With Trumpet and Drum

Nay, stork! thou shalt remain—
I mean not what I said;
Good neighbors we must always be,
So make thy home o’erhead.
I would not change my bench
For any monarch’s throne,
Nor sacrifice at any price
My darling and my own!
Stork! on my roof-tree bide,
That, seeing thee anear,
I’ll thankful be God sent by thee
Me and my darling here!

“LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY”

LAST night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing,
I heard a moder to her dearie singing
“Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”;
And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping,
And on his moder’s breast did fall a-sleeping
To “lolly, lolly, lollyby.”

Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging,
But fairer yet the moder’s gentle singing—
“Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”;
And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling
In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling
With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.”

Then to my harte saies I: “Oh, that thy beating
Colde be assuaged by some sweete voice repeating
‘Lollyby, lolly, lollyby’;
That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping
With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping,
To ‘lolly, lolly, lollyby’!”

Some time—mayhap when curfew bells are ringing—
A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing
“Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”;
Some time, mayhap, with Chryst’s love round me streaming,
I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming,
With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.”

LIZZIE AND THE BABY

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 and then:
“I wonder if 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.

AT THE DOOR

I THOUGHT myself, indeed, secure
So fast the door, so firm the lock;
But, lo! he toddling comes to lure
My parent ear with timorous knock.

My heart were stone could it withstand
The sweetness of my baby’s plea,—
That timorous, baby knocking and
“Please let me in,—it’s only me.”

I threw aside the unfinished book,
Regardless of its tempting charms,
And, opening wide the door, I took
My laughing darling in my arms.

Who knows but in Eternity,
I, like a truant child, shall wait
The glories of a life to be,
Beyond the Heavenly Father’s gate?

And will that Heavenly Father heed
The truant’s supplicating cry,
As at the outer door I plead,
“’Tis I, O Father! only I?”

HUGO’S “CHILD AT PLAY”

A CHILD was singing at his play—
I heard the song, and paused to hear;
His mother moaning, groaning lay,
And, lo! a specter stood anear!

The child shook sunlight from his hair,
And caroled gaily all day long—
Aye, with that specter gloating there,
The innocent made mirth and song!

How like to harvest fruit wert thou,
O sorrow, in that dismal room—
God ladeth not the tender bough
Save with the joy of bud and bloom!

HI-SPY

STRANGE that the city thoroughfare,
Noisy and bustling all the day,
Should with the night renounce its care
And lend itself to children’s play!

Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys,
And have been so since Abel’s birth,
And shall be so till dolls and toys
Are with the children swept from earth.

The selfsame sport that crowns the day
Of many a Syrian shepherd’s son,
Beguiles the little lads at play
By night in stately Babylon.

I hear their voices in the street,
Yet ’tis so different now from then!
Come, brother! from your winding-sheet,
And let us two be boys again!

LITTLE BOY BLUE

THE little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place—
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.

FATHER’S LETTER

I’M going to write a letter to our oldest boy who went
Out West last spring to practise law and run for president;
I’ll tell him all the gossip I guess he’d like to hear,
For he hasn’t seen the home-folks for going on a year!
Most generally it’s Marthy does the writing, but as she
Is suffering with a felon, why, the job devolves on me—
So, when the supper things are done and put away to-night,
I’ll draw my boots and shed my coat and settle down to write.

I’ll tell him crops are looking up, with prospects big for corn,
That, fooling with the barnyard gate, the off-ox hurt his horn;
That the Templar lodge is doing well—Tim Bennett joined last week
When the prohibition candidate for Congress came to speak;
That the old gray woodchuck’s living still down in the pasture-lot,
A-wondering what’s become of little William, like as not!
Oh, yes, there’s lots of pleasant things and no bad news to tell,
Except that old Bill Graves was sick, but now he’s up and well.

