Chapter 3

There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place, And the tax you had to pay upon your vittles wuz a case; The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 't wuz a shame To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same! They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal; But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal; And presently the boardin'-houses all began to bust, While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layin' in the dust; And oncet a tray'lin' editor from Denver City wrote A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote.

A tabble dote is different from orderin' aller cart: In _one_ case you git all there is, in _t' other_, only _part_! And Casey's tabble dote began in French,--as all begin,-- And Casey's ended with the same, which is to say, with "vin;" But in between wuz every kind of reptile, bird, 'nd beast, The same like you can git in high-toned restauraws down east; 'Nd windin' up wuz cake or pie, with coffee demy tass, Or, sometimes, floatin' Ireland in a soothin' kind of sass That left a sort of pleasant ticklin' in a feller's throat, 'Nd made him hanker after more of Casey's tabble dote.

The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes; 'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays ain't what it used to be In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63; But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame-- I'd like to be a-livin' in the mountains jest the same-- I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue, When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true; When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote.

And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' 'way out west, With Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast,-- Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we used to do, Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you? Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face, Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place; And so you wuz, 'nd I 'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so. But, bein' how a brother's love ain't for the world to know, Whenever I've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat, I lay it all to thinkin' of Casey's tabble dote.

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 dreamed 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.

Ay, 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 these 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.

MADGE: YE HOYDEN

At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft, Ffor that a romping wench was shee-- "Now marke this rede," they bade her oft, "Forsooken sholde your folly bee!" But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried, "Oho, oho," in girlish glee, And noe thing mo replied.

II

No griffe she had nor knew no care, But gayly rompit all daies long, And, like ye brooke that everywhere Goes jinking with a gladsome song, Shee danct and songe from morn till night,-- Her gentil harte did know no wrong, Nor did she none despight.

III

Sir Tomas from his noblesse halle Did trend his path a somer's daye, And to ye hoyden he did call And these ffull evill words did say: "O wolde you weare a silken gown And binde your haire with ribands gay? Then come with me to town!"

IV

But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head,-- "I'le be no lemman unto thee For all your golde and gownes," shee said, "ffor Robin hath bespoken mee." Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight, And back unto his hall went hee With face as ashen white.

V

"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl, Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?" So spak ffull many an envious churle Unto that curteyse countrie wight. But Robin did not pay no heede; And they ben wed a somer night & danct upon ye meade.

VI

Then scarse ben past a yeare & daye Whan Robin toke unto his bed, And long, long time therein he lay, Nor colde not work to earn his bread; in soche an houre, whan times ben sore, Sr. Tomas came with haughtie tread & knockit at ye doore.

VII

Saies: "Madge, ye hoyden, do you know how that you once despighted me? But He forgiff an you will go my swete harte lady ffor to bee!" But Madge, ye hoyden, heard noe more,-- straightway upon her heele turnt shee, & shote ye cottage doore.

VIII

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, did her parte whiles that ye years did come and go; 't was somer allwais in her harte, tho' winter strewed her head with snowe. She toilt and span thro' all those years nor bid repine that it ben soe, nor never shad noe teares.

IX

Whiles Robin lay within his bed, A divell came and whispered lowe,-- "Giff you will doe my will," he said, "None more of sickness you shall knowe!" Ye which gave joy to Robin's soul-- Saies Robin: "Divell, be it soe, an that you make me whoale!"

X

That day, upp rising ffrom his bed, Quoth Robin: "I am well again!" & backe he came as from ye dead, & he ben mickle blithe as when he wooed his doxy long ago; & Madge did make ado & then Her teares ffor joy did flowe.

XI

Then came that hell-born cloven thing-- Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life, and I hencefoorth shall be your king, and you shall do my evill strife. Look round about and you shall see sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe-- a comely dame is shee!"

XII

Ye divell had him in his power, and not colde Robin say thereto: Soe Robin from that very houre did what that divell bade him do; He wooed and dipt, and on a daye Sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe a many leagues away.

XIII

Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore, And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake and knockit at ye cottage door and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake: Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own, So come with mee & bee my make, syn tother birds ben flown."

