SONG
O I would I had a lover! A lover! a lover! O I would I had a lover With a twinkering guitar, To come beneath my casement Singing "There is none above her," While I, leaning, seemed to hover In the scent of his cigar!
Then at morn I'd want to meet him-- To meet him! to meet him! O at morn I'd want to meet him, When the mist was in the sky, And the dew along the path I went To casually greet him, And to cavalierly treat him, And regret it by and by.
And I'd want to meet his brother-- His brother! his brother! O I'd want to meet his brother At the german or the play, To pin a rose on his lapel And lightly press the other, And love him like a mother-- While he thought the other way.
O I'd pitilessly test him! And test him! and test him! O I'd pitilessly test him Far beyond his own control; And every tantalizing lure With which I could arrest him, I'd loosen to molest him, Till I tried his very soul.
But ah, when I relented-- Relented, relented! But ah, when I relented When the stars were blurred and dim, And the moon above, with crescent grace, Looked off as I repented, And with rapture half demented, All my heart went out to him!
WHEN WE THREE MEET
When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine Whose verses well and flow as wine,-- My thirsting fancy thou dost fill With draughts delicious, sweeter still Since tasted by those lips of thine.
I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine Of autumn, with a warmth divine, Thrilled through as only I shall thrill When we three meet.
I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, We yet shall loosen, line by line, Old ballads, and the blither trill Of our-time singers--for there will Be with us all the Muses nine When we three meet.
JOSH BILLINGS
DEAD IN CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 15, 1885
Jolly-hearted old Josh Billings, With his wisdom and his wit, And his gravity of presence, And the drollery of it! Has he left us, and forever? When so many merry years He has only left us laughing-- And he leaves us now in tears?
Has he turned from his "Deer Publik," With his slyly twinkling eyes Now grown dim and heavy-lidded In despite of sunny skies?-- Yet with rugged brow uplifted, And the long hair tossed away, Like an old heroic lion, With a mane of iron-gray.
Though we lose him, still we find him In the mirth of every lip, And we fare through all his pages In his glad companionship: His voice is wed with Nature's, Laughing in each woody nook With the chirrup of the robin And the chuckle of the brook.
But the children--O the children!-- They who leaped to his caress, And felt his arms about them, And his love and tenderness,-- Where--where will they find comfort As their tears fall like the rain, And they swarm his face with kisses That he answers not again?
WHICH ANE
Which ane, an' which ane, An' which ane for thee?-- Here thou hast thy vera choice, An' which sall it be?-- Ye hae the Holy Brither, An' ye hae the Scholarly; An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith-- Which sall it be?
Ane's oot o' Edinborough, Wi' the Beuk an' Gown; An' ane's cam frae Cambridge; An' ane frae scaur an' down: An' Deil tak the hindmaist! Sae the test gaes roun': An' here ye hae the lairdly twa, An' ane frae scaur an' down.
Yon's Melancholy-- An' the pipes a-skirlin'-- Gangs limp an' droopet, Like a coof at hirlin',-- Droopet aye his lang skirts I' the wins unfurlin'; Yon's Melancholy-- An' the pipes a-skirlin'!
Which ane, an' which ane, An' which ane for thee?-- Here thou hast thy vera choice, An' which sall it be? Ye hae the Holy Brither, An' ye hae the Scholarly; An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith-- Which sall it be?
Elbuck ye'r bag, mon! An' pipe as ye'd burst! Can ye gie's a waur, mon E'en than the first?-- Be it Meister Wisemon, I' the classics versed, An' a slawer gait yet E'en than the first?
Then gie us Merriment: Loose him like a linnet Teeterin' on a bloomin' spray-- We ken him i' the minute,-- Twinklin' is ane ee asklent, Wi' auld Clootie in it-- Auld Sawney Lintwhite, We ken him i' the minute!
An' which ane, an' which ane, An' which ane for thee?-- For thou shalt hae thy vera choice, An' which sall it be?-- Ye hae the Holy Brither, An' ye hae the Scholarly; A' last, ye hae the butt o' baith-- Which sall it be?
