at half-past six." I went, — a welcome hearty, A merry country party, A drive, and then croquet, A quiet, well-cooked dinner, Three times at billiards winner, — The evening sped away ; When Brown, the dear old joker, Cried, " Come, my worthy broker, The hour is growing late ; Your room is cool and quiet. As for the bed, just try it. Breakfast at half-past eight." I took Brown's hand, applauded His generous care, and lauded Dobbs' Ferry to the skies. A shade came o'er his features, — " We should be happy creatures, And this a paradise. D OBBS HIS FEBR Y. 219 But, ah 1 the deep disgrace is, This loveliest of places A vulgar name should blight ! But, death to Dobbs ! we '11 change it, If money can arrange it, So, pleasant dreams; good-night! " I could not sleep, but, raising The window, stood, moon-gazing, In fairy-land a guest ; : On such a night," et cetera, — See Shakespeare for much better a Description of the rest, — I mused, how sweet to wander Beside the river, yonder ; And then the sudden whim Seized me my head to pillow On Hudson's sparkling billow, A midnight, moonlight swim ! Soon thought and soon attempted ; At once my room was emptied Of its sole occupant ; The roof was low and easily, In fact, quite Japanese-ily, I took the downward slant, Then, without stay or stopping, My first and last eaves-dropping, By leader-pipe I sped, And through the thicket gliding, Down the steep hillside sliding, Soon reached the river's bed. But what was my amazement, — The fair scene from the casement, How changed ! I could not guess 220 PL A T-BAT P OEMS. Where track or rails had vanished, Town, villas, station, banished, — All was a wilderness. Only one ancient gable, A low-roofed inn and stable, A creaking sign displayed, An antiquated wherry, Below it — " Dobbs His Ferry " — In the clear moonlight swayed. I turned, and there the craft was, Its shape 'twixt scow and raft Avas, Square ends, low sides, and flat, And, standing close beside me, An ancient chap who eyed me, Beneath a steeple-hat ; Short legs — long pipe — style very Pre-Bevolutionary, — I bow, he grimly bobs, Then with some perturbation, By way of salutation, Says I " How are you, Dobbs ? " He grum and silent beckoned, And I, in half a second, " Scarce knowing what I did, Took the stern seat, Dobbs throwing Himself 'midships, and rowing, Swift through the stream we slid ; He pulled awhile, then stopping, And both oars slowly dropping, His pipe aside he laid, Drew a long breath, and taking An attitude, and shaking His fist towards shore, thus said : i, J) OBBS HIS FERR Y. 221 " Of all sharp cuts the keenest, Of all mean turns the meanest. Vilest of all vile jobs, Worse than the Cow-Boy pillagers, Are these Dobbs' Ferry villagers A-going back on Dobbs ! 'T would not be more anom'lous If Rome went back on Eom'lus (Old rum-un like myself), Or Hail Columbia, played out By Southern Dixie, laid out Columbus on the shelf ! " They say ' Dobbs ' ain't melodious, It 's 'horri^,' 'vulgar,' ' odious,' In all their crops it sticks ; And then the worse addendum Of ' Ferry ' does offend 'em More than its vile prefix. Well, it does seem distressing, But, if I 'm good at guessing, Each one of these same nobs, If there was money in it, Would ferry in a minute, And change his name to Dobbs I " That 's it, they 're not partic'lar, Respecting the auric'lar, At a stiff market rate ; But Dobbs' especial vice is, That he keeps down the prices Of all their real estate ! A name so unattractive Keeps villa-sites inactive, And spoils the brokers' jobs ; 222 PLAY-DAY POEMS. They think that speculation "Would rage at ' Paulding's Station,' Which stagnates now at ' Dobbs.' " ' Paulding's ! ' — that 's sentimental ! An old Dutch Continental, Bushwhacked up there a spell ; But why he should come blustering Round here, and filibustering, ife more than I can tell ; Sat playing for a wager, And nabbed a British major. Well, if the plans and charts From Andre's boots he hauled out, Is his name to be bawled out Forever, round tliese parts? " G-uess not! His pay and bounty And mon'ment from the county Paid him off, every cent, While this snug town and station, To every generation, Shall be Dobbs' monument ; Spite of all speculators And ancient-landmark traitors, Who, all along this shore, Are ever substitutin' The modern, highfalutin, For the plain names of yore. " Down there, on old Manhattan, Where land-sharks breed and fatten, They 've wiped out Tubby Hook. That famous promontory, Renowned in song and story, Which time nor tempest shook, DOBBS HIS FERRY. 