XIV

But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe; Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still, And, tho' he doth despight me soe, I mean to do him good for ill. So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way; ffor whiles I bee on live I will ffor Robin's coming pray!"

XV

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed that Godde sholde send her Robin backe. And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made, and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke, And tho', as moneths dragged away, ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack With griff, she still did praye.

XVI

Sicke of that divell's damned charmes, Aback did Robin come at last, And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms and gave a cry and held him fast; And as she clong to him and cried, her patient harte with joy did brast, & Madge, ye hoyden, died.

OLD ENGLISH LULLABY

Hush, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder will rocke her sweete,-- Balow, my boy! When that his toile ben done, Daddie will come anone,-- Hush thee, my lyttel one; Balow, my boy!

Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce Fayries will come to daunce,-- Balow, my boy! Oft hath thy moder seene Moonlight and mirkland queene Daunce on thy slumbering een,-- Balow, my boy!

Then droned a bomblebee Saftly this songe to thee: "Balow, my boy!" And a wee heather bell, Pluckt from a fayry dell, Chimed thee this rune hersell: "Balow, my boy!"

Soe, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder doth rock her sweete,-- Balow, my boy! Give mee thy lyttel hand, Moder will hold it and Lead thee to balow land,-- Balow, my boy!

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way That I may truths eternal seek; I need protecting care to-day,-- My purse is light, my flesh is weak. So banish from my erring heart All baleful appetites and hints Of Satan's fascinating art, Of first editions, and of prints. Direct me in some godly walk Which leads away from bookish strife, That I with pious deed and talk May extra-illustrate my life.

But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, Whereon when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it cheap. Oh, let it such a volume be As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.

THE LYTTEL BOY

Sometime there ben a lyttel boy That wolde not renne and play, And helpless like that little tyke Ben allwais in the way. "Goe, make you merrie with the rest," His weary moder cried; But with a frown he catcht her gown And hong untill her side.

That boy did love his moder well, Which spake him faire, I ween; He loved to stand and hold her hand And ken her with his een; His cosset bleated in the croft, His toys unheeded lay,-- He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe, Ben allwais in the way.

Godde loveth children and doth gird His throne with soche as these, And He doth smile in plaisaunce while They cluster at His knees; And sometime, when He looked on earth And watched the bairns at play, He kenned with joy a lyttel boy Ben allwais in the way.

And then a moder felt her heart How that it ben to-torne,-- She kissed eche day till she ben gray The shoon he used to worn; No bairn let hold untill her gown, Nor played upon the floore,-- Godde's was the joy; a lyttel boy Ben in the way no more!

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE

It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.

There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They d present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts.

We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him,-- Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25.

He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty He painted up the city, And Maecenas paid the freight!

THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD

"Give me my bow," said Robin Hood, "An arrow give to me; And where 't is shot mark thou that spot, For there my grave shall be."

Then Little John did make no sign, And not a word he spake; But he smiled, altho' with mickle woe His heart was like to break.

He raised his master in his arms, And set him on his knee; And Robin's eyes beheld the skies, The shaws, the greenwood tree.

The brook was babbling as of old, The birds sang full and clear, And the wild-flowers gay like a carpet lay In the path of the timid deer.

"O Little John," said Robin Hood, "Meseemeth now to be Standing with you so stanch and true Under the greenwood tree.

"And all around I hear the sound Of Sherwood long ago, And my merry men come back again,-- You know, sweet friend, you know!

"Now mark this arrow; where it falls, When I am dead dig deep, And bury me there in the greenwood where I would forever sleep."

He twanged his bow. Upon its course The clothyard arrow sped, And when it fell in yonder dell, Brave Robin Hood was dead.

The sheriff sleeps in a marble vault, The king in a shroud of gold; And upon the air with a chanted pray'r Mingles the mock of mould.

But the deer draw to the shady pool, The birds sing blithe and free, And the wild-flow'rs bloom o'er a hidden tomb Under the greenwood tree.

"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 swete voice repeating 'Lollyby, lolly, lollyby;' That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, To 'lolly, lolly, lollyby!'"