Cy Cooper says—(but I’ll not pass my word that it is so,
For Cy he is some punkins on spinning yarns, you know)—
He says that, since the freshet, the pickerel are so thick
In Baker’s pond you can wade in and kill ’em with a stick!
The Hubbard girls are teaching school, and Widow Cutler’s Bill
Has taken Eli Baxter’s place in Luther Eastman’s mill;
Old Deacon Skinner’s dog licked Deacon Howard’s dog last week,
And now there are two lambkins in one flock that will not speak.

The yellow rooster froze his feet, a-wadin’ through the snow,
And now he leans agin the fence when he starts in to crow;
The chestnut colt that was so skittish when he went away—
I’ve broke him to the sulky and I drive him every day!
We’ve got pink window curtains for the front spare-room up-stairs,
And Lizzie’s made new covers for the parlor lounge and chairs;
We’ve roofed the barn and braced the elm that has the hangbird’s nest—
Oh, there’s been lots of changes since our William went out West!

Old Uncle Enos Packard is getting mighty gay—
He gave Miss Susan Birchard a peach the other day!
His late lamented Sarah hain’t been buried quite a year,
So his purring ’round Miss Susan causes criticism here.
At the last donation party, the minister opined
That, if he’d half suspicioned what was coming, he’d resigned;
For, though they brought him slippers like he was a centipede,
His pantry was depleted by the consequential feed!
These are the things I’ll write him—our boy that’s in the West;
And I’ll tell him how we miss him—his mother and the rest;
Why, we never have an apple-pie that mother doesn’t say:
“He liked it so—I wish that he could have a piece to-day!”
I’ll tell him we are prospering, and hope he is the same—
That we hope he’ll have no trouble getting on to wealth and fame;
And just before I write “good-by from father and the rest,”
I’ll say that “mother sends her love,” and that will please him best.

For when I went away from home, the weekly news I heard
Was nothing to the tenderness I found in that one word—
The sacred name of mother—why, even now as then,
The thought brings back the saintly face, the gracious love again;
And in my bosom seems to come a peace that is divine,
As if an angel spirit communed a while with mine;
And one man’s heart is strengthened by the message from above,
And earth seems nearer heaven when “mother sends her love.”

JEWISH LULLABY

MY harp is on the willow-tree,
Else would I sing, O love, to thee
A song of long-ago—
Perchance the song that Miriam sung
Ere yet Judea’s heart was wrung
By centuries of woe.

I ate my crust in tears to-day,
As scourged I went upon my way—
And yet my darling smiled;
Aye, beating at my breast, he laughed—
My anguish curdled not the draught—
’Twas sweet with love, my child!

The shadow of the centuries lies
Deep in thy dark and mournful eye
But, hush! and close them now,
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream
The light of other days shall seem
To glorify thy brow!

Our harp is on the willow-tree—
I have no song to sing to thee,
As shadows round us roll;
But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear
Jehovah’s voice that speaks to cheer
Judea’s fainting soul!

OUR WHIPPINGS

COME, Harvey, let us sit a while and talk about the times
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rimes—
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-defense 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 buffetings 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 rimes—
So, Harvey, let us sit a while and think upon those times.

THE ARMENIAN MOTHER

I WAS a mother, and I weep;
The night is come—the day is sped—
The night of woe profound, for, oh,
My little golden son is dead!

The pretty rose that bloomed anon
Upon my mother breast, they stole;
They let the dove I nursed with love
Fly far away—so sped my soul!

That falcon Death swooped down upon
My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung;
’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark,
And so, and so my heart was wrung!

Before my eyes, they sent the hail
Upon my green pomegranate-tree—
Upon the bough where only now
A rosy apple bent to me.

They shook my beauteous almond-tree,
Beating its glorious bloom to death—
They strewed it round upon the ground,
And mocked its fragrant dying breath.

I was a mother, and I weep;
I seek the rose where nestleth none—
No more is heard the singing bird—
I have no little golden son!

So fall the shadows over me,
The blighted garden, lonely nest.
Reach down in love, O God above!
And fold my darling to thy breast.

HEIGHO, MY DEARIE

A MOONBEAM floateth from the skies,
Whispering: “Heigho, my dearie;
I would spin a web before your eyes—
A beautiful web of silver light
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway
And the snow-white lambkins are at play—
Heigho, my dearie!”