223 Whose name for aye had been good, Stands newly christened ' Inwood,' And branded with the shame Of some old rogue who passes ^ By dint of aliases, Afraid of his own name ! " See how they quite outrival, Plain barn-yard Spuytenduyvil, By peacock Riverdale, Which thinks all else it conquers, And over homespun Yonkers Spreads out its flaunting tail ! There 's new-named Mount St. Vincent, Where each dear little inn'cent Is taught the Popish rites, — Well, ain't it queer, wherever These saints possess the river They get the finest sites ! " They 've named a place for Irving, A trifle more deserving Than your French, foreign saints ; But if he has such mention, It 's past my comprehension Why Dobbs should cause complaints ; Wrote histories and such things, About Old Knick and Dutch things, Dolph Heyligers and Rips ; But no old antiquary Like him could keep a ferry, With all his authorships ! " By aid of these same showmen, Some fanciful cognomen Old Cro'nest stock might bring 224 PLAY-DAY POEMS. As high as Butter Hill is, Which, patronized by Willis, Leaves cards now as ' Storm-King ! Can't some poetic swell-beau Ee-christen old Crum Elbow And each prosaic bluff, Bold Breakneck gently flatter, And Dunderberg bespatter, With euphony and stuff! " 'T would be a magnum opus To bury old Esopus In Time's sepulchral vaults, Or in Oblivion's deep sea Submerge renowned Poughkeepsie, And also ancient Paltz ; How it would give them rapture Brave Stony Point to capture, And make it face about ; Bid Rhinebeck sound much smoother Than in the tongue of Luther, And wipe the Catskills out ! " Well, Dobbs is Dobbs, and faster Than pitch or mustard-plaster Shall it stick hereabouts, While Tappan Sea rolls yonder, Or round High Torn the thunder Along these ramparts shouts. No corner-lot banditti, Or brokers from the City- Like you — " Here Dobbs began Wildly both oars to brandish, As fierce as old Miles Standish, Or young Phil Sheridan. DOBBS HIS FERRY. 225 Sternwards he rushed, — I, ducking, Seized both his legs, and chucking Dobbs sideways, splash he went, — The wherry swayed, then righted, While I, somewhat excited, Over the water bent ; Three times he rose, but vainly I clutched his form ungainly, He sank, while sighs and sobs Beneath the waves seemed muttered, And all the night-winds uttered In sad tones, "Dobbs ! Dobbs ! Dobbs ! " Just then some giant bowlders Upon my head and shoulders Made sudden, fearful raids, And on my face and forehead, With din and uproar horrid, Came several Palisades ; I screamed, and woke, in screaming, To see, by gaslight's gleaming, Brown's face above my bed : " Why, Jack ! what is the matter ? We heard a dreadful clatter And found you on the shed ! " It 's plain enough, supposing You sat there, moon-struck, dozing, Upon the window's edge, Then lost yourself, and falling, Just where we found you sprawling, Struck the piazza ledge ; A lucky hit, old fellow, Of black and blue and yellow It gives your face a touch, 19* 2 2 G P£4 r--D4 Y P OEMS. You saved your neck, but barely ; To state the matter fairly, You took a drop too much ! " I took the train next morning, Some lumps my nose adorning, My forehead, sundry knobs, My ideas slightly wandering, But, as I went, much pondering Upon my night with Dobbs ; Brown thinks it, dear old sinner, A case of " after dinner," And won't believe a word, Talks of " hallucination," " Laws of association," And calls my tale " absurd." Perhaps it is, but never, Say I, should we dissever Old places and old names; Guard the old landmarks truly, On the old altars duly Keep bright the ancient flames. For me, the face of Nature, ■ No luckless nomenclature Of grace or beauty robs ; No, when of town I weary, I '11 make a strike in Erie, And buy a place at Dobbs ! William Allen Butler. Cije American Crabeler. To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening: in the rain. THE AMERICAN TRA VELER. 