Here’s a toast to the kings and the health of
the queens
Of the echoing oval course;
And a song of the steel that is forged for the
wheel
And the hoof of the blue-blood horse!
There’s the song of the steel that is forged for
the wars—
The song of the long, bright sword;
The chant of the weapon the patriot draws
In defence of his land, in support of its laws—
In the cause that his heart has adored.
But the sword that is bared to the glint of the
sun,
—Who knows when that sword will be
sheathed?
For strife plunges hotly when once’tis begun,
So the steel of the sword I forswear and I
shun,
And the horrors its edge has bequeathed.
No, I vaunt the honest circlet to a worthy use
applied—
The steel that flashes swiftly in the broad two-
minute stride;
The steel that clinking hammers in the forges’
clang and heat
Have shaped with merry music for a trotter’s
twinkling feet.
You may choose the glint of sabres or the gleam
of martial arms,
As for me the vibrant flashing of those hoofs
has greater charms,
As I ride the swaying sulky and we cleave the
singing air,
And I hear the merry rick-tack of the trotting
of my mare.
Now what are the prizes of war, my boy,
Or the honors of kingdom and court
To a chap that’s contented with honester joy
Than desperate ventures that crush and de-
stroy
In the din of the battlefield’s sport?
I envy no prowess of warriors of old
Astride of a mail-clad steed.
And I challenge the right of the furious might
That forces an innocent victim to fight
For human ambition or greed.
But ho, for the rush of the steel-shod feet
When the clink of the bright shoe rings—
When the flickering hoofs down the home-
stretch beat
And I on the perch of the sulky seat
Drive hard in the Sport of Kings.
I pledge to you the honor of the ringing, sing-
ing course,
When the tautened reins are throbbing with the
motion of the horse,
When the glossy shoulders glisten with the
twitching muscles’ play,
Beating time in swift staccato to the slender
sulky’s sway.
Let the roaring stand go crazy as we finish at
the pole—
’Tis no human acclamation that avails to stir
my soul,
’Tis the batter and the clatter of those hoofs
that ring and beat,
’Tis the rhythm and the music of those flashing
little feet—
’Tis the sympathy between us, all a-quiver in
the reins,
Till I almost feel the pulsing of the current in
her veins,
And I have no eye or hearing for the vain ac-
claim of man
When my heart and soul are throbbing with
her hoof-beats’ rataplan.
To the king of the course! To the queen of
the track! .
What matter their breeding or name?
To all that have battled the second-hand back
Here’s tribute in measure the same.
Here’s a toast to the king and the health of the
queen,
Who reign on the oval course,
—To the stout, stout steel! forged true for the
wheel
Or the hoof of the blue-blood horse.
I festoon for Bacchus no chaplet of roses,
I will vaunt not the vat—I’ve no homage for
wine;
Panegyric of paint for convivial noses
Shall never find place in a lyric of mine.
Unseemly indeed were such rank exhibition
Of scorn for the statutes that seek to restrain,
By beneficent mandate of stern Prohibition,
The lust for the grape in the good State of
Maine.
So a truce to the bowl and its fervid excitement,
And down with the flagon, the goblet and
stein!
My lyric exalts the more balmy enticement
Of a certain old humble companion of mine.
’Tis addressed
With a zest
Springing out of vague unrest
Stirring underneath my vest.
I’m obsessed
By a guest
Who has come at my behest
From the misty days of boyhood, borne se-
renely in the van
Of the friends that I’d forgotten in the cares
that grind the man.
—You were just a pewter pitcher, a demure
and dull old pot—
With a yee-yaw to your nozzle like the grimace
of a sot.
The knob upon your cover had a truly rakish
cant,
Your paunch was apoplectic and your handle
had a slant
Of a most.convivial nature. But despite your
seedy style
Not a guest upon the threshold got a more
benignant smile
Than when upon a platter, flanked by apples
and by pears,
You rose splashing full of cider up the dark old
cellar stairs.
