Part 7

"_Me_ haud my tongue for _you_, guidwife! I'll be mester o' this hoose: I saw't as plain as een could seet, An' I tell ye, it was a moose!"

"If you're the mester o' the hoose, It's I'm the mistress o't; An' _I_ ken best what's in the hoose: Sae I tell ye, it was a rat!"

"Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose, An' ca' it what ye please." So up she rose, and made the brose, While John sat toasting his taes.

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, And aye their lips played smack: They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, Till their lugs began to crack.

"Sic fules we were to fa' oot, guidwife, Aboot a moose."--"A what? It's a lee ye tell; an' I say again It was'na a moose; 'twas a rat!"

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face? My faith, but ye craw croose! I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't! 'Twas a moose!"--"'Twas a rat!"--"'Twas a moose!"

Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow. "Ye dour auld doit, tak' that; Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph,-- 'Twas a rat!"--"'Twas a moose!"--"'Twas a rat!"

She sent the brose caup at his heels, As he hirpled ben the hoose; Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door, And cried, "'Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!"

But when the carle was fast asleep, She paid him back for that, And roared into his sleepin' lug, "'Twas a rat! 'twas a rat! 'twas a rat!"

The de'il be wi' me if I think It was a beast ava!-- Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir, She faund wee Johnnie's ba'!

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

FRITZ UND I.

Mynheer, blease helb a boor oldt man, Vot gomes vrom Sharmany, Mit Fritz, mine tog und only freund, To geep me gompany.

I haf no gelt to puy mine pread, No blace to lay me down, For ve vas vanderers, Fritz und I, Und strangers in der down.

Some beoples gife us dings to eadt, Und some dey kicks us oudt, Und say, "You ton't got peesnis here, To sdroll der schtreets aboudt!"

Vot's dat you say? You puy mine tog To gife me pread to eadt? I vas so boor as nefer vas, But I vas no "tead peat."

Vot! sell mine tog, mine leetle tog, Dot vollows me aboudt, Und vags his dail, like anydings, Yene'er I dakes him oudt!

Schust look at him, und see him schump! He likes me pooty vell; Und dere vas somedings 'bout dat tog, Mynheer, I vouldn't sell.

"Der collar?" Nein, 'tvas somedings else Vrom vich I gould not bart; Und if dot ding vas dook avay, I dinks it prakes mine heart.

"Vot vas it, den, aboudt dat tog," You ashk, "dat's not vor sale?" I dells you vat it ish, mine freund: Tish der vag off dat tog's dail!

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

A TUSSLE WITH IMMIGRANTS.

The Ethnological Society of North America wished me to photograph types of immigrants arriving from Europe, at New York.

Castle Garden is where all steerage passengers land; and I was allowed every facility by the authorities.

I began with an Italian, swarthy, under-sized, dressed in velveteen, and scented with garlic. As I placed him in front of the camera, he said:--

"Ah been here before. Ah no greenhorn. Ah know the ropes a. You take a pictura don't cost you a centa; you don't pay me a dolla; ah make ah face a so you don't getta the pictura. You don't picka me up a sardine. I sale the banana lass year in New York."

A Frenchman was the next subject. Tall, meagre, polite, and talkative.

"Sare," he remarked, "ze photographie ees not to me for ze first taime. Ze art of all kind faind himself at home in ma countrie--_la belle France_. I also am artist. I make ze wall papaire to beautify ze house. I am artist in ze pastepot, and ze scissaires. To faind already a brothaire artist makes me to weep. Excuse me zat I weep. I remove to you ze hat; I salute ze veritable artist." Then this artist tried to kiss me, and because I repulsed him stood in gloomy majesty while I photographed him.

Following my French friend, a Scotchman was brought. He wished me to take pictures of his entire family--eleven in all--and when informed that only types, not families, were required, he broke forth:--

"I'm no able exactly to see why types should be needed, and no families. A type is guid eneugh thing gin ye'll want to prent a paper, but a lairge family o' braw lads an' bonnie lasses gangs a lang distance in a new land, an' I'm free to say my ain family is the lairgest ye'll see frae the ship."

Even the stolid immigrants had to smile when the next subject was brought. He was a young German, tight-sleeved, long-skirted, smiling, and chatty.

