OF all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing,—
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!
The ancients loved this noble fish;
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire?
"Fish should swim twice," they used to say,—
Once in their native, vapid brine,
And then again, a better way—
You understand; fetch on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you,
How often sadly seen you scud
Where weeds and water-lilies grew!
How often have you filched my bait,
How often snapped my treacherous line!
Yet here I have you on this plate,—
You shall swim twice, and now in wine.
And, harkee, garçon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,—
Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood
This piscatorial pride should swim;
So, were he living, he would say
He gladly died for me and mine,
And, as it were his native spray,
He'd lash the sauce—what, ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, O finny friend!
I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,
What were my ecstasy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I might repine,
I think I might survive the blow,
If plied with wine and still more wine!
Is there another can surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing,—
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!
The ancients loved this noble fish;
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire?
"Fish should swim twice," they used to say,—
Once in their native, vapid brine,
And then again, a better way—
You understand; fetch on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you,
How often sadly seen you scud
Where weeds and water-lilies grew!
How often have you filched my bait,
How often snapped my treacherous line!
Yet here I have you on this plate,—
You shall swim twice, and now in wine.
And, harkee, garçon! let the blood
Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,—
Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood
This piscatorial pride should swim;
So, were he living, he would say
He gladly died for me and mine,
And, as it were his native spray,
He'd lash the sauce—what, ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, O finny friend!
I surely were not loath to be
Reserved for such a noble end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,
What were my ecstasy to swim
In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
Come hither every year and bring
The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I might repine,
I think I might survive the blow,
If plied with wine and still more wine!
NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT.
THE mill goes toiling slowly around
With steady and solemn creak,
And my little one hears in the kindly sound
The voice of the old mill speak;
While round and round those big white wings
Grimly and ghostlike creep,
My little one hears that the old mill sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And over his pot of beer
The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer;
He mocks at the winds that caper along
From the far-off, clamorous deep,
But we—we love their lullaby-song
Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound,
Groans of the stony mart;
To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around,
Hitched to our new milk-cart!
And you shall help me blanket the kine,
And fold the gentle sheep,
And set the herring a-soak in brine,—
But now, little tulip, sleep!
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes
That wearily droop and blink,
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies,
And scolds at the stars that wink;
Over your face the misty wings
Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep,
And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
With steady and solemn creak,
And my little one hears in the kindly sound
The voice of the old mill speak;
While round and round those big white wings
Grimly and ghostlike creep,
My little one hears that the old mill sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And over his pot of beer
The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer;
He mocks at the winds that caper along
From the far-off, clamorous deep,
But we—we love their lullaby-song
Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound,
Groans of the stony mart;
To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around,
Hitched to our new milk-cart!
And you shall help me blanket the kine,
And fold the gentle sheep,
And set the herring a-soak in brine,—
But now, little tulip, sleep!
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes
That wearily droop and blink,
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies,
And scolds at the stars that wink;
Over your face the misty wings
Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep,
And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
THE ONION TART.
OF tarts there be a thousand kinds,
So versatile the art,
And, as we all have different minds,
Each has his favorite tart;
But those which most delight the rest
Methinks should suit me not:
The onion tart doth please me best,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Where but in Deutschland can be found
This boon of which I sing?
Who but a Teuton could compound
This sui generis thing?
None with the German frau can vie
In arts cuisine, I wot,
Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh,
"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"
You slice the fruit upon the dough,
And season to the taste,
Then in an oven (not too slow)
The viand should be placed;
And when 'tis done, upon a plate
You serve it piping hot.
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
It sweeps upon the sight and smell
In overwhelming tide,
And then the sense of taste as well
Betimes is gratified:
Three noble senses drowned in bliss!
I prithee tell me, what
Is there beside compares with this?
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
For if the fruit be proper young,
And if the crust be good,
How shall they melt upon the tongue
Into a savory flood!
How seek the Mecca down below,
And linger round that spot,
Entailing weeks and months of woe,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
If Nature gives men appetites
For things that won't digest,
Why, let them eat whatso delights,
And let her stand the rest;
And though the sin involve the cost
Of Carlsbad, like as not
'Tis better to have loved and lost,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Beyond the vast, the billowy tide,
Where my compatriots dwell,
All kinds of victuals have I tried,
All kinds of drinks, as well;
But nothing known to Yankee art
Appears to reach the spot
Like this Teutonic onion tart,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide
As full as I can hold,
And for complete reform inside
Plank down my horde of gold,
Remorse shall not consume my heart,
Nor sorrow vex my lot,
For I have eaten onion tart,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
So versatile the art,
And, as we all have different minds,
Each has his favorite tart;
But those which most delight the rest
Methinks should suit me not:
The onion tart doth please me best,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Where but in Deutschland can be found
This boon of which I sing?