I’m sure that the fruit that we sacrificed duly
Each fall to the cruel embrace of the press
Had quaffed of the honey of Nature and truly
Deserved from her hand a more tender
caress.
Pm sure that the sun kissed both fruit and the
flower
With all the devotion his warm heart could
bring,
Till Alcohol ceded his ominous power
And gall lost its bitter, the adder its sting,
For though round and round went the old pew-
ter pitcher,
And chucklingly filled for us horn after
horn,
We never saw dragon, blue goblin or witch, or
Required a hoop for our heads in the morn.
Here goes!
Here’s to those
Who sat and warmed their toes
Drowning cares and frets and woes.
No one knows
How memory glows
As I see that ancient nose
Gleaming blandly in the circle of the friends of
long ago
Within, the light; without, the night and the
wind and drifting snow.
Then the dented pewter pitcher poured for us
its amber stream
While the tinkling bubbles winked upon the
brink with dancing gleam,
Ah, there was no guile within you as there were
no gauds without
—Just a plain, old-fashioned fellow, with an
awful homely snout;
And you never left us headaches and you didn’t
stir the bile,
And no guest upon the threshold got a more
benignant smile
Than when, upon a platter, flanked by apples
and by pears,
You rose splashing full of cider up the dark old
cellar stairs.
There was Sinon, he of Troy, and Ulysses, too,
and Cain,
Who preceded many centuries the liars here in
Maine.
There was Gulliver, Munchausen, there was
Ananias, too,
A very handsome job of it those gentlemen
could do.
Yet look at Ananias! Why, his story knocked
him dead,
But here in Maine the liar “does” the other
man instead.
And Sinon, he of Troy, had to plan and build
his lie,
But here in Maine the liar doesn’t even have
to try.
For the pure prevarication comes cascading
down his lip
And he never seems to falter or to stub his toe
and trip.
And he walks abroad with honor, and no mortal
will arraign
The pure and worthy motives of the liar here
in Maine.
His strongest hold is fishing, and he fixes with
his eye
The victim who must listen and who never
dares deny.
Each river and pellucid pond, each brooklet and
each stream,
Possesses fifty liars to preserve it in esteem.
And he that owns a yaller dog, and he that
owns a hoss
Will never see their laurels dimmed, if words
can add a gloss.
’Tis true the old inhabitant, narrating ancient
tales,
Occasionally soars to heights where homely
language fails.
So then, alas, he’s hampered some, but note
his kindling eye,
And as he gets his second wind, observe how
he can lie!
’Tis no invidious charge I bring against this
worthy crew,
We love the lies they tell to us and love the
liars too.
They hold to truth in business deals, they’d
never lie to cheat;
But when the “sport” comes down from town,
by gracious he’s their meat.
They “torch” him up with narrative until his
fancy steams
And swogons, yaps, and witherlicks go ramp-
ing through his dreams.
For when our solemn ruminants describe the
olden times
They stimulate a state of mind I can’t describe
in rhymes.
I pen this humble lyric and I bring a wreath of
bay,
For the good prevaricators doing business down
this way.
May their tongues be ever limber, and im-
agination free,
With no interloping infidel to ask how such
can be.
May the plug from which they nibble spice a
piquant, pungent tale,
May words to paint the details of their fiction
never fail.
Let the chips from which they whittle always
have an even grain,
And we’ll challenge all creation with our liars
here in Maine.
Doctor Pluff, who lived in Cornville, he was
hearty, brisk and bluff,
Didn’t have much extry knowledge, but in
some ways knowed enough;
Knowed enough to doctor hosses, cows an’ dogs
an’ hens an’ sheep,
When he come to doctor humans, wal, he wasn’t
quite so deep.
Still, he kind o’ got ambitious, an’ he went an’
stubbed his toe,
When he tried to tackle subjects that he really
didn’t know.
Doc he started out the fust-off as a vet’rinary
doc,
An’ he made a reputation jest as solid as a rock.