"Vell! Py jimmeny! you took my picture mid a box! How you done it I gifs oop! Und you told me ov I move I spoil him alretty. Den I don'd move. Ov a flea pites me, I don'd move,--ov you don'd stand me too long. Ov a man gifs me a glass of peer, I don'd move. Ov I got hungry, I don'd go to dinner all der vile. I shoost stand here like I vas a dellygraff bole! Don'd it?"

I finished the morning's work with a splendid specimen of a young Irishman, who had, I suspect, been injudiciously "treated" by his friends.

As I placed him before the camera, he said:--

"Av' it's taking aim ye are, don't say I thrimbled. God knows I'm willin' an' proud to die for ould Oireland! Foire! ye base murdherer, to desthroy me the day I kem ashore!"

Matters were explained, and he apologized.

"Why didn't ye say ye wouldn't shoot? How would I know ye didn't have dynamite in yer box? Av its only the picthure av me mug you want, take it an' welkim. I'm no pig to be wantin' to kape a threasure hid from the wurruld."

In departing I explained to the group that I would present each one with a copy of his picture if their addresses were furnished, and a Babel of words followed me.

"Ah don't want a picture a. Ah want a dolla!"

"Sare, I am _comble de l'honneur_. I zank you, sare!"

"I'm vara muckle ableeged till ye. I'll tak' a dozen on the same tairms."

"Ov I don'd send you dot address, never mind; you send me dot bicture, ennyhow!"

"Faith! Amerika's a darlin' counthry! The best word I got at home was, Leve the way, ye vagabone! Here it is, Misther O'Ryan, will it plaze ye have yer picther taken, an' where'll we send it for ye?"

PHILIP DOUGLASS.

A DOKETOR'S DRUBBLES.

I youst to bin a doketor vonce, Vat koored all kints ov gases; Und in my bragtis I have met A goot mainy _deaferent_ fases.

Vor dwendy milse round vere I leved, De beeple vas gwite seekly; Boud vonce a veek I galled arount, Und zo I vound um veekly.

Soam vas seek mit vone decease, Und soam dey had anoder, Und soam you vooden't doght vood leve Vrom one ent do de oder.

Bud pooty soon I vound dot oud My bocket book was dhry, Und also my oxpensays Vas runing oval high.

So I vent oud gollecting; Bud aifery vere I vent, My batients vas oxhorseted,-- Dey vas not vort a cendt.

Und I vent und seed vone men, He vas briefing hees preath lasht; I doght de gwicker I got dot, De sooner it vas kashed.

So I showed de men hees node, Und I dold heem do pay; Hees dime vas shoost up, Dot vos hees lasht tay.

Hees hands vas in each bocked, Und dots vy I doght so sdrange; He died--und hees lasht vords vas, "I don'd veel ainy shange."

Und vone sed do me, "Doketor, Howefer can I pay? You know dot I'm not aple-- I'm _vailing_ afery tay."

Und anoder vailer dold me, "Shoost valk you ride avay; You got dot oll vat's due you Ven comes de shoodgment-tay."

I eshked vone men vor hees sheck, Id vas yoost pefore hees deadth; But I vound he hadn't no dime, He vas drawing hees lasht breadth.

Und I found _dish vash_ de drubble-- Een my kase ainy vay-- De beeple vot I doketored Heddent _cents_ enoff to bay.

You'f hurt dot goot old sayink, Verein dot goot pook says-- I dink id combs out desewise-- "Soam rools ken vork bote vays."

Und so it ess mit de doketor; Of he eshkt a man to bay, Und he tails him, "I ken't do id," Hees shoor to die dot day.

I vent beck to my offus, Veeling dired dru und dru; Und togedder mit dese drubble I vash med and shleeby doo.

I lade down on de sofy, Und dried to haive a shnooze; Bud een a doketors' offus, Dot didn't vas no youse.

I hurt soam kolling, "Doketor!" Und I run ub do my shbout, Und dese vords vent his ears down: "_Vat's de metter mit your mout?_"

Und den dot failer holleret,-- Hees woice vas shdrong und glear, Und dese vords vent de shpout oop,-- "Dooce Dr. Sholtz leve hier?"

Und gwickly beck my an-swear Dot shbout vas goin dro: "Dr. Sholtz, dot vas my name, sir, Vat vood you hev me doo?"