A brownie stealeth from the vine,
Singing: “Heigho, my dearie;
And will you hear this song of mine—
A song of the land of murk and mist
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
Then let the moonbeam’s web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night—
Heigho, my dearie!”

The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring: “Heigho, my dearie;
I bring a mariner’s prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies—
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow he loveth so.
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow—
Heigho, my dearie!”

TO A USURPER

AHA! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,—
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who’ve ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he’ll be his mamma’s beau
When he’s a “gweat, big man”!

You stingy boy! you’ve always had
A share in mamma’s heart.
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see,
Inclines to take your part,—
As if a dual monarchy
Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped,
The bearded man, I trow,
Will quite forget he ever said
He’d be his mamma’s beau.

Renounce your treason, little son,
Leave mamma’s heart to me;
For there will come another one
To claim your loyalty.

And when that other comes to you,
God grant her love may shine
Through all your life, as fair and true
As mamma’s does through mine!

THE BELL-FLOWER TREE

WHEN brother Bill and I were boys,
How often in the summer we
Would seek the shade your branches made,
O fair and gracious bell-flower tree!
Amid the clover bloom we sat
And looked upon the Holyoke range,
While Fido lay a space away,
Thinking our silence very strange.

The woodchuck in the pasture-lot,
Beside his furtive hole elate,
Heard, off beyond the pickerel pond,
The redwing-blackbird chide her mate.
The bumblebee went bustling round,
Pursuing labors never done—
With drone and sting, the greedy thing
Begrudged the sweets we lay upon!

Our eyes looked always at the hills—
The Holyoke hills that seemed to stand
Between us boys and pictured joys
Of conquest in a further land!
Ah, how we coveted the time
When we should leave this prosy place
And work our wills beyond those hills,
And meet creation face to face!

You must have heard our childish talk—
Perhaps our prattle gave you pain;
For then, old friend, you seemed to bend
Your kindly arms about us twain.
It might have been the wind that sighed,
And yet I thought I heard you say:
“Seek not the ills beyond those hills—
Oh, stay with me, my children, stay!”

See, I’ve come back; the boy you knew
Is wiser, older, sadder grown;
I come once more, just as of yore—
I come, but see! I come alone!
The memory of a brother’s love,
Of blighted hopes, I bring with me,
And here I lay my heart to-day—
A weary heart, O bell-flower tree!

So let me nestle in your shade
As though I were a boy again,
And pray extend your arms, old friend,
And love me as you used to then.
Sing softly as you used to sing,
And maybe I shall seem to be
A little boy and feel the joy
Of thy repose, O bell-flower tree!

FAIRY AND CHILD

OH, listen, little Dear-My-Soul,
To the fairy voices calling,
For the moon is high in the misty sky
And the honey dew is falling;
To the midnight feast in the clover bloom
The bluebells are a-ringing,
And it’s “Come away to the land of fay”
That the katydid is singing.

Oh, slumber, little Dear-My-Soul,
And hand in hand we’ll wander—
Hand in hand to the beautiful land
Of Balow, away off yonder;
Or we’ll sail along in a lily leaf
Into the white moon’s halo—
Over a stream of mist and dream
Into the land of Balow.

Or, you shall have two beautiful wings—
Two gossamer wings and airy,
And all the while shall the old moon smile
And think you a little fairy;
And you shall dance in the velvet sky,
And the silvery stars shall twinkle
And dream sweet dreams as over their beams
Your footfalls softly tinkle.

THE GRANDSIRE

I LOVED him so; his voice had grown
Into my heart, and now to hear
The pretty song he had sung so long
Die on the lips to me so dear!
He a child with golden curls,
And I with head as white as snow—
I knelt down there and made this pray’r:
“God, let me be the first to go!”

How often I recall it now:
My darling tossing on his bed,
I sitting there in mute despair,
Smoothing the curls that crowned his head.
They did not speak to me of death—
A feeling here had told me so;
What could I say or do but pray
That I might be the first to go?

