Chapter 1

Produced by Les Bowler

PIKE COUNTY BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS

By John Hay

LIST OF CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION by Henry Morley.

POEMS BY JOHN HAY.

THE PIKE COUNTY BALLADS.

JIM BLUDSO LITTLE BREECHES BANTY TIM THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL GOLYER THE PLEDGE AT SPUNKY POINT

WANDERLIEDER.

SUNRISE IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE THE SPHINX OF THE TUILERIES THE SURRENDER OF SPAIN THE PRAYER OF THE ROMANS THE CURSE OF HUNGARY THE MONKS OF BASLE THE ENCHANTED SHIRT A WOMAN'S LOVE ON PITZ LANGUARD BOUDOIR PROPHECIES A TRIUMPH OF ORDER ERNST OF EDELSHEIM MY CASTLE IN SPAIN SISTER SAINT LUKE

NEW AND OLD.

MILES KEOGH'S HORSE THE ADVANCE-GUARD LOVE'S PRAYER CHRISTINE EXPECTATION TO FLORA A HAUNTED ROOM DREAMS THE LIGHT OF LOVE QUAND MEME WORDS THE STIRRUP-CUP A DREAM OF BRIC-A-BRAC LIBERTY THE WHITE FLAG THE LAW OF DEATH MOUNT TABOR RELIGION AND DOCTRINE SINAI AND CALVARY THE VISION OF ST. PETER ISRAEL THE CROWS AT WASHINGTON REMORSE ESSE QUAM VIDERI WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME LESE-AMOUR NORTHWARD IN THE FIRELIGHT IN A GRAVEYARD THE PRAIRIE CENTENNIAL A WINTER NIGHT STUDENT-SONG HOW IT HAPPENED GOD'S VENGEANCE TOO LATE LOVE'S DOUBT LAGRIMAS ON THE BLUFF UNA "THROUGH THE LONG DAYS AND YEARS" A PHYLACTERY BLONDINE DISTICHES REGARDANT GUY OF THE TEMPLE

TRANSLATIONS.

THE WAY TO HEAVEN COUNTESS JUTTA A BLESSING TO THE YOUNG THE GOLDEN CALF THE AZRA GOOD AND BAD LUCK L'AMOUR DU MENSONGE AMOR MYSTICUS

INTRODUCTION.

Pike County Ballads and other poems in this volume by Colonel John Hay represent in the best manner the spirit of our strong and independent sister-land across the Atlantic. Pike County Ballads do full justice to the raw material in the United States, and show a loyal temper in the rough. The other pieces show how the love of freedom speaks through finer spirits of the land, and, dealing with realities, can turn a life of action into music.

Colonel Hay has lived always in vigorous relation with the full life of the people whose best mind his poems represent. He is descended from a Scottish soldier, a John Hay, who, at the beginning of the last century, left his country to take service under the Elector-Palatine, and whose son went afterwards with his family to settle among the Kentucky pioneers. Dr. Charles Hay was the father of John Hay the poet, who was born on the 8th of October 1838, in the heart of the United States, at Salem in Indiana. When twenty years old he graduated at the neighbouring Brown University, where his fellow-students valued his skill as a writer. Then he studied for the Bar, and he was called to the Bar three years later, at Springfield, Illinois.

At Springfield, Abraham Lincoln practised as a barrister. Shrewd, lively, earnest, honest, he grudged help to a rogue. In a criminal case, when evidence threw unexpected light upon a client's character, Abraham Lincoln said suddenly to his junior, "Swett, the man is guilty; you defend him, I can't." In another case, when a piece of rascality in his client came out, Abraham Lincoln left his junior in possession of the case and went to his hotel. To the judge, who sent for him, he replied that he had found his hands were very dirty, and had gone away to get them clean. Almost immediately after John Hay's call to the Bar at Springfield he was chosen by Abraham Lincoln, newly made President, to go with him to Washington. At Washington, Hay acted as Assistant-Secretary, and was also, in the Civil War, aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Throughout that momentous struggle he was actively employed on the side of the North at the headquarters and on the field of battle. He served for a time under Generals Hunter and Gillmore, became a Colonel in the army of the North, and served also as Assistant Adjutant-General. John Hay had in that struggle three brothers and two brothers-in-law serving also in the field.