THE EARTHQUAKE
CHARLESTON, SEPTEMBER 1, 1886
An hour ago the lulling twilight leant Above us like a gentle nurse who slips A slow palm o'er our eyes, in soft eclipse Of feigned slumber of most sweet content. The fragrant zephyrs of the tropic went And came across the senses, like to sips Of lovers' kisses, when upon her lips Silence sets finger in grave merriment. Then--sudden--did the earth moan as it slept, And start as one in evil dreams, and toss Its peopled arms up, as the horror crept, And with vast breast upheaved and rent across, Fling down the storied citadel where wept, And still shall weep, a world above its loss.
A FALL-CRICK VIEW OF THE EARTHQUAKE
I kin hump my back and take the rain, And I don't keer how she pours; I kin keep kind o' ca'm in a thunder-storm, No matter how loud she roars; I hain't much skeered o' the lightnin', Ner I hain't sich awful shakes Afeard o' _cyclones_--but I don't want none O' yer dad-burned old earthquakes!
As long as my legs keeps stiddy, And long as my head keeps plum', And the buildin' stays in the front lot, I still kin whistle, _some_! But about the time the old clock Flops off'n the mantel-shelf, And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen, I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!
Plague-take! ef you keep me stabled While any earthquakes is around!-- I'm jes' like the stock,--I'll beller And break fer the open ground! And I 'low you'd be as nervous And in jes' about my fix, When yer whole farm slides from in-under you, And on'y the mor'gage sticks!
Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill you Ef you don't drive 'crost the track; Crediters never'll jerk you up Ef you go and pay 'em back; You kin stand all moral and mundane storms Ef you'll on'y jes' behave-- But a' EARTHQUAKE:--Well, ef it wanted you It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!
LEWIS D. HAYES
OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886
In the midmost glee of the Christmas And the mirth of the glad New Year, A guest has turned from the revel, And we sit in silence here.
The band chimes on, yet we listen Not to the air's refrain, But over it ever we strive to catch The sound of his voice again;--
For the sound of his voice was music, Dearer than any note Shook from the strands of harp-strings, Or poured from the bugle's throat.--
A voice of such various ranges, His utterance rang from the height Of every rapture, down to the sobs Of every lost delight.
Though he knew Man's force and his purpose, As strong as his strongest peers, He knew, as well, the kindly heart, And the tenderness of tears.
So is it the face we remember Shall be always as a child's That, grieved some way to the very soul, Looks bravely up and smiles.
O brave it shall look, as it looked its last On the little daughter's face-- Pictured only--against the wall, In its old accustomed place--
Where the last gleam of the lamplight Out of the midnight dim Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn Gave it again to him.
IN DAYS TO COME
In days to come--whatever ache Of age shall rack our bones, or quake Our slackened thews--whatever grip Rheumatic catch us i' the h
ip,-- We, each one, for the other's sake, Will of our very wailings make Such quips of song as well may shake The spasm'd corners from the lip-- In days to come.
Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake The past up!--how our dry eyes slake Their sight upon the dewy drip Of juicy-ripe companionship, And blink stars from the blind opaque-- In days to come.
LUTHER A. TODD
OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
Gifted, and loved, and praised By every friend; Never a murmur raised Against him, to the end! With tireless interest He wrought as he thought best,-- And--lo, we bend Where now he takes his rest!
His heart was loyal, to Its latest thrill, To the home-loves he knew-- And now forever will,-- Mother and brother--they The first to pass away,-- And, lingering still, The sister bowed to-day.
Pure as a rose might be, And sweet, and white, His father's memory Was with him day and night:-- He spoke of him, as one May now speak of the son,-- Sadly and tenderly,-- Yet as a trump had done.
Say, then, of him: He knew Full depths of care And stress of pain, and you Do him scant justice there,-- Yet in the lifted face Grief left not any trace, Nor mark unfair, To mar its manly grace.
It was as if each day Some new hope dawned-- Each blessing in delay, To him, was just beyond; Between whiles, waiting, he Drew pictures, cunningly-- Fantastic--fond-- Things that we laughed to see.
Sometimes, as we looked on His crayon's work, Some angel-face would dawn Out radiant, from the mirk Of features old and thin, Or jowled with double-chin, And eyes asmirk, And gaping mouths agrin.
That humor in his art, Of genius born, Welled warmly from a heart That could not but adorn All things it touched with love-- The eagle, as the dove-- The burst of morn-- The night--the stars above.