Who but a Teuton could compound
This sui generis thing?
None with the German frau can vie
In arts cuisine, I wot,
Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh,
"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"
You slice the fruit upon the dough,
And season to the taste,
Then in an oven (not too slow)
The viand should be placed;
And when 'tis done, upon a plate
You serve it piping hot.
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
It sweeps upon the sight and smell
In overwhelming tide,
And then the sense of taste as well
Betimes is gratified:
Three noble senses drowned in bliss!
I prithee tell me, what
Is there beside compares with this?
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
For if the fruit be proper young,
And if the crust be good,
How shall they melt upon the tongue
Into a savory flood!
How seek the Mecca down below,
And linger round that spot,
Entailing weeks and months of woe,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
If Nature gives men appetites
For things that won't digest,
Why, let them eat whatso delights,
And let her stand the rest;
And though the sin involve the cost
Of Carlsbad, like as not
'Tis better to have loved and lost,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Beyond the vast, the billowy tide,
Where my compatriots dwell,
All kinds of victuals have I tried,
All kinds of drinks, as well;
But nothing known to Yankee art
Appears to reach the spot
Like this Teutonic onion tart,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide
As full as I can hold,
And for complete reform inside
Plank down my horde of gold,
Remorse shall not consume my heart,
Nor sorrow vex my lot,
For I have eaten onion tart,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE.
IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye,
And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny:
The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright,
The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,—all give me keen delight;
And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen
A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine.
Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown
Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town.
'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,—
Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,—
And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen,
And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine.
Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown;
For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town."
The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess
When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress:
To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between,
Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine.
With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end
(The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!);
And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise,
Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes;
For grandma knew a thing or two,—by which remark I mean
That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine.
I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle
With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile.
It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round,
That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found.
How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen!
And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine.
But there were those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect gown;
For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town:
The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!"
The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split;
Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, she turned a bilious green,
When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine.
But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,—
The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign.
Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town,
And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown;
But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!"
Yet evermore my grandma wore his favorite bombazine.
And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,—
Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs!
Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing,
And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous thing.
'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene;
And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine.
Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,—
The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart.
This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair,
Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear.
Yet wear it, do; perchance when you and I are off the scene,
Our boy shall sing this comely thing as I the bombazine.
And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny:
The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright,
The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,—all give me keen delight;
And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen
A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine.
Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but noble gown
Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town.
'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,—
Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,—
And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen,
And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine.
Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown;
For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town."
The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess
When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress:
To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whale-bones in between,
Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine.
With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end
(The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!);
And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise,
Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes;
For grandma knew a thing or two,—by which remark I mean
That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine.
I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle
With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile.
It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round,
That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found.
How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen!
And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine.
But there were those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect gown;
For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town:
The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!"
The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split;
Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, she turned a bilious green,
When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine.
But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,—
The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign.
Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town,
And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown;
But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!"
Yet evermore my grandma wore his favorite bombazine.
And when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless heirs,—
Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs!
Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing,
And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous thing.
'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene;
And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine.
Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,—
The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart.
This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is passing fair,
Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear.
Yet wear it, do; perchance when you and I are off the scene,
Our boy shall sing this comely thing as I the bombazine.
RARE ROAST BEEF.
WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir
Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair;
When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head,
Filling bon vivants and epicures with certain nameless dread;
When any ill of body or of intellect abounds,
Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,—
In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief
That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef.
And even when the body's in the very prime of health,
When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth,
And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more,
And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,—
Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side,
And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied,
Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief,
And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef.
Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,—
'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest;
Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour
Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more;
The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour;
Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour,
And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf
Of that glorious summum bonum, rare roast beef.
Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife,
How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life!
Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,—
Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab?
Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam,
A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream!
Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief!
Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef.
Most every kind and rôle of modern victuals have I tried,
Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried,
Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese,
Your patties à la Turkey and your doughnuts à la grease;
I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls,
And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls;
But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief
And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef.
I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood,
Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood;
And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast,
Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (feste Burg) and host;
For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath,
Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path.
So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef
When I soever set me down to rare roast beef.
Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair;
When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head,
Filling bon vivants and epicures with certain nameless dread;
When any ill of body or of intellect abounds,
Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,—
In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief
That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef.
And even when the body's in the very prime of health,
When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth,
And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more,
And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,—
Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side,
And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied,
Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief,
And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef.
Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,—
'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest;
Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour
Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more;
The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour;
Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour,
And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf
Of that glorious summum bonum, rare roast beef.
Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife,
How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life!
Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,—
Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab?
Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam,
A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream!
Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief!
Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef.
Most every kind and rôle of modern victuals have I tried,
Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried,
Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese,
Your patties à la Turkey and your doughnuts à la grease;
I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls,
And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish balls;
But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief
And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef.
I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood,
Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood;
And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast,
Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (feste Burg) and host;
For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath,
Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path.
So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef
When I soever set me down to rare roast beef.
GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT.
I WAS just a little thing
When a fairy came and kissed me;
Floating in upon the light
Of a haunted summer night,
Lo! the fairies came to sing
Pretty slumber songs, and bring
Certain boons that else had missed me.
From a dream I turned to see
What those strangers brought for me,
When that fairy up and kissed me,—
Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!
Simmerdew was there, but she
Did not like me altogether;
Daisybright and Turtledove,
Pilfercurds and Honeylove,
Thistleblow and Amberglee
On that gleaming, ghostly sea
Floated from the misty heather,
And around my trundle-bed
Frisked and looked and whispering said,
Solemn-like and all together:
"You shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!"
Ganderfeather kissed me then,—
Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!
No attenuate sprite was he,
But as buxom as could be;
Kissed me twice and once again,
And the others shouted when
On my cheek uprose a berry
Somewhat like a mole, mayhap,
But the kiss-mark of that chap
Ganderfeather, passing merry,—
Humorsome but kindly, very!
I was just a tiny thing
When the prankish Ganderfeather
Brought this curious gift to me
With his fairy kisses three;
Yet with honest pride I sing
That same gift he chose to bring
Out of yonder haunted heather;
Other charms and friendships fly,—
Constant friends this mole and I,
Who have been so long together!
Thank you, little Ganderfeather!
When a fairy came and kissed me;
Floating in upon the light
Of a haunted summer night,
Lo! the fairies came to sing
Pretty slumber songs, and bring
Certain boons that else had missed me.
From a dream I turned to see
What those strangers brought for me,
When that fairy up and kissed me,—
Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!
Simmerdew was there, but she
Did not like me altogether;
Daisybright and Turtledove,
Pilfercurds and Honeylove,
Thistleblow and Amberglee
On that gleaming, ghostly sea
Floated from the misty heather,
And around my trundle-bed
Frisked and looked and whispering said,
Solemn-like and all together:
"You shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!"
Ganderfeather kissed me then,—
Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!
No attenuate sprite was he,
But as buxom as could be;
Kissed me twice and once again,
And the others shouted when
On my cheek uprose a berry
Somewhat like a mole, mayhap,
But the kiss-mark of that chap
Ganderfeather, passing merry,—
Humorsome but kindly, very!
I was just a tiny thing
When the prankish Ganderfeather
Brought this curious gift to me
With his fairy kisses three;
Yet with honest pride I sing
That same gift he chose to bring
Out of yonder haunted heather;
Other charms and friendships fly,—
Constant friends this mole and I,
Who have been so long together!
Thank you, little Ganderfeather!
OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE.
THERE are no days like the good old days,—
The days when we were youthful!
When humankind were pure of mind,
And speech and deeds were truthful;
Before a love for sordid gold
Became man's ruling passion,
And before each dame and maid became
Slave to the tyrant fashion!
There are no girls like the good old girls,—
Against the world I'd stake 'em!
As buxom and smart and clean of heart
As the Lord knew how to make 'em!
They were rich in spirit and common-sense,
And piety all supportin';
They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too,
And they made such likely courtin'!
There are no boys like the good old boys,—
When we were boys together!
When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet
That dimpled the laughing heather;
When the pewee sung to the summer dawn
Of the bee in the billowy clover,
Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will
Echoed his night song over.
There is no love like the good old love,—
The love that mother gave us!
We are old, old men, yet we pine again
For that precious grace,—God save us!
So we dream and dream of the good old times,
And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder,
As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams
Of heaven away off yonder.
The days when we were youthful!
When humankind were pure of mind,
And speech and deeds were truthful;
Before a love for sordid gold
Became man's ruling passion,
And before each dame and maid became
Slave to the tyrant fashion!
There are no girls like the good old girls,—
Against the world I'd stake 'em!
As buxom and smart and clean of heart
As the Lord knew how to make 'em!
They were rich in spirit and common-sense,
And piety all supportin';
They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too,
And they made such likely courtin'!
There are no boys like the good old boys,—
When we were boys together!
When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet
That dimpled the laughing heather;
When the pewee sung to the summer dawn
Of the bee in the billowy clover,
Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will
Echoed his night song over.
There is no love like the good old love,—
The love that mother gave us!
We are old, old men, yet we pine again
For that precious grace,—God save us!
So we dream and dream of the good old times,
And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder,
As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams
Of heaven away off yonder.
OUR WHIPPINGS.
COME, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,—
The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys
As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise!
Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show
The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago;
What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,—
Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,—oh, my!
The way that we played hookey those many years ago,
We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know!
The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,—
Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold!
How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his
He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"!
It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,—
Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though!
We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days,
And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze;
How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,—
But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand;
And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed,
Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red.
Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert
The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!
For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild
That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child;
And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she
Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we:
But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,—
Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made her cry!
Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid,
For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!
In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four,
But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!
Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone:
"I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!"
Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,—
What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview!
Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert,
With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!
The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest
Is often loath to realize that all is for the best;
Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight
The bufferings of childhood,—as we do here to-night.
The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways
That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,—
So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,—
The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys
As ever worried home folks with their everlasting noise!
Egad! and were we so disposed, I'll venture we could show
The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago;
What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify,—
Mother's whippings didn't hurt; but father's,—oh, my!
The way that we played hookey those many years ago,
We'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know!
The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told,—
Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold!
How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his
He'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz"!
It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe,—
Mother's whippings didn't count; father's did, though!
We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days,
And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze;
How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand,—
But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand;
And after tea he'd beckon us to join him in the shed,
Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red.
Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert
The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt!
For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild
That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child;
And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she
Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we:
But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,—
Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made her cry!
Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid,
For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!
In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four,
But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more!
Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone:
"I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!"
Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,—
What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview!
Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert,
With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!
The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest
Is often loath to realize that all is for the best;
Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight
The bufferings of childhood,—as we do here to-night.
The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways
That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,—
So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.
BION'S SONG OF EROS.
EROS is the god of love;
He and I are hand-in-glove.
All the gentle, gracious Muses
Follow Eros where he leads,
And they bless the bard who chooses
To proclaim love's famous deeds;
Him they serve in rapturous glee,—
That is why they're good to me.
Sometimes I have gone astray
From love's sunny, flowery way:
How I floundered, how I stuttered!
And, deprived of ways and means,
What egregious rot I uttered,—
Such as suits the magazines!
I was rescued only when
Eros called me back again.
Gods forefend that I should shun
That benignant Mother's son!
Why, the poet who refuses
To emblazon love's delights
Gets the mitten from the Muses,—
Then what balderdash he writes!
I love Love; which being so,
See how smooth my verses flow!
Gentle Eros, lead the way,—
I will follow while I may:
Be thy path by hill or hollow,
I will follow fast and free;
And when I'm too old to follow,
I will sit and sing of thee,—
Potent still in intellect,
Sit, and sing, and retrospect.
He and I are hand-in-glove.
All the gentle, gracious Muses
Follow Eros where he leads,
And they bless the bard who chooses
To proclaim love's famous deeds;
Him they serve in rapturous glee,—
That is why they're good to me.
Sometimes I have gone astray
From love's sunny, flowery way:
How I floundered, how I stuttered!
And, deprived of ways and means,
What egregious rot I uttered,—
Such as suits the magazines!
I was rescued only when
Eros called me back again.
Gods forefend that I should shun
That benignant Mother's son!
Why, the poet who refuses
To emblazon love's delights
Gets the mitten from the Muses,—
Then what balderdash he writes!
I love Love; which being so,
See how smooth my verses flow!
Gentle Eros, lead the way,—
I will follow while I may:
Be thy path by hill or hollow,
I will follow fast and free;
And when I'm too old to follow,
I will sit and sing of thee,—
Potent still in intellect,
Sit, and sing, and retrospect.
MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE.
THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget;
And the time I remember's the evening I met
A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown
Who made my acquaintance while painting the town:
A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South,
And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth;
He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard,
But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard:
I felt that he honored and flattered me when
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I wonder that never again since that night
A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight;
I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill
That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill:
I wonder and pine; for—I say it again—
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud;
But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud;
To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day,
With wheat going up, and the devil to pay,
These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen:
"Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten."
And the time I remember's the evening I met
A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown
Who made my acquaintance while painting the town:
A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South,
And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth;
He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard,
But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard:
I felt that he honored and flattered me when
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I wonder that never again since that night
A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight;
I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill
That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill:
I wonder and pine; for—I say it again—
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud;
But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud;
To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day,
With wheat going up, and the devil to pay,
These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen:
"Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten."
POET AND KING.
THOUGH I am king, I have no throne
Save this rough wooden siege alone;
I have no empire, yet my sway
Extends a myriad leagues away;
No servile vassal bends his knee
In grovelling reverence to me,
Yet at my word all hearts beat high,
And there is fire in every eye,
And love and gratitude they bring
As tribute unto me, a king.
The folk that throng the busy street
Know not it is a king they meet;
And I am glad there is not seen
The monarch in my face and mien.
I should not choose to be the cause
Of fawning or of coarse applause:
I am content to know the arts
Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts;
For when unto their hearts I sing,
I am a king, I am a king!
My sceptre,—see, it is a pen!
Wherewith I rule these hearts of men.
Sometime it pleaseth to beguile
Its monarch fancy with a smile;
Sometime it is athirst for tears:
And so adown the laurelled years
I walk, the noblest lord on earth,
Dispensing sympathy and mirth.
Aha! it is a magic thing
That makes me what I am,—a king!
Let empires crumble as they may,
Proudly I hold imperial sway;
The sunshine and the rain of years
Are human smiles and human tears
That come or vanish at my call,—
I am the monarch of them all!
Mindful alone of this am I:
The songs I sing shall never die;
Not even envious Death can wring
His glory from so great a king.
Come, brother, be a king with me,
And rule mankind eternally;
Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong,
Defend the truth, combat the wrong!
You'll find no sceptre like the pen
To hold and sway the hearts of men;
Its edicts flow in blood and tears
That will outwash the flood of years:
So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing!
And be with me a king, a king!
Save this rough wooden siege alone;
I have no empire, yet my sway
Extends a myriad leagues away;
No servile vassal bends his knee
In grovelling reverence to me,
Yet at my word all hearts beat high,
And there is fire in every eye,
And love and gratitude they bring
As tribute unto me, a king.
The folk that throng the busy street
Know not it is a king they meet;
And I am glad there is not seen
The monarch in my face and mien.
I should not choose to be the cause
Of fawning or of coarse applause:
I am content to know the arts
Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts;
For when unto their hearts I sing,
I am a king, I am a king!
My sceptre,—see, it is a pen!
Wherewith I rule these hearts of men.
Sometime it pleaseth to beguile
Its monarch fancy with a smile;
Sometime it is athirst for tears:
And so adown the laurelled years
I walk, the noblest lord on earth,
Dispensing sympathy and mirth.
Aha! it is a magic thing
That makes me what I am,—a king!
Let empires crumble as they may,
Proudly I hold imperial sway;
The sunshine and the rain of years
Are human smiles and human tears
That come or vanish at my call,—
I am the monarch of them all!
Mindful alone of this am I:
The songs I sing shall never die;
Not even envious Death can wring
His glory from so great a king.
Come, brother, be a king with me,
And rule mankind eternally;
Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong,
Defend the truth, combat the wrong!
You'll find no sceptre like the pen
To hold and sway the hearts of men;
Its edicts flow in blood and tears
That will outwash the flood of years:
So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing!
And be with me a king, a king!
LYDIA DICK.
WHEN I was a boy at college,
Filling up with classic knowledge,
Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bentley
Used to praise so eloquently
"Opera Horatii."
Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning powers got stronger,
As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,
Massic-loving poet fellow,
Horace, knew a thing or two.
Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,
Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and arms;
While the raiment that invested
Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of hers that fired him,
Those sweet accents that inspired him,
And her crown of glorious hair,—
These things baffle my description:
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried; so I forbear.
Maybe Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick.
Glad—yes, glad I am to know it!
I, a fin de siècle poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady,
And the pranks she used to play;
And I'm cheered,—for all we sages
Joy when from those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder,
With good reason, why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim,
Find such solace in the giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And our hearts beat high and quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot.