Doct’rin’ hosses’ throats or such like, why, there
warn’t a man in town
Who could take a cone of paper, poof the sul-
phur furder down.
He could handle pips an’ garget in a brisk an’
thorough style,
An’ there wan’t a cow’t would hook him when
he give her castor ile.
As V. S. he had us solid, but he loosened up his
hold
When he doctored Uncle Peaslee for his reg’lar
April cold.
Uncle Peaslee allus caught it when he took
his flannels off,
For a week or two he’d wheezle, sniff an’ snee-
zle, bark an’ cough.
An’ at last, in desperation, when the thing be-
came so tough,
He adopted some suggestions that were made
by Doctor Pluff.
Fust o’ March he started early an’ he reg’lar
ev’ry day
From his heavy winter woolens tore a little
strip away.
For the doc he had insisted that the change
could thus be made,
’Cause the system wouldn’t notice such an easy,
steady grade.
Walsir,’bout the last of April, Uncle Peaslee
he had on
Jest the wris’ban’s an’ the collar—all the rest
of it was gone.
Then—with Doctor Pluff advisin’—on a mild
an’ pleasant day,
He took off the collar ‘n wris’ban’s, and he
throwed the things away.
An’ in lesser’n thutty hours he was sudden
tooken down
With the wust case of pneumony that we ever
knowed in town.
An’ he dropped away in no time; it was awful
kind of rough,
An’ we had our fust misgivin’s’bout the skill
of Old Doc Pluff.
Reckoned that ’ere scrape would down him an’
he’d stick to hens an’ cows,
But he’d got to be ambitious, an’ he tackled
Irai Howes.
Uncle Iral’s kind o’ feeble, but was bound to
wean a caff;
Went to pull him off from suckin’ when the
critter’d had his haff.
Caff he turned around an’ bunted—made him’s
mad’s a tyke, ye see—
An’ old Iral’s leg was broken, little ways above
the knee.
T’other doctor couldn’t git there’cause the
goin’ was so rough,
So they had to run their chances and they called
on Doctor Pluff.
Doc he found old Irai groanin’ where they’d
laid him on the bed,
An’ he took his old black finger, rolled up Iral’s
lip an’ said,
“Hay-teeth worn; can’t chaw his vittles!
Vittles therefore disagree,
It’s as tough a case of colic as I think I ever
see.”
Some one started then to tell him, but the doc
he had the floor,
An’ he snapped ’em up so spiteful that the}
didn’t say no more.
Then he wrinkled up his eyebrows, pursed his
lips as tight’s a bung,
Pried apart old Iral’s grinders an’ says he,
“Le’s see your tongue.”
“Why,” says he, “I see the trouble—you’ve
got garget of the blood,
An’ if symptoms hain’t deceivin’, you have also
lost your cud.”
“Blame yer soul,” groaned Uncle Irai, “can’t
ye see what’s ailin’ me?
That ’ere leg is broke!” “Oh, sartin,” says
the doc, “I see! I see!”
Then he pulled off Iral’s trousers, an’ he spit
upon his fist,
Grabbed that leg in good old earnest an’ com-
menced to twist an’ twist.
Irai howled an’ yowled an’ fainted, then come
to an’ howled some more,
He an’ doc they fit an’ wrassled on the bed an’
on the floor.
Doc, though, held him to the wickin’—let old
Irai howl an’ beg,
Said he’d got to do his duty, straight’nin out
his blamed old leg.
When the splints come off, though, later, wal-
sir, Irai was provoked,
Hain’t surprised it made him ugly, for he sar-
tinly was soaked.
Doc had set it so the kneejoint comes behind,
jest like a cow’s,
An’ ’twould make ye die a-laughin’, would that
gait of Irai Howes’.
If that case of Uncle Peaslee wasn’t damagin’
enough,
Bet your life that job on Irai made us shy of
old Doc Pluff.
Now this is the story of Hunneman Two,
Old Hunneman Two from Andover town;
—A tub with the likeliest, heftiest crew
That ever hoorayed in a hot break-’er-down.