Sometime--mayhap when curfew bells are ringing-- A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing, "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby;" Sometime, mayhap, with Chrysts love round me streaming, I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming With "lolly, lolly, lollyby."

HORACE AND LYDIA RECONCILED

HORACE

When you were mine in auld lang syne, And when none else your charms might ogle, I'll not deny, Fair nymph, that I Was happier than a Persian mogul.

LYDIA

Before _she_ came--that rival flame!-- (Was ever female creature sillier?) In those good times, Bepraised in rhymes, I was more famed than Mother Ilia!

HORACE

Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace Does she at song or harp employ her! I'd gladly die If only I Might live forever to enjoy her!

LYDIA

My Sybaris so noble is That, by the gods! I love him madly-- That I might save Him from the grave I'd give my life, and give it gladly!

HORACE

What if ma belle from favor fell, And I made up my mind to shake her, Would Lydia, then, Come back again And to her quondam flame betake her?

LYDIA

My other beau should surely go, And you alone should find me gracious; For no one slings Such odes and things As does the lauriger Horatius!

OUR TWO OPINIONS

Us two wuz boys when we fell out,-- Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; Don't rec'lect what't wuz about, Some small deeff'rence, I'll allow. Lived next neighbors twenty years, A-hatin' each other, me 'nd Jim,-- He havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

Grew up together 'nd would n't speak, Courted sisters, 'nd marr'd 'em, too; Tended same meetin'-house oncet a week, A-hatin' each other through 'nd through! But when Abe Linkern asked the West F'r soldiers, we answered,--me 'nd Jim,-- _He_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

But down in Tennessee one night Ther' wuz sound uv firin' fur away, 'Nd the sergeant allowed ther' 'd be a fight With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' day; 'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd home Jim stood afore me, long 'nd slim,-- _He_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to be Serious trouble f'r me 'nd him; Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me, But never a word from me or Jim! He went _his_ way 'nd _I_ went _mine_, 'Nd into the battle's roar went we,-- _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv Jim, 'Nd _he_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_.

Jim never come back from the war again, But I ha' n't forgot that last, last night When, waitin' f'r orders, us two men Made up 'nd shuck hands, afore the fight. 'Nd, after it all, it's soothin' to know That here _I_ be 'nd yonder's Jim,-- _He_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

MOTHER AND CHILD

One night a tiny dewdrop fell Into the bosom of a rose,-- "Dear little one, I love thee well, Be ever here thy sweet repose!"

Seeing the rose with love bedight, The envious sky frowned dark, and then Sent forth a messenger of light And caught the dewdrop up again.

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child,-- My love!" the rose in anguish cried; Alas! the sky triumphant smiled, And so the flower, heart-broken, died.

ORKNEY LULLABY

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!"

LITTLE MACK

This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh, We've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh! He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet; But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils swear,-- The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed anywhere! And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a tack, And that's because they emanate From little Mack.

In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man, As if he'd been constructed on the summer cottage plan; He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouth Lies all the sensuous languor of the children of the South; His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bust Have given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust; In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders back From the grand Websterian forehead Of little Mack.

No matter what the item is, if there's an item in it, You bet your life he's on to it and nips it in a minute! From multifarious nations, countries, monarchies, and lands, From Afric's sunny fountains and India's coral strands, From Greenland's icy mountains and Siloam's shady rills, He gathers in his telegrams, and Houser pays the bills; What though there be a dearth of news, he has a happy knack Of scraping up a lot of scoops, Does little Mack.

And learning? Well he knows the folks of every tribe and age That ever played a part upon this fleeting human stage; His intellectual system's so extensive and so greedy That, when it comes to records, he's a walkin' cyclopedy; For having studied (and digested) all the books a-goin', It stands to reason he must know about all's worth a-knowin'! So when a politician with a record's on the track, We're apt to hear some history From little Mack.

