Chapter 4

Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter, To speed like theirs was but a canter; Had you bestrode that night instead Of gray mare Meg a thoroughbred (Such as Kentuckians only breed-- To Scotia then an unknown steed), No carline could have caught his rump And left your brute with scarce a stump!

IV.

His foaming horse with throbbing sides Unslackened yet his pace he rides, Till in among the yelping hounds The foremost huntsman proudly bounds, And sees the leaders of the chase (Two matchless dogs that set the pace) O'ertake the game and win the race! And then dismounts and feels the flush Of victory as he takes the brush!

V.

O royal sport, befitting kings! It bids the demon Care take wings, And the rose's hue to the cheek it brings! And sweeter music none can hear Than that which greets the list'ning ear-- By distance mellowed to a key That breathes divinest harmony-- And wakes the slumbering echoes round-- The winding horn and baying hound!

THE CHARMING GIRL OF SOMERSET.

By magic spell was I entranced When on me first thy brown eyes glanced, And sunbeams played at hide and seek Thro' silken ringlets on thy dimpling cheek, And like some glorious halo shed Their radiance o'er thy shapely head-- And seemed as if they loved to dwell Where'er thy airy footsteps fell! And in my dreams I see thee now-- The pearly teeth--the arching brow-- The form that mocks the sculptor's art To add one curve that could impart More beauty and more witching grace, Or chisel out a sweeter face! Blest be the hour when first I met This charming girl of Somerset!

IN JULY.

I.

Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun, And the sparkling waters from a limped pool O'er the gleaming pebbles in ripples run!

II.

Where the sloping banks are with verdure clad, And the hoary cliffs with moss o'ergrown, And the tangled vine and the wildflowers pad The fallen trunk and the hidden stone!

III.

Where the song that wells from a feathered throat The echoes repeat again and again, And the drifted sedge and the bubbles float O'er the glassy depths of a miniature main!

IV.

Where the willows dip in the edge of the stream, And sway and nod in the passing breeze, And a feller could tranquilly rest and dream Of a howling blizzard and a good hard freeze!

TO J. R. M.

I walked within the silent city of the dead, Which then with Autumn leaves was carpeted, And where the faded flower and withered wreath Bespoke the love for those who slept beneath, And, weeping, stood beside a new-made grave Which held the sacred dust that friendship gave. That heart with milk of human kindness overflowed-- That sympathetic hand its generous aid bestowed To lighten others' burdens on life's weary road! And there no polished shaft need lift its head In lettered eulogy above the sainted dead-- His deeds are monuments above the dust whereon we tread! When from its fragile tenement of clay To fairer realms his spirit winged its way, With poignant grief we stood around the bier Which held the lifeless form of one held dear, And broken hearts that knew no comfort then Still mourn the loss of one of Nature's noblemen!

TWILIGHT.

The sun is sinking where the western hills The vision bounds with rugged summits old, And with his latest beam he brightly gilds And crowns with amethyst and gold.

The distant music of a tinkling bell Is floating o'er the meadow's gentle sweep-- No discords mar the magic of the spell, And stealthily the twilight shadows creep.

And gently falls upon the listening ear-- Like tones from voices of the long-ago-- The cadence of the murmuring waters near-- With rhythmic ripplings soft and low.

Now grow apace the shadows' slanting shapes And fade the rugged hills to misty gray, As dying day its calm departure takes And yields to coming night her sable sway.

The vaulted dome above now glows afar With many a soft and tender light, Each sparkling gem it wears a jeweled star, With sweet effulgence purely bright.

Sweet scene! Sweet hour! If to the heart No quick'ning pulses they can lend, And to the soul no rapture thus impart-- Vain were our lives--and vainer still the end!

O, such the time when he who will may feel Release from care, vexation, toil, and strife-- And musing then will gently o'er him steal The sweetest moments of the turmoil--life!

OUT UV "POLITICKS."

I.

"I'll tell yer what," said Uncle Zeke, down at the country store, "I'd been a farmer all my life--fur twenty year or more-- Until one day my noddle here, it got plumb out o' fix, Er-swellin' with the idy that I's made fur politicks.

