Part 11

He leaped on a log in the front of the rush, And shot out from the bind While the jam roared behind; As he floated along He balanced his pole And tossed us a song. But, just as we cheered, Up darted a log from the bottom, Leaped thirty feet fair and square, And came down on his own.

He went up like a block With the shock; And when he was there, In the air, Kissed his hand To the land. When he dropped My heart stopped, For the first log had caught him And crushed him; When he rose in his place There was blood on his face.

There were some girls, Baptiste, Picking berries on the hillside, Where the river curls, Baptiste, You know,--on the still side. One was down by the water, She saw Isaàc Fall back.

She did not scream, Baptiste, She launched her canoe; It did seem, Baptiste, That she wanted to die too, For before you could think The birch cracked like a shell In the rush of hell, And I saw them both sink--

Baptiste! He had two girls, One is Virginie; What God calls the other Is not known to me.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.

THE SANDS O' DEE.

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

"O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- A tress o' golden hair, O' drownèd maiden's hair,-- Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,-- The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam,-- To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED; 1782.

Toll for the brave,-- The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore.

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone; His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE THREE FISHERS.

Three fishers went sailing out into the west,-- Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep; And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands. For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep,-- And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,-- And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

CASABIANCA.

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.]

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say, If yet my task be done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound; The boy,--Oh! where was _he_? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea,--

With shroud and mast and pennon fair, That well had borne their part,-- But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young, faithful heart.

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

It was the schooner Hesperus That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm; His pipe was in his mouth; And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish main: "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring; Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns; Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light! Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word-- A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be! And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever, the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows; She drifted a dreary wreck; And a whooping billow swept the crew, Like icicles, from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool; But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the mast went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank-- Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE SECOND MATE.

"Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand! Tell me, what is that far away,-- There, where over the isle of sand Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray? See! it rocks with a ghastly life, Rising and rolling through clouds of spray, Right in the midst of the breakers' strife,-- Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray?"

"That, good sir, was a steamer stout As ever paddled around Cape Race; And many's the wild and stormy bout She had with the winds, in that self-same place; But her time was come; and at ten o'clock Last night she struck on that lonesome shore; And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, And at dawn this morning she was no more."

"Come, as you seem to know, good man, The terrible fate of this gallant ship, Tell me about her all that you can; And here's my flask to moisten your lip. Tell me how many she had aboard,-- Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,-- How did it fare with her human hoard? Lost she many, or lost she few?"

"Master, I may not drink of your flask, Already too moist I feel my lip; But I'm ready to do what else you ask, And spin you my yarn about the ship. 'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night, When she struck the breakers and went ashore; And scarce had broken the morning's light When she sank in twelve feet of water or more.

"But long ere this they knew her doom, And the captain called all hands to prayer; And solemnly over the ocean's boom Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. And round about the vessel there rose Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, Like angels in their ascension clothes, Waiting for those who prayed below.

"So these three hundred people clung As well as they could, to spar and rope; With a word of prayer upon every tongue, Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. But there was no blubbering weak and wild,-- Of tearful faces I saw but one, A rough old salt, who cried like a child, And not for himself, but the captain's son.

"The captain stood on the quarter-deck, Firm but pale with trumpet in hand; Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, Sometimes he sadly looked to land; And often he smiled to cheer the crew-- But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim-- Till over the quarter a huge sea flew; And that was the last they saw of him.

"I saw one young fellow with his bride, Standing amidships upon the wreck; His face was white as the boiling tide, And she was clinging about his neck. And I saw them try to say good-bye, But neither could hear the other speak; So they floated away through the sea to die-- Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek.

"And there was a child, but eight at best, Who went his way in a sea she shipped, All the while holding upon his breast A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped. And, as the boy and the bird went by, Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry, And together the three went down to rest.

"And so the crew went one by one, Some with gladness, and few with fear,-- Cold and hardship such work had done That few seemed frightened when death was near. Thus every soul on board went down,-- Sailor and passenger, little and great; The last that sank was a man of my town, A capital swimmer,--the second mate."

"Now, lonely fisherman, who are you That say you saw this terrible wreck? How do I know what you say is true, When every mortal was swept from the deck? Where were you in that hour of death? How did you learn what you relate?" His answer came in an under-breath "Master, I was the second mate!"

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.

A SEA STORY.

Silence. A while ago Shrieks went up piercingly; But now is the ship gone down; Good ship, well manned, was she. There's a raft that's a chance of life for one, This day upon the sea.

A chance for one of two Young, strong, are he and he, Just in the manhood prime, The comelier, verily, For the wrestle with wind and weather and wave, In the life upon the sea.

One of them has a wife And little children three; Two that can toddle and lisp, And a suckling on the knee: Naked they'll go, and hunger sore, If he be lost at sea.

One has a dream of home, A dream that well may be: He never has breathed it yet; She never has known it, she. But some one will be sick at heart If he be lost at sea.