"Now let me eshk you doketor; You shoore I'fe got dot righd? Ish your name _Dr. Vriederick Sholtz_?" Hee yelt mit oll hees mighd.

I doght dot men was crazy-- Oar meppy he vas dight. I sed, "Yaas--'tvas Doketor Vriederick Sholtz, Vat you vant dese dime off nighd?"

Und I vas zo oxtonished, Bud de naixt dings vat I hear, Ven dot failer dold me, "Doketor, How long hev you leefed hier?"

Un den I vas oxcited, I felt yooust like a row; I sed, "I'fe leefed hier dwendy years: Vat you vant, ainyhow?"

Dot men he vas a villane, Und dot's yoost vat I kin brove; He singed oud to me lowdly, "Vat's de reason you dond moofe?"

I run down dru de shdairvay, Und oud into de shdreed; Bud I only hurt de bavemends Klattering fashd agenshd hees feed.

I reely dink sooch ekshuns Shoot not be oferlooked; Of I kood kaitch dot failer-- Py cosh, hees coose vas kooked!

Now I vood say doo de doketors, Yoost pefore id vas doo late, Dond naifer loose your batients, Und you'll suckseed fushtrate.

No metter vots de reason, You naifer shood get vexed; You may loose your bay in dese vorldt, Bud you'll get id in de next.

GEORGE M. WARREN.

CHARLIE MACHREE.

Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree! Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn, Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in. But the dark, rolling river, though deep as the sea, I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me; For stout is your back, and strong is your arm, And the heart in your bosom is faithful and warm. Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree! I see him! I see him! He's plunged in the tide! His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside. Oh! the dark, rolling water shoots swift as the sea, But blithe is the glance of his bonnie blue e'e; His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough,-- Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now? Ho, ho! foaming river, ye may roar as ye go; But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below. Come over, come over the river to me, My true-hearted laddie, _my_ Charlie Machree! He's sinking! he's sinking! Oh, what shall I do! Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes, and ye're through. He's sinking, oh, Heaven! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear: I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here! He rises: I see him--five strokes, Charlie, mair-- He's shaking the wet from his bonnie brown hair; He conquers the current, he gains on the sea. Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree! Come over the river, but once come to me, And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree! He's sinking! he's gone! O God! it is I, It is I who have killed him! Help! help!--he must die. Help! help! Ah! he rises! Strike out, and ye're free! Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more, now, for me! Now cling to the rock, now give me your hand,-- Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land! Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep: I canna speak to ye; I only can weep. Ye've crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for me, And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree!

WILLIAM J. HOPPIN.

A DUTCHMAN'S DOLLY VARDEN.

