ALONG, LONG, LONG.
"As I was going along, long, long,
A singing a comical song, song, song,
The lane that I went was so long, long, long,
And the song that I sung was so long, long, long,
And so I went singing along."
It 's all along, and along,
For the earth is bonny, and glad, and wide,
And we 're free to wander, and free to bide,
And we travel with a song.
It's long, it's wearily long!
For the path is narrowed to only a lane;
And we 've sung it over and over again,
That old, monotonous song.
Nay, let us be thankful and strong,
That the breath of life is as long as the day,
And the song is as long as the weariful way,
And so, we 'll go singing along!
FINIS.
(MOTHER GOOSE, INTERLINEATED.)
The white dove sat on the castle wall,
I bent my bow, and shoot her I shall,"—
(The fair bird, truth, and her meanings;)
"I put her in my glove, both feathers and
all;"
(The pretty plumes that her flight let fall;
For I bound in a book my gleanings:)
"I laid my bridle upon the shelf,—
If you want any more, you may sing it
yourself!"
(It's all in the wits and the weenings!)
CONCLUSION.
(EDITORIAL.)
Doubtless I might go on to quote,
With added paraphrase and note,
Precept on precept, line on line,
To instance here the fact divine
That of her children, far and wide,
Wisdom is always justified.
Yet why oppress with proof of that,
Since "verbum sapienti sat"?
Suffice it to have struck the vein,
And shown some specimens of ore;
If any seek for further gain,
The mine still holds abundance more.
A mental pickaxe and a biggin
Are all you need to go to diggin'.
For, as the Swedish seer contends,
All things comprise an inner sense;
There's nothing we can write or say,
In howsoever simple way,
But seems a body, built to hide
The soul that straightway is supplied;
And many a fool, and prophet too,
Hath spoken wiser than he knew.
One parting word, and I am gone:
If I 've prevailed to make you see
These things as they appear to me,
Then have I proved my Goose a Swan
And I, small fledgling of the line,
Yet proud to bear the ancient name,
May, for this ancestress of mine,
Claim place upon the page of fame;
That not a bard of Saxon tongue
More true to nature ever sung:
More surely soothed, more deeply taught,
Or passing fact more keenly caught;
And that—exalted side by side
With him of Avon, in the pride
And love of millions—we should lay
The tribute at her feet to-day
That owns her, in this latter age,
Goose, truly,—but, in savor, Sage!