227 " I am a traveler," said he, " Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow mora at four." He took a tavern bed that night, And with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week passed on ; and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarn agum. From thence he went to Absequoit, And there — quite tired of Maine — He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Dog-Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk' s-Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace. By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's-Den ; And Scrabble-Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken. Then via Nine-Holes and Goose-Green He traveled through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion's bounds He wandered up and down ; — 228 PLAY-DAY POEMS. To-day at Buzzard-Roost ensconced, To-morrow at Hell-Town. At Pole-Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull-Ring came, And made him spend a day with them In hunting forest game. Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog-Town next he went ; Though stopping at Free-jSTegro-Town, Where half a day he spent. From thence into ISTegationburg His route of travel lay, Which having gained, he left the State And took a southward way. North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And on a bed of softest down He slept at Hell's-Delight. Morn found him on the road again, To Lazy-Level bound ; At Bull's-Tail, and Lick-Lizzard too, G-ood provender he found. But the plantations near Burnt-Coat Were even finer still, And made the wondering tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill. At Tear-Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch-It in the distance far, And Purgatory near. WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE H AZURE SEAS. 229 But, 'spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore, That home is brightest after all, And travel is a bore. So back he went to Maine, straightway, A little wife he took, And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook. Robert H. Newell. M*f)w Jffloonlifte ore tfje Jga^ure Seas, When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breeze Bend down the Lily's bells ; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline ! R lady mine ! Dost thou remember Jeames ? I mark thee in the Marble All, Where England's loveliest shine — I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems — And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames ? Away ! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures — There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures ; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams ; 20 230 PLAY-DAY POEMS. It is the Star of Hope — but ar ! Dost thou remember Jeames ? William Makepeace Thackeray. ILtttle i3reecf)es» 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 Grabe 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 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. A COUNTRY CO URTSIIir. o.ll At last we struck bosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat, — but of little G-abe No hide nor hair was found. And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow critters' 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 see 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 Than loafing- around The Throne. Jonx II AY. & (ftounttg ecause it formulates and reiterates sound opinions upon the little-understood principles of th« art of acting." — Nation "Appeals to the great public who are interested in the advancement of the drama, and the still greater public of theatre-goers who ;^re interested in the drama merely ai of amusement. 11 — N. Y. Evening Post. " Tlie book is one which no one interested in the drama and its modern exponent* can afford to leave umead." — hoxton Transcript. THORNBURY'S LIFE OF J. M. W. TURNER 12mo. With eight colored illustrations. $2.75. '•The author has told fully and fearlessly, the story of Turner's Life as far as he am it. and has filled his p iges with anecdotes which illustrate the painter's char- acter and habits, and his book is therefore one of great interest." — .V. }'. Evening Post. " It is a book which every one with the slightest interest in art will read with eager intere»t." — Boston Transcript. " It is a capital work, and the best biography of a great man we have yet had." — Springfield Republican . CHORLEY'S RECENT ART AND SOCIETY. 12mo, $2.00. MOSCHELES' RECENT MUSIC AND MUSI- CIANS. 12mo, |2.00. WAGNER'S ART LIFE AND THEORIES. Selected from his writings, and translated by Edward L. Bur- LINGAME. $2.00. SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Edited by Rossiter Johnson. Square 12rao, gilt edges, $2.00. The object of this book is to give a local habitation to some famous poems, existing only in the fugitive condition of the daily and periodi- cal press, and also to make more accessible certain other poems by standard authors not renowned as poets. HEA"ftY HOZT& CO., 'Publishers. 