II.

"I'd been ter hear them fellers speak, an' rip an' rant an' rave, When 'lection time's er-comin' on, who tell yer how ter save Ther kentry frum tarnation ruin, by sendin' only men That's fit ter draw ther salaries, an' honest--jest like them.

III.

"So listen, boys--yer'll profit by ther story that I tell-- I left ther farm ter 'lectioneer an' run fur constable; I wouldn't hearken ter my wife--she said I'd lost my wit, An' as fur holdin' offices--_she_ knowed _I_ wusn't fit.

IV.

"But ennyhow, I sold er steer, an' then er heifer calf, An' bought er bran' new suit o' clothes fur twenty an' er half, An' 'fore ther 'lection day cum roun' I'd sold my wheat an' oats, An' spent ther proceeds that I got in purchasin' uv votes.

V.

"I knowed 'twus wrong--agin ther law--ter do er thing like that-- But then ther boys all said, yer know, 'twould take er little 'fat,' Fur ther feller that I run agin could have no earthly hope Uv beatin' me if I'd use ther right amount uv 'soap.'

VI.

"I jocks I did--I won ther fight--I sarved er single term-- (But fur ther salary that I got I wouldn't give er durn); An' right up here I wear ther scar that shows whar I wus hit Ther day I rid fur forty miles ter sarve that cussed 'writ!'"

JONES' MARE.

I.

Now Farmer Jones was noted for fast horses on his place, And also as the father of a son with freckled face, And hair so red it looked as if it had been dyed in blood, And Ephraim was the "masher" of the country neighborhood.

II.

This Ephraim Jones' yellow mare, she was no nice and fleet That all the girls for miles around on Eph. were very "sweet," In hopes to get a ride or two behind her on the road, With sleigh-bells jingling 'round her neck, some day when it had snowed.

III.

Or else to spin along the pike, with buggy top let down, And ribbons sailing out behind, when Eph. would drive to town, The envy of the country boys, and many maidens fair A-casting wistful glances at the youth with reddish hair.

IV.

This thing went on till finally our Ephraim fell in love With Tildy Ann Serepty Brown--as gentle as a dove-- Of all the girls around about the reigning country bell, Whose father was as rich as cream--he'd struck an oil well!

V.

About three nights in every week could Ephraim's yellow mare Be found a-standing hitched outside, while he was courting there, And so the boys, with envy mad and jealousy aroused, To humble Eph. hit on a plan they heartily espoused.

VI.

If anything in all the world, beside sweet Tildy Ann, Was dear to Ephraim's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan; He boasted of her speed and looks, and of her pedigree-- Said more intelligence in a brute no man would ever see.

VII.

He kept her curried till her coat it shone like burnished gold-- With silver-mounted harness on, a beauty to behold. A brand new buggy hitched to her, a-glinting in the sun, She "took the cake" for speed and style from every other one.

VIII.

They heard that Eph. one night would call upon his Tildy Ann To make arrangements all complete to carry out a plan: It would be Sunday following, when all in style he'd go With Tildy and the yellow mare to the country "bonnet-show."

IX.

Supplied with brushes, cans of paint of every shade and hue, And to furnish light by which to work, a bull's-eye lantern, too, At ten o'clock that night so dark you couldn't see a wink, They striped his Fan with red and brown, and black and blue and pink.

X.

Next morning when he went to feed, and opened wide the door, No zebra that was ever foaled could boast the stripes she wore; Her ears were white, her legs were green, her tail was fiery red, And as he gazed upon her then I can't tell what he said!

THAT OLD STRAW HAT OF MINE.

(WITH APOLOGIES TO RILEY.)

I.

As one who dreams at evening o'er the new hats that he's worn, And muses on the better times that once to him were known, So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, I see the faded ribbon on that old straw hat of mine.

II.

The firelight seems to mock me as the ruddy flames arise, And I turn about to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes; And I ponder then in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my condition, and to vanish like the smoke.

III.