Sometimes, amid the wild Of faces queer, A mother, with her child Pressed warm and close to her; This, I have thought, somehow, The wife, with head abow, Unreconciled, In the great shadow now.
* * * * *
O you of sobbing breath, Put by all sighs Of anguish at his death-- Turn--as he turned _his_ eyes, In that last hour, unknown In strange lands, all alone-- Turn thine eyes toward the skies, And, smiling, cease thy moan.
WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK
A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street: The slow hearse and the hosses--slow enough, to say the least, Fer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased! The low scrunch of the gravel--and the slow grind of the wheels,-- The low, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels! So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash crack A quickstep fer the hosses, When the Hearse Comes Back!
Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes-- But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise-- You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day! Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest-- Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast! And this is why--when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred and black I like the flash and hurry When the Hearse Comes Back!
It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes, Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks;-- I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps-- Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's,-- I've buried father, mother--but I'll haf to jes' git _you_ To "excuse _me_," as the feller says.--The p'int I'm drivin' to Is, simply, when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack, It he'ps to shape us up, like, When the Hearse Comes Back!
The idy! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine, don't you know! When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars: And so when _my_ time comes to die, and I've got ary friend 'At wants expressed my last request--I'll, mebby, rickommend To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the _out'ard_ track, But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em When the Hearse Comes Back!"
OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL
O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot; It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;-- But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway; I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all; I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can; I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman; But most I like--with you, my boy--our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
DAN O'SULLIVAN
Dan O'Sullivan: It's your Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure!-- To be trillin' praise av me, Dhrippin' shwate wid poethry!-- Not that I'd not have ye sing-- Don't lave off for anything-- Jusht be aisy whilst the fit Av me head shwells up to it!
Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, Whilst yer singin', loike ye can, To cry shtop because ye've blesht My songs more than all the resht:-- I'll not be the b'y to ax Any shtar to wane or wax, Or ax any clock that's woun', To run up inshtid av down!
Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!-- Him that made the Irishman Mixt the birds in wid the dough, And the dew and mistletoe Wid the whusky in the quare Muggs av us--and here we air, Three parts right, and three parts wrong, Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song!
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
SEPULTURE--BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890
Dead? this peerless man of men-- Patriot, Poet, Citizen!-- Dead? and ye weep where he lies Mute, with folded eyes!
Courage! All his tears are done; Mark him, dauntless, face the sun! He hath led you.--Still, as true, He is leading you.
Folded eyes and folded hands Typify divine commands He is hearkening to, intent Beyond wonderment.
'Tis promotion that has come Thus upon him. Stricken dumb Be your moanings dolorous! God knows what He does.
Rather as your chief, _aspire_!-- Rise and seize his toppling lyre, And sing Freedom, Home, and Love, And the rights thereof!
Ere in selfish grief ye sink, Come! catch rapturous breath and think-- Think what sweep of wing hath he, Loosed in endless liberty.
MEREDITH NICHOLSON
Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you Heavened and blest of you young singers gone,-- Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you, Leave us this like of you yet to sing on! Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him, Even as now, or in fancy, you do: Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us Musical musings of glory and--you.
Never a note to do evil or wrong to us-- Beauty of melody--beauty of words,-- Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us
Rippled along to us clear as the bird's. No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him-- Feasting and feting him faint of her joys, But singing on where the laurels are waiting him, Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's.
GOD'S MERCY
Behold, one faith endureth still-- Let factions rail and creeds contend-- God's mercy _was_, and _is_, and _will_ Be with us, foe and friend.
CHRISTMAS GREETING
A word of Godspeed and good cheer To all on earth--or far or near, Or friend or foe, or thine or mine-- In echo of the voice divine, Heard when the Star bloomed forth and lit The world's face, with God's smile on it.
TO RUDYARD KIPLING
To do some worthy deed of charity In secret and then have it found out by Sheer accident, held gentle Elia-- That--that was the best thing beneath the sky! Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing-- (Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon me If impious!)--I think a better thing Is: being found out when one strives to be.
So, Poet and Romancer--old as young, And wise as artless--masterful as mild,-- If there be sweet in any song I've sung, 'Twas savored for that palate, O my Child! For thee the lisping of the children all-- For thee the youthful voices of old years-- For thee all chords untamed or musical-- For thee the laughter, and for thee the tears.