Still Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.
Filling up with classic knowledge,
Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bentley
Used to praise so eloquently
"Opera Horatii."
Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning powers got stronger,
As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,
Massic-loving poet fellow,
Horace, knew a thing or two.
Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,
Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and arms;
While the raiment that invested
Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of hers that fired him,
Those sweet accents that inspired him,
And her crown of glorious hair,—
These things baffle my description:
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried; so I forbear.
Maybe Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick.
Glad—yes, glad I am to know it!
I, a fin de siècle poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady,
And the pranks she used to play;
And I'm cheered,—for all we sages
Joy when from those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder,
With good reason, why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim,
Find such solace in the giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And our hearts beat high and quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot.
Still Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.
LIZZIE.
I WONDER ef all wimmin air
Like Lizzie is when we go out
To theaters an' concerts where
Is things the papers talk about.
Do other wimmin fret an' stew
Like they wuz bein' crucified,—
Frettin' a show or concert through,
With wonderin' ef the baby cried?
Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there
To see that everything is right;
Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care
Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite.
Yet what am I to answer when
She kind uv fidgets at my side,
An' asks me every now an' then,
"I wonder ef the baby cried"?
Seems like she seen two little eyes
A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile;
Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries
Uv one she thinks uv all the while;
An' so she's sorry that she come.
An' though she allus tries to hide
The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum
Than wonder ef the baby cried.
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike—
By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest;
There never wuz a little tyke,
But that his mother loved him best.
And nex' to bein' what I be—
The husband uv my gentle bride—
I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee,
With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.
Like Lizzie is when we go out
To theaters an' concerts where
Is things the papers talk about.
Do other wimmin fret an' stew
Like they wuz bein' crucified,—
Frettin' a show or concert through,
With wonderin' ef the baby cried?
Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there
To see that everything is right;
Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care
Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite.
Yet what am I to answer when
She kind uv fidgets at my side,
An' asks me every now an' then,
"I wonder ef the baby cried"?
Seems like she seen two little eyes
A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile;
Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries
Uv one she thinks uv all the while;
An' so she's sorry that she come.
An' though she allus tries to hide
The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum
Than wonder ef the baby cried.
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike—
By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest;
There never wuz a little tyke,
But that his mother loved him best.
And nex' to bein' what I be—
The husband uv my gentle bride—
I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee,
With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.
LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE.
AFTER dear old grandma died,
Hunting through an oaken chest
In the attic, we espied
What repaid our childish quest:
'Twas a homely little slate,
Seemingly of ancient date.
On its quaint and battered face
Was the picture of a cart
Drawn with all that awkward grace
Which betokens childish art.
But what meant this legend, pray:
"Homer drew this yesterday"?
Mother recollected then
What the years were fain to hide:
She was but a baby when
Little Homer lived and died.
Forty years, so mother said,
Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years
Grandma kept from all apart,
Hallowed by her lonely tears
And the breaking of her heart;
While each year that sped away
Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate
Grandma's baby's fingers pressed,
To a memory consecrate,
Lieth in the oaken chest,
Where, unwilling we should know,
Grandma put it years ago.
Hunting through an oaken chest
In the attic, we espied
What repaid our childish quest:
'Twas a homely little slate,
Seemingly of ancient date.
On its quaint and battered face
Was the picture of a cart
Drawn with all that awkward grace
Which betokens childish art.
But what meant this legend, pray:
"Homer drew this yesterday"?
Mother recollected then
What the years were fain to hide:
She was but a baby when
Little Homer lived and died.
Forty years, so mother said,
Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years
Grandma kept from all apart,
Hallowed by her lonely tears
And the breaking of her heart;
While each year that sped away
Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate
Grandma's baby's fingers pressed,
To a memory consecrate,
Lieth in the oaken chest,
Where, unwilling we should know,
Grandma put it years ago.
ALWAYS RIGHT.
DON'T take on so, Hiram,
But do what you're told to do;
It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows
A heap sight more than you.
I'll allow that sometimes her way
Don't seem the wisest, quite;
But the easiest way,
When she's had her say,
Is to reckon yer mother is right.
Courted her ten long winters,
Saw her to singin'-school;
When she went down one spell to town,
I cried like a durned ol' fool;
Got mad at the boys for callin'
When I sparked her Sunday night:
But she said she knew
A thing or two,—
An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right.