"Wife and kids at home!-- Wife, kids, nor home has he!-- Give us a chance, Bill!" Then, "All right, Jem!" Quietly A man gives up his life for a man, This day upon the sea.

EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY.

HUMOUROUS POEMS.

HUMOROUS POEMS.

I.

WOMAN.

When Eve brought _woe_ to all mankind Old Adam called her _wo-man_; But when she _wooed_ with love so kind, He then pronounced her _woo-man_. But now, with folly and with pride, Their husbands' pockets trimming, The women are so full of _whims_ That men pronounce them _wimmen_!

ANONYMOUS.

THE WOMEN FO'K.[2]

O, sairly may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flattered me at will, But aye for a' their witcherye, The pawky things I lo'e them still.

_O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo'k, For they winna let a body be!_

I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've studied them wi' a' my skill, I've lo'd them better than mysell, I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began. _O the women fo'k, etc._

That they hae gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree; An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud, And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,-- But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair! _O the women fo'k, etc._

Even but this night nae farther gane, The date is neither lost nor lang, I tak ye witness ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they've carried right or wrang, Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava.

_O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo'k, For they winna let a body be!_

JAMES HOGG.

[2] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favorite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again.--THE AUTHOR.

OF A CERTAINE MAN.

There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher, That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who having read in Latine thus a text Of _erat quidam homo_, much perplext, He seemed the same with studie great to scan, In English thus, _There was a certaine man_. But now (quoth he), good people, note you this, He saith there was, he doth not say there is; For in these daies of ours it is most plaine Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine; Yet by my text you see it comes to passe That surely once a certaine man there was: But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can finde this text, _There was a certaine woman_.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

WOMEN'S CHORUS.

They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men: They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again; Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may! And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking heaven That your Plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting-- "Where is _my_ Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again.

From the Greek of ARISTOPHANES. Translation of WILLIAM COLLINS.

THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.

Which way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say! 'Tis sure a famous city: It must have cradled, in its day, Full many a maid of noble clay, And matrons wise and witty; And if ever marriage should happen to me, A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.

King Conrad once, historians say, Fell out with this good city; So down he came, one luckless day,-- Horse, foot, dragoons,--in stern array,-- And cannon,--more's the pity! Around the walls the artillery roared, And bursting bombs their fury poured.

But naught the little town could scare; Then, red with indignation, He bade the herald straight repair Up to the gates, and thunder there The following proclamation:-- "Rascals! when I your town do take, No living thing shall save its neck!"

Now, when the herald's trumpet sent These tidings through the city, To every house a death knell went; Such murder-cries the hot air rent Might move the stones to pity. Then bread grew dear, but good advice Could not be had for any price.

Then, "Woe is me!" "O misery!" What shrieks of lamentation! And "Kyrie Eleison!" cried The pastors, and the flock replied, "Lord! save us from starvation!" "Oh, woe is me, poor Corydon-- My neck,--my neck! I'm gone,--I'm gone!"

Yet oft, when counsel, deed, and prayer Had all proved unavailing, When hope hung trembling on a hair, How oft has woman's wit been there!-- A refuge never failing; For woman's wit and Papal fraud, Of olden time, were famed abroad.

A youthful dame, praised be her name!-- Last night had seen her plighted,-- Whether in waking hour or dream, Conceived a rare and novel scheme, Which all the town delighted; Which you, if you think otherwise, Have leave to laugh at and despise.

At midnight hour, when culverin And gun and bomb were sleeping, Before the camp with mournful mien, The loveliest embassy were seen, All kneeling low and weeping. So sweetly, plaintively they prayed, But no reply save this was made:--

"The women have free leave to go, Each with her choicest treasure; But let the knaves their husbands know That unto them the King will show The weight of his displeasure." With these sad terms the lovely train Stole weeping from the camp again.

But when the morning gilt the sky, What happened? Give attention:-- The city gates wide open fly, And all the wives come trudging by, Each bearing--need I mention?-- Her own dear husband on her back, All snugly seated in a sack!

Full many a sprig of court, the joke Not relishing, protested, And urged the King; but Conrad spoke:-- "A monarch's word must not be broke!" And here the matter rested. "Bravo!" he cried, "Ha, ha! Bravo! Our lady guessed it would be so."

He pardoned all, and gave a ball That night at royal quarters. The fiddles squeaked, the trumpets blew, And up and down the dancers flew, Court sprigs with city daughters. The mayor's wife--O rarest sight!-- Danced with the shoemaker that night!

Ah, where is Weinsberg, sir, I pray? 'Tis sure a famous city: It must have cradled in its day Full many a maid of noble clay, And matrons wise and witty; And if ever marriage should happen to me, A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.

From the German of GOTTFRIED AUGÜST BÜRGER. Translation of CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.

SORROWS OF WERTHER.

Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

"In the parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees,--withy, oak, elm, and ash,--and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby."--FULLER.

A well there is in the West country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the neighboring town At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."