Vell, mine freund, you know dat I hav on my het dat leedle bump der frenollogiggers say dat I hav great like for de ladies, aind it? Vell, I vas goin' down de shtreet der tay after yesterday, und ven I comes to der blace vat dey calls der corner, so der shtreet mit anoder shtreet makes a nice leetle cross oder der leetle saw-buck, you know vat dat is? So soon I comes to der blace, vot you tink? A nice leetle poy mit great many papers in der hand goes by, and shust so soon as he goes by he gifs me von leetle paper mitout notings. But it vas padder as vorse vot I took dot leetle paper, and den I goes and makes me von mineself von great pig fool. Vat you tink I on dot paper find,--you no guess dot in twelve tousand year. I dell you vot I see on dot. It vas like diss: "Come und see your Dolly Varden. She is lovely; she is putiful; she is rich! You can she hav for most notings." Den der leetle paper gives der number von der shtreet vare I could she find. It vas said Mr. Shteward, py Proatvay oud. So soon I reads dot petter as goot, mine heart makes me von pitty-pat, knock-knock. You know vat dat is. I no more knows vare I lif, oder var I vas goin'. Dolly Varden! She vas rich; she vas lovely; she vas putiful; und Dolly, dot vas shust so nice names, aind it? Und der leetle poy dat me dot paper gives, made he on dot paper say dot I can she hav for most notings. Der firsht ding vot mine eye come against vas von dose leetle shticks mit der great American flag round him, vot says dot dere viskers be taken off dere, und der hair be so bright and shining made, also der placking boots. Denn I goes right dere, und I pays dot man fifteen cent--fifteen cent! mind you dot! vile dot he make mine hair der vay vot I shpeak von. Den, mit mine het up, feeling dot I shust so pig as Carl Schurz, I goes after der shtreet for to git me mine Dolly Varden. I vonders so soon I comes to der blace und sees der pig shtore shop of Mister Shteward, vedder or not she owns all dot nice buildings. Anoder leetle poy opens dot door so nicely, unt he looks me in der face so shmilings dot I tinks praps it vos Dolly's brudder; und mine heart he goes so hot like fire; most like der pig, plazing Shecawgo fire. Und I says to der poy, so shweet I could, you know, "You hav der sister here, aint it?" Denn der poy he look me mit vonder, und he make dot het go so, like dot. I shpeaks no more mit der poy, but I goes to der shtand, vare I sees von fine gentleman, und I says, "I vould dot young lady see, vot der leetle poy givs me paper von."--"Vot is dot?" says der shentlemans. Denn I says, "I vants mine Dolly Varden!" Und der man says, "Dolly Varden! come dis vay ven you blease." Und I follows dot man mit mine heart full von great tremblings unt joy put togedder, shust like der apple und meat in der mince-pie. Put vat is dot he do now? He go und show me a leetle piece von cloth, mit great many putiful color. Denn I say, "You nixverstay me. I no vant to see her dress. I vould see Dolly Varden she self." Dere goes more vunder donn der poy hat over der face von der shentlemans, und he say, "Dis is Dolly Varden." Denn I say, "Dolly Varden! Dolly Varden! Oh! I no vant such voomans as dot." Und mine mind runs vay mit mine het, unt mine het runs vay mit mine bodies, und mine bodies runs vay mit mine feet, und der shtore is vay on der odder side von me. Und ven I see again on der shtreet dot leetle poy I vould him pants make varm for dot he gif me so much heart-ache.

Und denn ven I tinks on vot I pees und vat I used to vas, I feels I trow fifteen cent avay mitout sufficient cause. Den I feels mit mineselfs so mad to trow avays fifteen cents--tree glass lager--for notinks, dat I go very queeck and trown mineself in de try-tock, till I vas vashit ashore mit a bar of soft-soap.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA-POWDER.

A FAVORITE COMIC RECITATION.

A Frenchman once--so runs a certain ditty-- Had crossed the Straits to famous London city To get a living by the arts of France, And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance. But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill: His fortunes sank from low to lower still. Until at last,--pathetic to relate,-- Poor monsieur landed at starvation's gate. Standing one day beside a cook-shop door, And gazing in, with aggravation sore, He mused within himself what he should do To fill his empty maw, and pocket too. By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan, And thus to execute it straight began. A piece of common brick he quickly found, And with a harder stone to powder ground; Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece Of paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas," And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try, To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy. From street to street he cried with lusty yell, "Here's grand and sovereign _flea-poudare_ to sell!" And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last, For soon a woman hailed him as he passed; Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot, And made him five crowns richer on the spot. Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, Went into business on a larger scale; And soon, throughout all London, scattered he The "only genuine poudare for de flea." Engaged one morning in his new vocation Of mingled boasting and dissimulation, He thought he heard himself in anger called; And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled-- In not a mild or very tender mood-- From the same window where before she stood. "Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man! Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can. I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know That decent people won't be cheated so." Then spoke monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh, With humble attitude and tearful eye: "Ah, madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous, I vill dis leetle ting _explain_ to you. My poudare gran'! magnifique! why abuse him? Aha! I show you _how to use him_, First, you must wait until you _catch de flea_; Den tickle he on de petite rib, you see; And when he laugh--aha! he ope his throat; Den _poke de poudare down_!--BEGAR! HE CHOKE."

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE SHEEP'S TROTTERS.

A CELEBRATED COMIC RECITATION.

