A VOICE OF THE FIELDS
The red was on the clover an' the blue was in the
sky;
There was music in the meadow, there was dancing
in the rye,
An' I heard her call the scattered flock in pastures
far away
An' the echo in the wooded hills: "Co' day! Co'
day! Co' day!"
O fair was she—my lady love—an' lithe as the
willow-tree,
An' like a miser's money are her parting words
t' me.
O the years are long an' lonesome since my sweet-
heart went away!
An' I think o' her as I call the flocks: "Co' day!
Co' day! Co' day!"
Her cheeks have stole the clover's red, her lips the
odored air,
An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away
in her hair;
Her voice had the meadow music, her form an'
her laughing eye
Have taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace
o' the bending rye.
My love has robbed the summer day—the field,
the sky, the dell,
She has carried their treasurers with her, she has
taken my heart as well;
An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should
go astray
May she hear the good God calling her: "Co' day!
Co' day! Co' day!"
THE WEAVER'S DYE
There's many a hue an' some I knew in the skeins
of a weaver old—
Ah, there is the white o' the lily hand an' the glow
o' the silky gold!
An' the crimson missed in the lips we kissed an'
the blue o' the maiden's eye;
O, look at the wonderful web of life, an' look at
the weaver's dye!
THE SLUMBER SHIP
A LULLABY
Jack Tot is as big as a baby's thumb,
And his dinner is only a drop and a crumb
And a wee little sailor is he.
Heigh ho!
A very fine sailor is he.
He made his boat of a walnut shell;
He sails her at night, and he steers her well
With
the wing of a bumblebee.
Heigh ho!
The wing of a bumblebee.
She is rigged with the hair of a lady's curl,
And her lantern is made of a gleaming pearl,
And it never goes out in a gale.
Heigh ho!
It never goes out in a gale.
Her mast is made of a very long thorn;
She's a bell for the fog, and a cricket's horn,
And a spider spun her sail.
Heigh ho!
A spider he spun her sail.
She carries a cargo of baby souls,
And she crosses the terrible Nightmare Shoals,
On her way to the Isles of Rest.
Heigh ho!
The beautiful Isles of Rest.
The Slumber Sea is the sea she sails,
While the skipper is telling incredible tales
With
many a merry jest.
Ho! ho!
He's fond of a merry jest.
When the little folks yawn they're ready to go,
And the skipper is lifting his sail—he ho!
In the swell how the little folks nod!
Ha! ha!
Just see how the little folks nod!
He fluttered his wing as they ast him to sing an'
he tried fer t' clear out his throat;
He hemmed an' he hawed an' he hawked an' he
cawed
But he couldn' deliver a note.
The swallow was there an' he ushered each pair
in his linsey an' claw-hammer coat.
The bobolink tried fer t' flirt with the bride, in a
way that was sassy an' bold,
An' the notes that he took as he shivered an'
shook
Had a sound like the jingle o' gold.
He sat on a brier an' laughed at the choir an' told
'em
the music was old.
The sexton he came—Mr. Spider by name—a
citizen hairy an' gray.
His rope in a steeple, he called the good people
That live in the land o' the hay.
The ants an' the squgs an' the crickets an' bugs
came out in a mighty array.
A number came down from ole Barleytown an' the
neighborin' city o' Rye.
An' the little black people each climbed up a steeple,
An' sat lookin' up at the sky;
They came fer t' see what a weddin' might be an'
they furnished the cake an' the pie.
OLD HOME, GOOD-BYE!
The day is passing; I have tarried long;
My way leads far through paths I fear to try;
But as I go I'll cheer my heart with song—
Old home, good-bye!
In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage!
The babe, the maiden leaving home to wed;
The young man going forth by duty led
And faltering age.
And some, returning from far distant lands,
Fainting and sick their ways to thee have wended
To feel the sweet ministry of loving hands,
Their journeys ended.
Thou hadst a soul—thy goodly prop' and stay
That kept the log, the compass and the chart,
And showed the way for many a trusting heart—
The long, long way!
O humble home! thou hadst a secret door
Through which I looked, betimes, with wondering
eye
On splendors that no palace ever wore
In days gone by.
From narrow walls thy lamp gave glad release
And shone afar on distant lands and powers;
A sweet voice sang of love and heavenly peace
And made them ours.
Thou hadst a magic window, broad and high—
The light and glory of the morning shone
Through it, however dark the day had grown
Or bleak the sky.
Its panes, like mighty lenses, brought to view
A fairer home; I saw in depths above
The timber of the old home in the new—
The oak of love.
THE RUSTIC DANCE
To Jones's tavern, near the ancient woods,
Drive young and old from distant neighborhoods.
Here comes old Crocket with his great bass horn—
Its tone less fit for melody than scorn.
Down through its wrinkled tubes, from first to last,
A century's caravan of song has passed.
The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun,
With noisy kisses punctuate the fun.
Some youths look on, too bashful to assist
And bear the sweet disgrace of being kissed.
The fiddler comes—his heart a merry store,
And shouts of welcome greet him at the door.
Unlettered man—how rude the jest he flings!
But mark his power to wake the tuneful strings!
The old folks smile and tell how, long ago,
Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow;
And how the God-sent magic of his art
To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart,
And shook the bonds of care from aged men
Who 'neath the spell returned to youth again.
He taps the fiddle-back as 'twere a drum;
The raw recruits in Cupid's army come;
And heeding not the praise his playing wins,
The ebullition of his soul begins.
The zeal of Crocket turned to scornful sound,
Pursues the measure like a baying hound.
The fiddle's notes pour forth like showers of rain,
The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain,
And midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,
The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.
Beside the glowing fire, with smiles serene,
An aged couple sit and view the scene.
Grandfather's ears the reveille have caught,
And thronging memories fill the camps of thought.
His heels strike on the floor, with measured beat,
As if to ease a tickling in his feet.
Year after year, for love of kith and kin.
Grandmother's hands have had to toil and spin;
But since the palsy all their cunning stole
Her mind is spinning raiment for the soul,
Of spotless white and beauty fit to wear,
When comes the Bridegroom and the end of care.
So goes the dance until the night is gone
And chanticleer proclaims the breaking dawn.
The waning stars show pale to wearied eyes
And seem to dance cotillions in the skies;
As if, forsooth, upon the journey home
Terpsichore's music filled the starry dome.
Blest be the dance! with noisy pleasure rife
Enough to temper all the woe in life;
What magic power its capering measures hold
To keep the hearts of men from growing old!
Stem Father Time, rejoicing in the scene,
Forbears to reap while yet the fields are green.
TO A DEAD CLASSMATE
He started on the left road and I went on the
right,
We were young and strong and the way was long
and we travelled day an' night;
And O the haste and O the waste! and the rush
of the busy throng!
The worried eye, and the quick good-bye, and
the need to hurry along!
Odd times we met on the main highway and told
our hopes and fears,
And after every parting came a wider flood of
years.
I love to tell of the last farewell, and this is the way
it ran:
"I don't know when I'll see you again—take care
of yourself, ol' man."
Put the Beta pin upon his breast, with rosemary
and rue,
The cap and gown, the scarlet and brown and the
symbol of '82,
And lay him low with a simple word as the loving
eye grows dim:
"He took care of more than his share—O Christ!
take care of him."
The snow is falling on the head and aye the heart
grows cold;
The new friend comes to claim a share of that we
gave the old,
And men forget while the eye is wet and bend to
the lug of the load,
And whether or when they will meet you again is
ever a chance of the road.
The babes are boys, the boys are men, and slowly,
year by year,
New faces throng the storied halls and old ones
disappear.
As the hair is grayed and the red lips fade let
friend be friend, for aye
We come and go and ere we know have spoken
a long good-bye.
TO MY FRIEND A. B.
The veil of care is lifted from his face!
How smooth the brow where toil had left its trace!
How confident the look, how calm the eyes
Once keen with life and restless enterprise!
And gone the lines that marked the spirit's haste
To do its work, nor any moment waste.
Imperial peace and beauty crown his head,
God's superscription writ upon the dead.
Behold, herein, his dream, his inmost thought
As if in time-washed Parian marble wrought.
Truly he read the law we must obey:
Man moulds the image and God gives the clay,
And if it's cast of God or Cæsar is
To each all render what is rightly his.
Thousands at noontide are climbing the hills under
Nain, like an army
Fleeing the carnage of war, seeking where it may
rest and take counsel;
Some with the blind or the palsied, some bearing
the sick on their shoulders,
Lagging but laboring hard, so they be not too far
from the Prophet;
Some bringing only a burden of deep and inveterate
longing.
Hard by the gate of the city their Captain halts
and is waiting.
Closer the multitude presses and widens afar on
the hillside;
Thronged are the ways to the city with eager and
hastening comers.
Heard ye? A man was delivered from death by
his power, and the story
Crosses the murmuring host like a wave passing
over the waters,
How at the touch of his finger this day, the dead
rose and was living.
Hushed are the people; the Prophet is speaking;
his hand is uplifted—
Lo! the frail hand that ere long was to stop the mad
rush of the tempest.
Quickly their voices are hushed, and the fear of
Jehovah is on them.
Jesus stood high on a hillock. His face, so divinely
impassioned,
Shone with the light that of old had illumined the
dreams of the prophets.
Gently he spake, like a shepherd who calleth his
flock to green pastures.
Hiding her face and apart from the people, a woman
stood weeping,
Daughter of woe! on a rosary strung with her
tears ever counting
Treasures her heart had surrendered and writ on
her brow was the record.
Hope and the love of her kindred and peace and
all pleasure had left her
Chained to the pillar of life like a captive, and
Shame was her keeper.
Long spake the Prophet, and scarcely had finished
when came the afflicted,
Loudly entreating: "Make way for the blind!" and
the people were parted,
Silent with pity, and many were suffered to pass;
but the woman
Felt no miraculous touch, for the press kept her
back and rebuked her.
"Why comest thou to the Prophet?" they said.
"Get thee hence and be silent;
"He hath no mercy for thee or thy kind"; and
the woman stood weeping.
Now when the even was come over Nain, and the
bridge of the twilight,
Silently floating aloft on the deepening flood of the
shadows,
Rested its timbers of gold on the summits of Tabor
and Hermon,
Jesus came, weary, to sup at the house of one
Simon, a Pharisee,
Dwelling at Nain. Far behind him the woman
came, following slowly;
Entered the gate in the dusk, and when all were
reclining at supper,
Stood by the Prophet, afraid, like a soul that has
come to its judgment,
Weeping, her head bowing low, her hair hanging
loose on her shoulders.
Then there was silence, and Jesus was moved, so
he spake to the woman:
"Daughter, what grieves thee so sore?" and she
spake not, but dumb with her weeping
Sank at his feet; and her tears fell upon them like
rain, and she kissed them.
Simon, amazed when the Prophet forbade not the
woman to touch him,
Rose to rebuke her; but seeing His face, how it
shone with compassion,
Waited; and Jesus then spake: "I have somewhat
to say to thee, Simon.
"A man had two debtors of pence, and the one
owed five hundred,
"The other owed fifty; and when they had nothing
to pay he forgave them
"All that they owed; wherefore which of the two
will most love him?"
Simon said, thoughtfully: "He, I suppose, to whom
most was forgiven."
Jesus made answer: "Thou judgest well. Consider
this woman.
"Weary with travel and sore were my feet, but
thou gavest no water;
"She, to wash them, hath given the tears of her
love and her sorrow,
"Wiping them dry with her hair; and hath kissed
them and bathed them with ointment.
"Wherefore, O woman, weep not! I forgive thee
thy sins which are many.
"Go thou in peace."
And those who were with Him at meat were astonished.
"Lo! she spoke not, she asked not and yet He forgave
her," they whispered.
*
* * *
Dear to my God are the rills that flow from the
mountains of sorrow
Over the faces of men and in them is a rainbow of
promise.
Strong is the prayer of the rills that oft bathed the
feet of The Master.