Kitabı oku: «Second Book of Verse», sayfa 5

PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS

 
FRIEND, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know,
And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow.
I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate
Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble State;
And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree,
Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.
Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near,
While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.
 
 
My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skin
To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within, —
Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare
With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear.
Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole
All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole.
We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings,
As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things.
 
 
And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh,
Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby;
And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night
That nary 'coon could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight.
We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know
That ary 'coon can best a dog, if the coon gets half a show;
But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n,
And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n.
 
 
Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days;
I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways.
The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine
For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine.
The 'coon that's been accustomed to stanch democratic cheer
Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!
No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms,
But send me back from whence I came, and let me grub for worms!
 
 
They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons,
And wonder what I am, – alas, there are no German 'coons!
For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree,
The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free.
And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,
For I have tasted liberty, these others they have not;
So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels
Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels.
 
 
Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill,
To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel;
My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest,
Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest.
Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all
To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall;
And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here
By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.
 

ARMENIAN LULLABY

 
IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes,
My mulberry one, my golden son,
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 slumber-play shall twine
The diamond stars with an emerald vine,
To trail in the waves of ruby wine,
My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume,
My cooing little turtle!
 
 
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 chirping little sparrow!
 

THE PARTRIDGE

 
AS beats the sun from mountain crest,
With "Pretty, pretty,"
Cometh the partridge from her nest.
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me, —
Ah, pretty, pretty!
Ah, dear little partridge!
 
 
And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top breakfast I.
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain-side
I see and hear the dainty dear, —
Ah, pretty, pretty!
Ah, dear little partridge!
 
 
Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare,
And pretty, pretty;
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!);
And one and all, impassioned, call,
"O pretty, pretty!
O dear little partridge!"
 
 
Thy feathers they are soft and sleek, —
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck, and small thy beak,
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are.
Sweeter than dove is she I love, —
My pretty, pretty!
My dear little partridge!
 
 
When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty,
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby,
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And Echo then gives back again
Our "Pretty, pretty!"
Our "Dear little partridge!"
 
 
Admitting thee most blest of all,
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come, and round thee play,
And this is what they seem to say, —
They say and sing, each feathered thing,
"Ah, pretty, pretty!
Ah, dear little partridge!"
 

CORINTHIAN HALL

 
CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place,
Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace;
But once was a time when Corinthian Hall
Excited the rapture and plaudits of all,
With its carpeted stairs,
And its new yellow chairs,
And its stunning ensemble of citified airs.
Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best
Of Thespian temples extant in the West.
 
 
It was new, and was ours, – that was ages ago,
Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show, —
It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers
Our rivals had launched at our city for years.
Corinthian Hall!
Why, it discounted all
Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall
The night of the opening; from near and afar
Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar.
 
 
Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again
Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then;
For actors were actors, and each one knew how
To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow.
He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair;
And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare.
Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him, – in fact, never could
When liquor was handy and walking was good.
 
 
And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall
The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall!
Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime;
And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime;
And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare
With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair;
While in passionate rôles it was patent to us
That the great John A. Stevens was ne ultra plus.
 
 
And was there demand for the tribute of tears,
We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years,
And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow
That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now.
What artist to-day have we equal to Rae,
Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say!
And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette"
Opined that the sun of our drama had set.
 
 
Corinthian Hall was devoted to song
When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along,
Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown,
Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town;
But the one special card
That hit us all hard
Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard;
And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears;
And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years!
 
 
The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days,
And our critics accorded them columns of praise;
They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings,
And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things;
They gave a parade, and sweet music they made
Every evening in front of the house where they played.
'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog
For Primrose and West in their great statue clog.
 
 
Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain
That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne;
Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth
That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth:
While in rôles that were thrillin', involving much killin',
Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain;
Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken, – they all
Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall.
 
 
But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell
On the spot I revere and remember so well,
Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint,
And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint;
So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold
Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould,
And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall,
Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall.
 
 
When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night,
And the music goes floating on billows of light,
Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man,
And I pine to be back where my mission began,
And I'm fain to recall
Reminiscences all
That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall, —
To hear and to see what delighted me then,
And to revel in raptures of boyhood again.
 
 
Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place,
Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace,
There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they,
Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day,
Would surrender what gold
He's amassed to behold
A tithe of the wonderful doings of old,
A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall
Our crême de la crême in Corinthian Hall.
 

THE RED, RED WEST

 
I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art,
Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so smart;
And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show
That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go.
 
 
I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve,
And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve;
I've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green,
And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen.
 
 
The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal Dutch,
The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised overmuch,
The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes, —
All, ad infin., have I taken in a hundred thousand times.
 
 
Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught
Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is fraught;
For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows,
And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes.
 
 
Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so,
And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know;
It answers every purpose that this is manifest:
The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West.
 
 
Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies,
No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies;
But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill,
Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still!
 

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE

 
FROM out Cologne there came three kings
To worship Jesus Christ, their King.
To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,
And many a beauteous golden thing;
They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,
And in that manger set them down.
 
 
Then spake the first king, and he said:
"O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!
I bring this crown to Bethlehem town
For Thee, and only Thee, to wear;
So give a heavenly crown to me
When I shall come at last to Thee!"
 