A monsieur from the Gallic shore, Who, though not over-rich, wished to appear so, Came over in a ship with friends a score-- Poor emigrants, whose wealth, good lack! Dwelt only on their ragged backs-- Who thought him rich: they'd heard _him_ oft declare so, For he was proud as Satan's self, And often bragged about his pelf; And as a proof--the least That he could give--he promised when on land, At the first inn, in style so grand, To give _a feast_! The Frenchmen jumped at such an offer. Monsieur did not forget his proffer; But at the first hotel on shore, They stopped to lodge and board. The Frenchman ordered in his way A dinner to be done that day; But here occurred a grievous bore:-- Monsieur of English knew but little. Tapps of French knew not a tittle. In ordering dinner, therefore, 'tis no wonder That they should make a blunder. Whether the landlord knew, or no, The sequel of my tale will show. He blundered, and it cannot be denied, To some small disadvantage on his side. The order seemed immense to Boniface: But more the expense, to him the greater fun; For all that from the order he could trace, Was,--"Messieur Bull, you lettee me have, I say, Vich for vid cash, I sal you pay, _Fifteen of those vid vich the sheep do run_!" From which old Tapps could only understand (But whether right or wrong, cared not a button), That what monsieur desired, with air so grand, _Was fifteen legs of mutton_! "A dinner most enormous!" cried the elf. "Zounds! each must eat a leg, near, to himself!" However, they seemed a set of hungry curs; And so, without more bother or demurs, Tapps to his cook his orders soon expressed, And fifteen legs of mutton quick were dressed. And now around the table all elate, The Frenchman's friends the dinner doth await. Joy sparkled in each hungry urchin's eyes, When they beheld, with glad surprise, Tapps quick appear with leg of mutton hot, Smoking, and just ejected from the pot! Laughed, stared, and chuckled more and more, When _two_ they saw, then _three_, then _four_! And then a _fifth_ their eager glances blessed, And then a _sixth_, larger than all the rest! But soon the Frenchman's countenance did change, To see the legs of mutton on the table. Surprise and rage by turns In his face burns, While Tapps the table did arrange As nice as he was able. And while the Frenchmen for the feast prepared, Thus, in a voice that quite the landlord scared, Our hero said,-- "Mon Dieu, monsieur! vy for you make Dis vera great blundare and mistake? Vy for you bring to me dese mouton legs?" Tapps with a bow his pardon begs:-- "I've done as you have ordered, sir," said he. "Did you not order _fifteen legs_ of me? _Six_ of which before your eyes appear, And _nine besides_ are nearly done down-stair! Here, John!"--"Go, hang you, Jean! you fool! you ass! You one great clown to bring me to dis pass: Take vay dis meat, for vich I sall no pay. I did no order dat."--"What's that you say?" Tapps answered with a frown and with a stare, "You ordered fifteen legs of me, I'll swear, Or _fifteen things with which the sheep do run_, Which _means the same_:--I'm not so easy done." "Parbleu, monsieur! vy you no comprehend? You may take back de legs unto de pot: I telle you, sare, 'tis not de legs I vant, But _dese here leetel tings vid vich de sheep do trot_!" "Why, hang it!" cried the landlord in a rage, Which monsieur vainly tried to assuage, "Hang it!" said he, as to the door he totters: "Now, after all the trouble that I took, These legs of mutton both to buy and cook, It seems instead of _fifteen legs, You merely wanted fifteen poor sheep's trotters_!"

I VANT TO FLY.

A HUMOROUS RECITATION.--FRENCH DIALECT.

Shortly before the conclusion of the war with Napoleon, there were a number of French officers in an inland town on their parole of honor. Now, one gentleman being tired with the usual routine of eating, drinking, gambling, smoking, etc., therefore, in order to amuse himself otherwise, resolved to go a-fishing. His host supplied him with rod and line, but, being in want of artificial flies, he went in search of a fishing-tackle maker's shop. Having found one, kept by a plain, painstaking John Bull, our Frenchman entered, and with a bow, a cringe, and a shrug of the shoulders, thus began:--

"Ah, Monsieur Anglais! comment vous portez-vous?"

"Eh! that's French," exclaimed the shopkeeper; "not that I understand it, but I'm very well, if that's what you mean."

"Bon, bon, ver good; den, sare, I sall tell you, I vant deux fly."

"I dare say you do, mounseer," replied the Englishman, "and so do a great many more of your outlandish gentry; but I'm a true-born Briton, and can never consent to assist the enemies of my country to leave it, particularly when they cost us so much to bring them here."

"Ah, monsieur, you no comprehend! I shall repeate, I vant deux fly, on the top of de vater."