With fondest recollection the loving thoughts that start Into being are but feelings from the bottom of my heart; And to wear the new hats over is a luxury divine-- Till my truant fancy wanders with that old straw hat of mine.

IV.

Now I hear without my chamber, like a fluttering of wings, The rustling of the autumn wind as through the trees it sings, And I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any scheme That will bring to me a hat of which I now can only dream.

V.

In fact, to speak in earnest, if I could work a charm, I'd try it on old Isaacs--'twouldn't do him much of harm-- And I'd find an extra flavor in memory's mellow wine When I thought of how I swapped him that old straw hat of mine.

VI.

A thing of real beauty, with a shape of airy grace, Floats out of Isaacs' storehouse, as the genii from the vase, And, oh! I gaze upon it with a pair of loving eyes, As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies!

* * * * *

VII.

But, ah! my dream is broken when I gaze upon that chair, For my eyes are now wide open and--the same old hat is there; And reluctantly and sadly all my visions I resign To know that I must wear again that old straw hat of mine!

TOM BARBEE'S POND.

I.

O sweet are the memories when backward we gaze Through the vista of years to our schoolboy days, When faces now vanished to the vision appear And the music of voices long hushed we can hear, As together we romped where the school-house stood, Or joyfully wended our way through the wood Where placidly lay, in the valley beyond, The moss-covered waters of Tom Barbee's pond!

II.

Though scattered by Time o'er the face of the earth, And sorrow and anguish have succeeded to mirth, Still many there be whose mist-bedewed eye Looks longingly back, while the breast heaves a sigh, To that far-away time, when together we played In the school-house yard, or on Saturdays strayed Where the knots in our sleeves were tied tight as a bond, As we splashed and we dived in Tom Barbee's pond!

III.

The "pleasures of memory" by Rogers were lined, With rhythm as sweet as in verse you will find, But could he e'er picture one-half of the joys We had when we wandered as barefooted boys Through the woods and the fields and the meadows out there, With our sun-blistered backs and the burrs in our hair, Or recall to the mind a remembrance more fond Than bathing and swimming in Tom Barbee's pond?

WHERE?

I.

O, where are the friends that in youth we once knew, Whose smiles were like sunshine, whose hearts were so true? Alas! they are lost in the darkness and gloom That veils them from sight in the cold, silent tomb!

II.

O, where are the years that forever have fled, And over Life's morning their radiance shed? With the Past written down on the unending scroll Where Time--grim destroyer--his victims enroll!

III.

O, where are the fancies, the visions, the dreams, That filled the young breast--with which memory teems? They have faded away--from life they have passed-- Like stars blotted out when the sky's overcast!

IV.

O, where are the hopes that have beckoned us on With their beacons of light, through sunshine and storm? Like spectres--like phantoms--like vapor and mist, They have vanished forever--a will-o'-the-wisp!

V.

O, where are the harbors, the havens of rest, That solace can give to a heart that's opprest? They are hid from the vision beyond the blue sky, Yet the eye of sweet Faith their portals descry!

THE HILLS OF LINCOLN.

I.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day As they stretch in dim distance far, far away, And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known-- Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam, Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream, And far to the south, with their outlines so blue, The rugged knobs blend into heaven's own hue!

II.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways When memory's mirror presents them to view, And I dream once again that I tread them anew, While raptured I listen to the music of love That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above, And the soul drifts away in a swoon of delight, Unanchored from care and from sorrow's cold blight!

III.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--my footsteps have trod Up and down their green valleys, with shotgun and rod, And it seems to me now that the years that have fled Around their old summits a halo have shed That guides the fond fancy unerringly there When backward it wanders with childhood to share Sweet scenes such as these, inurned in the heart, And which from fond memory can never depart!

LOVED AND LOST.

I.

Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf They laid the loved and lost away; A chair is vacant by the household hearth, And shadow-vested Sorrow's there to-day.

II.

The tender hands that guided us in youth Are folded now upon the gentle breast, And those dear eyes whose depths were love and truth Are closed to open in eternal rest.

III.