In 1890 there was published, in ten volumes, at New York, by the New York Century Company, "Abraham Lincoln, a History: by John G. Nicolay and John Hay." This was, with fresh material inserted, a collection of chapters that had been published in The Century Magazine from November 1886 to the beginning of 1890. The friends, who worked equally together upon this large record, said, "We knew Mr. Lincoln intimately before his election to the Presidency. We came from Illinois to Washington with him, and remained at his side and in his service--separately or together--until the day of his death."

Abroad, as at home, Colonel Hay has been active in the service of his country. In 1865 he went to Paris as Secretary of Legation, and after remaining two years in that office he went as Charge-d'Affaires for the United States to Vienna. After a year at Vienna, Colonel Hay went to Madrid as Secretary of Legation under General Daniel Sickles. In 1870 he returned to the United States, and was for the next five years an editorial writer for the New York Tribune. During seven months, when Whitelaw Reid was in Europe, Colonel Hay was editor in chief.

It was for The Tribune that Hay wrote "The Pike County Ballads," which were first reprinted separately in 1871, and are placed first in the collection of his poems. In the same year he published his "Castilian Days," inspired by residence in Spain.

In 1876 Colonel Hay removed from New York to Cleveland, Ohio. He then ceased to take part in the editing of The Tribune, but continued friendly service as a writer. From 1879 to 1881 Colonel Hay served under President Hayes as Assistant-Secretary of State in the Government of the United States. In 1881 he was President of the International Sanitary Congress at Washington. Since that time he has been active, with John G. Nicolay, in the preparation and production of the full Memoir of Abraham Lincoln, now completed, that will take high rank among the records of a war which, in its issues, touched the future of the world, perhaps, more nearly than any war since Waterloo, not even excepting the great struggle which ended at Sedan.

That is the life of a man, here is its music.

H. M.

THE PIKE COUNTY BALLADS.

JIM BLUDSO, OF THE "PRAIRIE BELLE."

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Becase he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint,--them engineers Is all pretty much alike,-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied,-- I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had,-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,-- A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last,-- The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she WOULDN'T be passed. And so she come tearin' along that night-- The oldest craft on the line-- With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,-- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint,--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-- And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

LITTLE BREECHES.

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will, and that sort of thing,-- But I b'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,-- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,-- And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started,-- I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And searched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,--but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critters' aid,-- I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

. . . .

By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm; They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around The Throne.

BANTY TIM.

REMARKS OF SERGEANT TILMON JOY TO THE WHITE MAN'S COMMITTEE OF SPUNKY POINT, ILLINOIS.

I reckon I git your drift, gents,-- You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; This is a white man's country; You're Dimocrats, you say; And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The times bein' all out o' j'int, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int!

Le's reason the thing a minute: I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here, allowin' To vote as I used to do, Though it gravels me like the devil to train Along o' sich fools as you.

Now dog my cats ef I kin see, In all the light of the day, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shill go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy.

Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me,-- With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that cursed glacee.

Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And br'iled and blistered and burned! How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn't believe for a spell: That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!

The Rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls.

So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death's ace for me that day, And I'm not goin' back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home, But ef one of you tetches the boy, He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!

THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL.

The darkest, strangest mystery I ever read, or heern, or see, Is 'long of a drink at Taggart's Hall,-- Tom Taggart's of Gilgal.

I've heern the tale a thousand ways, But never could git through the maze That hangs around that queer day's doin's; But I'll tell the yarn to youans.

Tom Taggart stood behind his bar, The time was fall, the skies was fa'r, The neighbours round the counter drawed, And ca'mly drinked and jawed.

At last come Colonel Blood of Pike, And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus-like, And each, as he meandered in, Remarked, "A whisky-skin."

Tom mixed the beverage full and fa'r, And slammed it, smoking, on the bar. Some says three fingers, some says two,-- I'll leave the choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, "I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn-- Jest drap that whisky-skin."

No man high-toneder could be found Than old Jedge Phinn the country round. Says he, "Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins!"

He went for his 'leven-inch bowie-knife:-- "I tries to foller a Christian life; But I'll drap a slice of liver or two, My bloomin' shrub, with you."