And I’ll give you the facts, for if any one knows
It’s me who was Hunneman’s foreman of hose:
Ev’ry feller we mustered was over six feet
And the gang that we brought to a fireman’s
meet
They never was licked and they never was
downed,
And a crowd up against us would likely get
drowned.
Ev’ry man in the forty was six feet and more
And their shirts was the reddest that ever men
wore;
Whenever they hollered they’d jump up a yard
And when they came down they came dreffully
hard.
Ev’ry man had a trumpet and some of them
tew
—And’twas safest to plug up your ears when
they blew.
They’d ballast the tub with a cart-load of stone
And stuff her with sody ontil she would groan
Then they’d spit on their fists and would gaffle
that beam
And whoop fa, la larry, my jinks what a
stream!
’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog-
gled,
Hump-jump-pump!
Give her the tar till her old sides woggled,
Pump-jump-hump!
Down with the beam till it sartin would seem
We were drowndin’ the sun in a hissin’, white
stream.
Oh, there never was anything up with the crew
That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.
One time we were playin’ at Andover fair
And old Uncle Boomer drove up with his mare.
She cocked up an eye for to see the stream sail
Then she up with her ears and her head and
her tail;
And whoosh! she was off down the Bunganuck
road
At as lively a clip as a mare ever hoed.
Now the Bunganuck road it was right straight
away,
And jest for a hector we started to play
Right over the tailboard, right into his team,
And we followed him up with old Hunneman’s
stream.
We followed him one mile, we followed him
tew
With the foreman a-swearin’ and all of the
crew
A-breakin’ her down and a-crackin’ their heels
Till we lifted her plum fair and square off the
wheels.
We followed him three miles, we followed him
four
—If he hadn’t shied off we’d a-followed him
more.
Old Boomer got rheumatiz out of wet feet
For we kept his old waggin full, clear to the
seat.
’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog-
gled,
Pump-jump-hump!
Give her the tar till her old sides woggled,
Hump-jump-pump!
Down with the beam till it sartin would seem
We were drownin’ the sun in a hissin’ white
stream.
Oh, there never was anything up with the crew
That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.
Bring on your speechifyin’ runts, yes, bring
your biggest gun;
Trot out your high-flown orators, we don’t bar
nary one.
From Quoddy Head to Caribou, from there to
sassy York,
Bring out your braggadosho chaps who think
that they can talk.
We’ve got our man—don’t want no odds’nd
warn you fair and true
So’t when the Legislatoor meets you’ll have
your men there, too.
He’s jest a’goin’ to sweep the floor, we’ll have
you recollect,
—Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-
elect.
When Mister Moody rises up ’nd ’hams ’nd
clears his thro’t
’Nd loosens up his gallowses ’nd lays aside his
co’t,
I guess he’ll fool the av’rage man, he looks so
cool ’nd carm,
A-dribblin out his words ’nd wavin’ careless-
like his arm.
But pretty soon that arm goes and quivers in
the air,
His hand a-wrigglin’ up a-top, seems ’sif ’twas
spinnin’ there.
It acts as sort of windmill, pumpin’ langwidge
I expect
From Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.
When Oradudolph Moody speaks he has the
durndest knack
Of windin’ up opponents so they never an-
swer back.
When yearly meetin’ comes around he alwus
swings the town
On anything he advocates from new school-
houses down.
The elerquence just bubbles up without no
work at all,
He almost mesmerizes everybody in the hall.
’Nd down there to Augusty you’ll parceive the
strange effect
Of Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.
Magnetic! He’s a dynamo, his pulley never
slips,
’Nd eelectricity!—It runs right off his finger-
tips.
We’ve tried to send him down before, but no,
he wouldn’t go;
He said he had no time to fool with Legisla-
tors, so
Our town ain’t never had a man to speak, ex-
cept Mulkearn,
Who managed once to stutter out a motion to
adjourn.
But now, by gosh jest set right back and wish-
fully expect
Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-
elect.