25 %o?id St., J\T. T. SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS, COLLECTED AND EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON. Square, 12mo., gilt, ^.OO. A pretty volume, fit for presentation, made up of celebrated English poems that have hitherto been printed only in periodicals and other fugitive places, or in works not generally at hand. The lover of poetry who is trying to find some English poem that he can get no trace of except from vague memory, would be quite apt to meet it in this volume: OPINIONS OF THE PRESS: " In his selections, Mr. Johnson has performed his task well and carefully, and has produced a volume which is not only an ornament in its outward appearance, hut a work of intrinsic value, for which he deserves the jhearty thanks of all persons of literary taste and appreciation." —B tston Transcript. "Most readers will agree with us that he has done his difficult work exceedingly well/'— N. Y. Evening Post. LIST OF CONTENTS : Afar in the Desert— The Angler's Wish— The Annuity (humorous)— Antony and Cleopatra— Auld llobin Gray— Balaklava— The Ballad of Agineourt— The Beacon— The Beggar— The Bells of Shandon— The Bivouac of the Dead— Bonnie George Campbell— The Braes of Yarrow— The Bride— The Bucket— The Burial of Moses- Ode on the Centenary of Burns— Carmen Bellicosum— The Chameleon (humorous)— The Children— Christmas Hymn— Lines written in a Churchyard— Civil War— The Closing Year— The Cloud— Connell and Flora— A Contented Mind— The Countersign- To the Cuckoo— Cnmnor Hall— Curfew mu>t not Ring To-night— A Death Bed— The Death of Napoleon— Death's Final Conquest— A Litany forDoneraile (humorous)— Doris —Driving Home the Cows— Exequy— The Exile to his Wife— Florence Vane— The Forging of the Anchor— Gaffer Gray— Geehole— Gluggity Glug (humorous)— Good Ale (humorous)— The Grave of Bonaparte— Grougar Hill— The Groves of Blarney (humorous)— The Happy Land— A Health— Hellen of Kir kconnel— Here Sh< and There She Goes (humorous)— The Hermit— A Hundred Years to Come— To an Indian Gold Coin— The Irish Emigrant's Lament— The Ivy Green— I would not Live Alway— The Jolly Old Pedagogue (humorous)— Life— Light— Abraham Lincoln— A Little Goose (humorous)— Love me Little, Love "Me Long— Lucy's Flittin'— The Lye— Man's Mortality— The Mariner's Dream— Mary's Dream— The Memory of the Dead— Milton's Prayer of Patience— The Mithcrless Bairn— A Modest Wit (humorous)— Mortality— My Dear and Only Love— My Maryland— My Mind to me a Kingdom is— The Nautilus and the Ammonite— Nearer. My God, to Thee— Night- Nothing to Wear (humorous)— The Old Cause— Old Grimes (humorous)— The Old Sergeant— The Old Sexton— Only a Baby Small— Only Waiting— The Orphan Boy- Over the River— The Pauper's Drive-The Philosopher's Scales— The Picket Guard— The Place where Man should Die— The Polish Boy— Popping Corn (humorous)— The Private of the Buffs— On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America- Rain on "the Roof— Revelry in India— A Riddle— The Rising of the Moon -Rock Me to Sleep— The Sailor's Wife— Saint Patrick (humorous)— Sally in Our Alley— The Schoolmistress— She Died in Beauty— Sherman's March to the Sea— Lament for Sir Philip Sidney— Lines on a Skeleton— The Soldier— A Soliloquy— Song : Love still has something of the Sea— The Soul's Defiance— The Splendid Shilling (humorous)— Stanzas : Mv Life is like the Summer Rose— The Star- .Spangled Banner— The Song of Steam— Take thy Old Cloak about Thee— The New Tale of a Tub (humorous)— The Tears of Scotland. The Dale's i' this Bonnet o' Mine (humorous)— The Tears I shed— The Three Sons— The Three Warnings— Tired Mothers— Too Late— The Toper's Apology— The Twins (humorous)— The Two Worlds— Verses composed in the Tower— The Vicar of Bray (humorous)— A Visit from St. Nicholas— Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny— We'll go to Sea no More— What Constitutes a State ?— What is Time y— What the end shall be— When shall we Three Meet Again V— The Whistler (humorous)— Why thus Longing '/—Widow Malone (humorous) -Willie Winkie— Willie Drowned in Yarrow — Ye Gentlemen of England. HEA r ft2 HOLT& CO., Publishers, 25 'Bond St., JY. T. LEISURE HOUR SERIES LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 043 366 4 PLAY-BAY POEMS lank HenryHolt&Co.Publishi£ New York