I courted till I wuz aging,
And she wuz past her prime,—
I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes
When I popped f'r the hundredth time.
Said she'd never have took me
If I hadn't stuck so tight;
Opined that we
Could never agree,—
And I reckon yer mother wuz right!
But do what you're told to do;
It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows
A heap sight more than you.
I'll allow that sometimes her way
Don't seem the wisest, quite;
But the easiest way,
When she's had her say,
Is to reckon yer mother is right.
Courted her ten long winters,
Saw her to singin'-school;
When she went down one spell to town,
I cried like a durned ol' fool;
Got mad at the boys for callin'
When I sparked her Sunday night:
But she said she knew
A thing or two,—
An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right.
I courted till I wuz aging,
And she wuz past her prime,—
I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes
When I popped f'r the hundredth time.
Said she'd never have took me
If I hadn't stuck so tight;
Opined that we
Could never agree,—
And I reckon yer mother wuz right!
"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!"
WHERE my true love abideth
I make my way to-night;
Lo! waiting, she
Espieth me,
And calleth in delight:
"I see his steed anear
Come trotting with my dear,—
Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot,
Trot thou my lover here!"
Aloose I cast the bridle,
And ply the whip and spur;
And gayly I
Speed this reply,
While faring on to her:
"Oh, true love, fear thou not!
I seek our trysting spot;
And double feed be yours, my steed,
If you more swiftly trot."
I vault from out the saddle,
And make my good steed fast;
Then to my breast
My love is pressed,—
At last, true heart, at last!
The garden drowsing lies,
The stars fold down their eyes,—
In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not,
Nor stamp in restless wise!
O passing sweet communion
Of young hearts, warm and true!
To thee belongs
The old, old songs
Love finds forever new.
We sing those songs, and then
Cometh the moment when
It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,—
Trot, trot me home again!"
I make my way to-night;
Lo! waiting, she
Espieth me,
And calleth in delight:
"I see his steed anear
Come trotting with my dear,—
Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot,
Trot thou my lover here!"
Aloose I cast the bridle,
And ply the whip and spur;
And gayly I
Speed this reply,
While faring on to her:
"Oh, true love, fear thou not!
I seek our trysting spot;
And double feed be yours, my steed,
If you more swiftly trot."
I vault from out the saddle,
And make my good steed fast;
Then to my breast
My love is pressed,—
At last, true heart, at last!
The garden drowsing lies,
The stars fold down their eyes,—
In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not,
Nor stamp in restless wise!
O passing sweet communion
Of young hearts, warm and true!
To thee belongs
The old, old songs
Love finds forever new.
We sing those songs, and then
Cometh the moment when
It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,—
Trot, trot me home again!"
PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG.
WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago,
Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro;
And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore,
With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,—
A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read
The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said:
"The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue;
You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog."
McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name
Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame.
A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,—
Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup!
The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green
Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen;
And my proud name was heralded,—oh that I'd gone incog.
When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog!
Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town?
Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down!
The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said
The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead,
And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest
The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast;
For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog
When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog.
They never came at all,—aha! I knew it all the time,—
They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime.
Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first!
Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst!
But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night,
When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's blight,—
When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog
For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog!
Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro,
Ejaculating platitudes that were quite mal à propos;
And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot
Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot.
I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt,
If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front;
But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log
When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog.
We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,—
For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track?
"Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame,
What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!"
Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties
'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies;
But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,—
'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog.
So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,—
And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same.
Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies!
The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies.
So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware!
Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare;
Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog,
But never go to Providence to try it on a dog.
Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro;
And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore,
With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,—
A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read
The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said:
"The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue;
You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog."
McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name
Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame.
A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,—
Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup!
The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green
Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen;
And my proud name was heralded,—oh that I'd gone incog.
When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog!
Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town?
Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down!
The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said
The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead,
And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest
The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast;
For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog
When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog.
They never came at all,—aha! I knew it all the time,—
They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime.
Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first!
Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst!
But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night,
When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's blight,—
When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog
For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog!
Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro,
Ejaculating platitudes that were quite mal à propos;
And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot
Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot.
I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt,
If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front;
But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log
When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog.
We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back,—
For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track?
"Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame,
What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!"
Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties
'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies;
But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog,—
'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog.
So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame,—
And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same.
Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies!
The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies.
So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware!
Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare;
Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog,
But never go to Providence to try it on a dog.