Yet, thinking of him standing there
Out yonder as the years go by,
Waiting for me to come, I see
’Twas better he should wait, not I.
For when I walk the vale of death,
Above the wail of Jordan’s flow
Shall rise a song that shall make me strong—
The call of the child that was first to go.

HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN

FAIR is the castle up on the hill—
Hushaby, sweet my own!
The night is fair, and the waves are still,
And the wind is singing to you and to me
In this lowly home beside the sea—
Hushaby, sweet my own!

On yonder hill is store of wealth—
Hushaby, sweet my own!
And revelers drink to a little one’s health;
But you and I bide night and day
For the other love that has sailed away—
Hushaby, sweet my own!

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep
Ghostlike, O my own!
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;
Oh, see them not and make no cry
Till the angels of death have passed us by—
Hushaby, sweet my own!

Ah, little they reck of you and me—
Hushaby, sweet my own!
In our lonely home beside the sea;
They seek the castle up on the hill,
And there they will do their ghostly will—
Hushaby, O my own!

Here by the sea a mother croons
“Hushaby, sweet my own!”
In yonder castle a mother swoons
While the angels go down to the misty deep
Bearing a little one fast asleep—
Hushaby, sweet my own!

CHILD AND MOTHER

O MOTHER-my-love, if you’ll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land—
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.
We’ll walk in a sweet-posie garden out there
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.

There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you;
There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you.
For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream,
And sing you asleep when you’re weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.

And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head
In the bosom that’s soothed me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So, Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we’ll wander—
Away through the mist to the beautiful land—
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder!

MEDIEVAL EVENTIDE SONG

COME hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,
And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may,
And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down
A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel angell of his owne;
And if so bee they love that childe, he willeth it to staye,
But elsewise, in his mercie, he taketh it awaye.

And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe,
And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled;
They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play,
And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me;
If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde be!
For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare,
What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?

Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,
And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may,
And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

ARMENIAN LULLABY

IF thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes,
My mulberry one, my golden sun!
The rose shall sing thee lullabies,
My pretty cosset lambkin!
And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree,
With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee—
A silver boat in a golden sea,
My velvet love, my nestling dove,
My own pomegranate blossom!

The stork shall guard thee passing well
All night, my sweet! my dimple-feet!
And bring thee myrrh and asphodel,
My gentle rain-of-springtime!
And for thy slumbrous play shall twine
The diamond stars with an emerald vine
To trail in the waves of ruby wine,
My myrtle bloom, my heart’s perfume,
My little chirping sparrow!

And when the morn wakes up to see
My apple bright, my soul’s delight!
The partridge shall come calling thee,
My jar of milk-and-honey!
Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies
In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies,
If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes,
You wakeful one, you naughty son,
You cooing little turtle!

CHRISTMAS TREASURES

I COUNT my treasures o’er with care,—
The little toy my darling knew,
A little sock of faded hue,
A little lock of golden hair.

Long years ago this holy time,
My little one—my all to me—
Sat robed in white upon my knee,
And heard the merry Christmas chime.

“Tell me, my little golden-head,
If Santa Claus should come to-night,
What shall he bring my baby bright,—
What treasure for my boy?” I said.

And then he named this little toy,
While in his round and mournful eyes
There came a look of sweet surprise,
That spake his quiet, trustful joy.

And as he lisped his evening prayer
He asked the boon with childish grace;
Then, toddling to the chimney-place,
He hung this little stocking there.

That night, while lengthening shadows crept,
I saw the white-winged angels come
With singing to our lowly home
And kiss my darling as he slept.

They must have heard his little prayer,
For in the morn, with rapturous face,
He toddled to the chimney-place,
And found this little treasure there.

They came again one Christmas-tide,—
That angel host, so fair and white;
And, singing all that glorious night,
They lured my darling from my side.

A little sock, a little toy,
A little lock of golden hair,
The Christmas music on the air,
A watching for my baby boy!

But if again that angel train
And golden-head come back for me
To bear me to Eternity,
My watching will not be in vain.