Through simple faith and duty well performed, A crown of light forever shall be hers; And though with bitter grief and anguish mourned, A consolation gleams through blinding tears!

A TRUE STORY.

(READ BEFORE A MEETING OF THE DANVILLE SCRIBBLER CLUB.)

Dear friends, to-night the inspiration of my theme Is not the baseless fabric of a weird, fantastic dream-- For truth, combined with justice, doth impel, And therefore it is fact--not fiction--that I tell.

"Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again"-- A maxim true as holy writ;--then it is plain, If rudely woven by an untaught hand it be, Sustains but transitory wrong and injury.

And thus it is, in homely rhyme, I venture forth, Relating nothing here but under oath; And if, perchance, at times it sounds a little strange, You know that truth o'er fiction hath a wider range.

These stanzas three I hope you'll deem explanatory-- As introductory and preliminary to the story-- A preface simply used before I introduce The proper characters essential for our use.

And just one moment more attention I will claim, And crave indulgence while I here explain, That "character" is used in a Pickwickian sense-- So truth and justice need not take offense.

'Twas when the Autumn leaves, with russet hue, Scarce quivered in the gentle wind, and when the dew Lay sparkling on the grass, beneath the argent moon, A tragedy took place--of which I'll tell you soon.

And ever and anon a fleecy, drifting cloud, Meek Dian's face would veil with filmy shroud, And lend to wood and field that softened ray Unmatched in beauty from the glaring god of day!

But I will tell the story as 'twas told to me, And vouched for by some others--two or three-- Whose word to doubt would be a heinous sin-- So, armed with truth, in confidence I will begin.

Ah, memory! Thou art a fickle jade, And oft responsible when grave mistakes are made, And therefore 'tis with caution that I hesitate When truthful things I undertake to state.

This much is due to accuracy and circumspection, As well as to a rather faulty recollection; And so I'll trespass on your patience now no more, But straightway tell the story--as I said before.

All good beginnings have that natural trend Which safely leads to a successful end, And stories all should have their plots well laid-- Which neither prose nor verse can do, when haste is made.

'Tis said "procrastination is the thief of time," And this might seem to be the object of my rhyme. Had I not told you, as I should have done, The reason why the story's not begun.

'Tis my sole object, then, to give without delay, The narrative in a direct and proper way, For as you know some critics may be here Whom scribbling rhymesters may, with justice, fear.

"What shameless bards we have! And yet, 'tis true, There are as mad, abandoned critics, too!" This couplet, penned by Pope, is ever new-- But then, dear friends, the second line was _not_ for you!

I only quote that you may comprehend How modesty in _me_ has missed its end, And why it is I ever undertook to write The story that I'm going to tell--sometime to-night.

An introduction that will keep the listener in suspense I deem derogatory to good taste and sense; And this is also why I'll nothing put as prefatory Before I launch right out into the story.

I'm going to make it thrilling, crisp and short, In purest diction drest, with gems of thought So intermingled with the story's warp and woof, That from beginning I can scarcely keep aloof.

I'll put quotation marks to shrive me of the sin Of plagiarism when such language I begin-- That every one of you may plainly see I tell the story as 'twas told to me.

So calmly, coolly then, I think I will proceed To give you now the story--taking heed To curtail all that truth and justice will permit-- Remembering that "brevity's the soul of wit."

But undue haste would cause me to forget And mar the memory of its telling with regret If I had overlooked some startling fact, Which on both truth and justice would re-act!

And now, dear friends, don't think that you are "sold" If still as yet the story's left untold-- But paper, ink, your patience, and my time Are all exhausted in this race with rhyme!

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained from the original book, except for the following changes:

Page 9: raiload changed to railroad: (From the raiload bridge, with its single span,).

Page 49: Aud changed to And: (Aud do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,).

Page 56: Punctuation corrected from: (Old "Bull "Spring?") to (Old "Bull Spring!").

Page 62: Their changed to There: (There where briars in tangled network sway).

Page 101: Ephram's changed to Ephraim's: (Was dear to Ephram's eye and heart, it was his claybank, Fan;).