They carved in a way that all admired, Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso 'twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise.

Then coats went off, and all went in; Shots and bad language swelled the din; The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.

They piled the stiffs outside the door; They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin'-school.

I've searched in vain, from Dan to Beer- Sheba, to make this mystery clear; But I end with HIT as I did begin,-- "WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?"

GOLYER.

Ef the way a man lights out of this world Helps fix his heft for the other sp'ere, I reckon my old friend Golyer's Ben Will lay over lots of likelier men For one thing he done down here.

You didn't know Ben? He driv a stage On the line they called the Old Sou'-west; He wa'n't the best man that ever you seen, And he wa'n't so ungodly pizen mean,-- No better nor worse than the rest.

He was hard on women and rough on his friends; And he didn't have many, I'll let you know; He hated a dog and disgusted a cat, But he'd run off his legs for a motherless brat, And I guess there's many jess so.

I've seed my sheer of the run of things, I've hoofed it a many and many a miled, But I never seed nothing that could or can Jest git all the good from the heart of a man Like the hands of a little child.

Well! this young one I started to tell you about,-- His folks was all dead, I was fetchin' him through,-- He was just at the age that's loudest for boys, And he blowed such a horn with his sarchin' small voice, We called him "the Little Boy Blue."

He ketched a sight of Ben on the box, And you bet he bawled and kicked and howled, For to git 'long of Ben, and ride thar too; I tried to tell him it wouldn't do, When suddingly Golyer growled,

"What's the use of making the young one cry? Say, what's the use of being a fool? Sling the little one up here whar he can see, He won't git the snuffles a-ridin' with me, The night ain't any too cool."

The child hushed cryin' the minute he spoke; "Come up here, Major! don't let him slip." And jest as nice as a woman could do, He wropped his blanket around them two, And was off in the crack of a whip.

We rattled along an hour or so, Till we heerd a yell on the still night air. Did you ever hear an Apache yell? Well, ye needn't want to, THIS side of hell; There's nothing more devilish there.

Caught in the shower of lead and flint, We felt the old stage stagger and plunge; Then we heerd the voice and the whip of Ben, As he gethered his critters up again, And tore away with a lunge.

The passengers laughed. "Old Ben's all right, He's druv five year and never was struck." "Now if _I_'d been thar, as sure as you live, They'd 'a' plugged me with holes as thick as a sieve; It's the reg'lar Golyer luck."

Over hill and holler and ford and creek, Jest like the hosses had wings, we tore; We got to Looney's, and Ben come in And laid down the baby and axed for his gin, And dropped in a heap on the floor.

Said he, "When they fired, I kivered the kid,-- Although I ain't pretty, I'm middlin' broad; And look! he ain't fazed by arrow nor ball,-- Thank God! my own carcase stopped them all." Then we seen his eye glaze, and his lower jaw fall,-- And he carried his thanks to God.

THE PLEDGE AT SPUNKY POINT.

A TALE OF EARNEST EFFORT AND HUMAN PERFIDY.

It's all very well for preachin', But preachin' and practice don't gee: I've give the thing a fair trial, And you can't ring it in on me. So toddle along with your pledge, Squire, Ef that's what you want me to sign; Betwixt me and you, I've been thar, And I'll not take any in mine.

A year ago last Fo'th July A lot of the boys was here. We all got corned and signed the pledge For to drink no more that year. There was Tilmon Joy and Sheriff McPhail And me and Abner Fry, And Shelby's boy Leviticus, And the Golyers, Luke and Cy.

And we anteed up a hundred In the hands of Deacon Kedge For to be divided the follerin' Fo'th 'Mongst the boys that kep' the pledge. And we knowed each other so well, Squire, You may take my scalp for a fool, Ef every man when he signed his name Didn't feel cock-sure of the pool.

Fur a while it all went lovely; We put up a job next day Fur to make Joy b'lieve his wife was dead, And he went home middlin' gay; Then Abner Fry he killed a man And afore he was hung McPhail Jest bilked the widder outen her sheer By getting him slewed in jail.

But Chris'mas scooped the Sheriff, The egg-nogs gethered him in; And Shelby's boy Leviticus Was, New Year's, tight as sin; And along in March the Golyers Got so drunk that a fresh-biled owl Would 'a' looked 'longside o' them two young men, Like a sober temperance fowl.

Four months alone I walked the chalk, I thought my heart would break; And all them boys a-slappin my back And axin', "What'll you take?" I never slep' without dreamin' dreams Of Burbin, Peach, or Rye, But I chawed at my niggerhead and swore I'd rake that pool or die.

At last--the Fo'th--I humped myself Through chores and breakfast soon, Then scooted down to Taggart's store-- For the pledge was off at noon; And all the boys was gethered thar, And each man hilt his glass-- Watchin' me and the clock quite solemn-like Fur to see the last minute pass.

The clock struck twelve! I raised the jug And took one lovin' pull-- I was holler clar from skull to boots. It seemed I couldn't git full. But I was roused by a fiendish laugh That might have raised the dead-- Them ornary sneaks had sot the clock A half an hour ahead!

"All right!" I squawked. "You've got me, Jest order your drinks agin, And we'll paddle up to the Deacon's And scoop the ante in." But when we got to Kedge's, What a sight was that we saw! The Deacon and Parson Skeeters In the tail of a game of Draw.

They had shook 'em the heft of the mornin', The Parson's luck was fa'r, And he raked, the minute we got thar, The last of our pool on a pa'r. So toddle along with your pledge, Squire, I 'low it's all very fine, But ez fur myself, I thank ye, I'll not take any in mine.

WANDERLIEDER.

SUNRISE IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE. (PARIS, AUGUST 1865.)

I stand at the break of day In the Champs Elysees. The tremulous shafts of dawning, As they shoot o'er the Tuileries early, Strike Luxor's cold grey spire, And wild in the light of the morning With their marble manes on fire, Ramp the white Horses of Marly.

But the Place of Concord lies Dead hushed 'neath the ashy skies. And the Cities sit in council With sleep in their wide stone eyes. I see the mystic plain Where the army of spectres slain In the Emperor's life-long war March on with unsounding tread To trumpets whose voice is dead. Their spectral chief still leads them,-- The ghostly flash of his sword Like a comet through mist shines far,-- And the noiseless host is poured, For the gendarme never heeds them, Up the long dim road where thundered The army of Italy onward Through the great pale Arch of the Star!

The spectre army fades Far up the glimmering hill, But, vaguely lingering still, A group of shuddering shades Infects the pallid air, Growing dimmer as day invades The hush of the dusky square. There is one that seems a King, As if the ghost of a Crown Still shadowed his jail-bleached hair; I can hear the guillotine ring, As its regicide note rang there, When he laid his tired life down And grew brave in his last despair. And a woman frail and fair Who weeps at leaving a world Of love and revel and sin In the vast Unknown to be hurled; (For life was wicked and sweet With kings at her small white feet!) And one, every inch a Queen, In life and in death a Queen, Whose blood baptized the place, In the days of madness and fear,-- Her shade has never a peer In majesty and grace.

Murdered and murderers swarm; Slayers that slew and were slain, Till the drenched place smoked with the rain That poured in a torrent warm,-- Till red as the Riders of Edom Were splashed the white garments of Freedom With the wash of the horrible storm!

And Liberty's hands were not clean In the day of her pride unchained, Her royal hands were stained With the life of a King and Queen; And darker than that with the blood Of the nameless brave and good Whose blood in witness clings More damning than Queens' and Kings'.

Has she not paid it dearly? Chained, watching her chosen nation Grinding late and early In the mills of usurpation? Have not her holy tears, Flowing through shameful years, Washed the stains from her tortured hands? We thought so when God's fresh breeze, Blowing over the sleeping lands, In 'Forty-Eight waked the world, And the Burgher-King was hurled From that palace behind the trees.

As Freedom with eyes aglow Smiled glad through her childbirth pain, How was the mother to know That her woe and travail were vain? A smirking servant smiled When she gave him her child to keep; Did she know he would strangle the child As it lay in his arms asleep?

Liberty's cruellest shame! She is stunned and speechless yet, In her grief and bloody sweat Shall we make her trust her blame? The treasure of 'Forty-Eight A lurking jail-bird stole, She can but watch and wait As the swift sure seasons roll.