And when a fellow-journalist is broke and needs a twenty, Who's allus ready to whack up a portion of his plenty? Who's allus got a wallet that's as full of sordid gain As his heart is full of kindness and his head is full of brain? Whose bowels of compassion will in-va-ri-a-bly move Their owner to those courtesies which plainly, surely prove That he's the kind of person that never does go back On a fellow that's in trouble? Why, little Mack!

I've heard 'em tell of Dana, and of Bonner, and of Reid, Of Johnnie Cockerill, who, I'll own, is very smart indeed; Yet I don't care what their renown or influence may be, One metropolitan exchange is quite enough for me! So keep your Danas, Bonners, Reids, your Cockerills, and the rest, The woods is full of better men all through this woolly West; For all that sleek, pretentious, Eastern editorial pack We wouldn't swap the shadow of Our little Mack!

TO ROBIN GOODFELLOW

I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown, Through yonder lattice creepin'; You come for cream and to gar me dream, But you dinna find me sleepin'. The moonbeam, that upon the floor Wi' crickets ben a-jinkin', Now steals away fra' her bonnie play-- Wi' a rosier blie, I'm thinkin'.

I saw you, Maister Bawsy-brown, When the blue bells went a-ringin' For the merrie fays o' the banks an' braes, And I kenned your bonnie singin'; The gowans gave you honey sweets, And the posies on the heather Dript draughts o' dew for the faery crew That danct and sang together.

But posie-bloom an' simmer-dew And ither sweets o' faery C'u'd na gae down wi' Bawsy-brown, Sae nigh to Maggie's dairy! My pantry shelves, sae clean and white, Are set wi' cream and cheeses,-- Gae, gin you will, an' take your fill Of whatsoever pleases.

Then wave your wand aboon my een Until they close awearie, And the night be past sae sweet and fast Wi' dreamings o' my dearie. But pinch the wench in yonder room, For she's na gude nor bonnie,-- Her shelves be dust and her pans be rust, And she winkit at my Johnnie!

APPLE-PIE AND CHEESE

Full many a sinful notion Conceived of foreign powers Has come across the ocean To harm this land of ours; And heresies called fashions Have modesty effaced, And baleful, morbid passions Corrupt our native taste. O tempora! O mores! What profanations these That seek to dim the glories Of apple-pie and cheese!

I'm glad my education Enables me to stand Against the vile temptation Held out on every hand; Eschewing all the tittles With vanity replete, I'm loyal to the victuals Our grandsires used to eat! I'm glad I've got three willing boys To hang around and tease Their mother for the filling joys Of apple-pie and cheese!

Your flavored creams and ices And your dainty angel-food Are mighty fine devices To regale the dainty dude; Your terrapin and oysters, With wine to wash 'em down, Are just the thing for roisters When painting of the town; No flippant, sugared notion Shall _my_ appetite appease, Or bate my soul's devotion To apple-pie and cheese!

The pie my Julia makes me (God bless her Yankee ways!) On memory's pinions takes me To dear Green Mountain days; And seems like I see Mother Lean on the window-sill, A-handin' me and brother What she knows 'll keep us still; And these feelings are so grateful, Says I, "Julia, if you please, I'll take another plateful Of that apple-pie and cheese!"

And cheese! No alien it, sir, That's brought across the sea,-- No Dutch antique, nor Switzer, Nor glutinous de Brie; There's nothing I abhor so As mawmets of this ilk-- Give _me_ the harmless morceau That's made of true-blue milk! No matter what conditions Dyspeptic come to feaze, The best of all physicians Is apple-pie and cheese!

Though ribalds may decry 'em, For these twin boons we stand, Partaking thrice per diem Of their fulness out of hand; No enervating fashion Shall cheat us of our right To gratify our passion With a mouthful at a bite! We'll cut it square or bias, Or any way we please, And faith shall justify us When we carve our pie and cheese!

De gustibus, 't is stated, Non disputandum est. Which meaneth, when translated, That all is for the best. So let the foolish choose 'em The vapid sweets of sin, I will not disabuse 'em Of the heresy they're in; But I, when I undress me Each night, upon my knees Will ask the Lord to bless me With apple-pie and cheese!

KRINKEN

Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling, "Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!" But the child heard not the sea, Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the shore.