 
The second, then. "I bring Thee here
This royal robe, O Child!" he cried;
"Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one
There is not in the world beside;
So in the day of doom requite
Me with a heavenly robe of white!"
 
 
The third king gave his gift, and quoth:
"Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,
And with these twain would I most fain
Anoint the body of my King;
So may their incense sometime rise
To plead for me in yonder skies!"
 
 
Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,
That gave their gifts, and went their way;
And now kneel I in prayer hard by
The cradle of the Child to-day;
Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring
As offering unto Christ, my King.
 
 
Yet have I brought a gift the Child
May not despise, however small;
For here I lay my heart to-day,
And it is full of love to all.
Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,
My only tribute, Christ, my King!
 

IPSWICH

 
IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair,
And the voice that comes from the yonder sea
Sings to the quaint old mansions there
Of "the time, the time that used to be;"
And the quaint old mansions rock and groan,
And they seem to say in an undertone,
With half a sigh and with half a moan:
"It was, but it never again will be."
 
 
In Ipswich witches weave at night
Their magic, spells with impish glee;
They shriek and laugh in their demon flight
From the old Main House to the frightened sea.
And ghosts of eld come out to weep
Over the town that is fast asleep;
And they sob and they wail, as on they creep:
"It was, but it never again will be."
 
 
In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill
Over against the calling sea;
And through the nights so deep and chill
Watcheth a maiden constantly, —
Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear
Over the roar of the waves anear
The pitiful cry of a far-off year:
"It was, but it never again will be."
 
 
In Ipswich once a witch I knew, —
An artless Saxon witch was she;
By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue,
Sweet was the spell she cast on me.
Alas! but the years have wrought me ill,
And the heart that is old and battered and chill
Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill
What was, but never again can be.
 
 
Dear Anna, I would not conjure down
The ghost that cometh to solace me;
I love to think of old Ipswich town,
Where somewhat better than friends were we;
For with every thought of the dear old place
Cometh again the tender grace
Of a Saxon witch's pretty face,
As it was, and is, and ever shall be.
 

BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS

 
BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall;
I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all;
Clothes would never seem to set so nice on me as him, —
Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim, —
But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall;
And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place
When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.
 
 
Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir, —
Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire!
She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard, —
Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird;
Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er,
A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place,
When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.
 
 
Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat, —
She sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat;
Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew,
One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"!
But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that;
On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face
When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass.
 
 
Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then,
Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when
We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days,
And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise.
Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again!
For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace
When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass.
 
 
The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be,
Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me.
Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year,
Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer
When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D!
The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race
'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass.
 
 
Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54,
And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more;
Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell,
And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell
That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store;
And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace
Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass.
 
 
As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea,
I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me;
And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day,
I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away.
Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be;
"Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face,
"When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass."
 

FIDUCIT

 
THREE comrades on the German Rhine,
Defying care and weather,
Together quaffed the mellow wine,
And sung their songs together.
What recked they of the griefs of life,
With wine and song to cheer them?
Though elsewhere trouble might be rife,
It would not come anear them.
 
 
Anon one comrade passed away,
And presently another,
And yet unto the tryst each day
Repaired the lonely brother;
And still, as gayly as of old,
That third one, hero-hearted,
Filled to the brim each cup of gold,
And called to the departed, —
 
 
"O comrades mine! I see ye not,
Nor hear your kindly greeting,
Yet in this old, familiar spot
Be still our loving meeting!
Here have I filled each bouting-cup
With juices red and cheery;
I pray ye drink the portion up,
And as of old make merry!"
 
 
And once before his tear-dimmed eyes,
All in the haunted gloaming,
He saw two ghostly figures rise,
And quaff the beakers foaming;
He heard two spirit voices call,
"Fiducit, jovial brother!"
And so forever from that hall
Went they with one another.
 

THE "ST. JO GAZETTE."

 
WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette,"
I was upon familiar terms with every one I met;
For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time,
Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme, —
Before I found in verses
Those soothing, gracious mercies,
Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is.
A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat,
And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
The labors of the day began at half-past eight a. m.,
For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them;
And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire
By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire,
With my daily commentary
On affairs of farm and dairy,
The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary, —
Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due,
Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous;
Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case,
And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd space;
Of fevers, fractures, humors,
Contusions, fits, and tumors,
Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors;
From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get, —
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place, —
Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race;
And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink,
And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink.
Those drinks at the Pacific,
When days were sudorific,
Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;"
And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow,
To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go.
The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough
For local application in lieu of better stuff;
And when the ducks were flying,
Or the fishing well worth trying —
Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at lying!
And I – I printed all their yarns, though not without regret,
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young,
Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;"
Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call
On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all.
Lon Tullar used to pony
Up descriptions that were tony
Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione;
For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett"
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue;
And when came night I found that there was still more work to do, —
The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read,
And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed.
Oh, but it takes agility,
Combined with versatility,
To run a country daily with appropriate ability!
There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet,
Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette."
 
 
Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent
Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent
If so, I don't remember; this only do I know, —
My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo.
The years that speed so fleetly
Have blotted out completely
All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly;
The friendships of that time, – ah, me! they are as precious yet
As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette."