The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches

SONG

O I would I had a lover!A lover! a lover!O I would I had a loverWith a twinkering guitar,To come beneath my casementSinging "There is none above her,"While I, leaning, seemed to hoverIn the scent of his cigar!Then at morn I'd want to meet him —To meet him! to meet him!O at morn I'd want to meet him,When the mist was in the sky,And the dew along the path I wentTo casually greet him,And to cavalierly treat him,And regret it by and by.And I'd want to meet his brother —His brother! his brother!O I'd want to meet his brotherAt the german or the play,To pin a rose on his lapelAnd lightly press the other,And love him like a mother —While he thought the other way.O I'd pitilessly test him!And test him! and test him!O I'd pitilessly test himFar beyond his own control;And every tantalizing lureWith which I could arrest him,I'd loosen to molest him,Till I tried his very soul.But ah, when I relented —Relented, relented!But ah, when I relentedWhen the stars were blurred and dim,And the moon above, with crescent grace,Looked off as I repented,And with rapture half demented,All my heart went out to him!

WHEN WE THREE MEET

When we three meet? Ah! friend of mineWhose verses well and flow as wine, —My thirsting fancy thou dost fillWith draughts delicious, sweeter stillSince tasted by those lips of thine.I pledge thee, through the chill sunshineOf autumn, with a warmth divine,Thrilled through as only I shall thrillWhen we three meet.I pledge thee, if we fast or dine,We yet shall loosen, line by line,Old ballads, and the blither trillOf our-time singers – for there willBe with us all the Muses nineWhen we three meet.

JOSH BILLINGS

DEAD IN CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 15, 1885Jolly-hearted old Josh Billings,With his wisdom and his wit,And his gravity of presence,And the drollery of it!Has he left us, and forever?When so many merry yearsHe has only left us laughing —And he leaves us now in tears?Has he turned from his "Deer Publik,"With his slyly twinkling eyesNow grown dim and heavy-liddedIn despite of sunny skies? —Yet with rugged brow uplifted,And the long hair tossed away,Like an old heroic lion,With a mane of iron-gray.Though we lose him, still we find himIn the mirth of every lip,And we fare through all his pagesIn his glad companionship:His voice is wed with Nature's,Laughing in each woody nookWith the chirrup of the robinAnd the chuckle of the brook.But the children – O the children! —They who leaped to his caress,And felt his arms about them,And his love and tenderness, —Where – where will they find comfortAs their tears fall like the rain,And they swarm his face with kissesThat he answers not again?

WHICH ANE

Which ane, an' which ane,An' which ane for thee? —Here thou hast thy vera choice,An' which sall it be? —Ye hae the Holy Brither,An' ye hae the Scholarly;An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith —Which sall it be?Ane's oot o' Edinborough,Wi' the Beuk an' Gown;An' ane's cam frae Cambridge;An' ane frae scaur an' down:An' Deil tak the hindmaist!Sae the test gaes roun':An' here ye hae the lairdly twa,An' ane frae scaur an' down.Yon's Melancholy —An' the pipes a-skirlin' —Gangs limp an' droopet,Like a coof at hirlin', —Droopet aye his lang skirtsI' the wins unfurlin';Yon's Melancholy —An' the pipes a-skirlin'!Which ane, an' which ane,An' which ane for thee? —Here thou hast thy vera choice,An' which sall it be?Ye hae the Holy Brither,An' ye hae the Scholarly;An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith —Which sall it be?Elbuck ye'r bag, mon!An' pipe as ye'd burst!Can ye gie's a waur, monE'en than the first? —Be it Meister Wisemon,I' the classics versed,An' a slawer gait yetE'en than the first?Then gie us Merriment:Loose him like a linnetTeeterin' on a bloomin' spray —We ken him i' the minute, —Twinklin' is ane ee asklent,Wi' auld Clootie in it —Auld Sawney Lintwhite,We ken him i' the minute!An' which ane, an' which ane,An' which ane for thee? —For thou shalt hae thy vera choice,An' which sall it be? —Ye hae the Holy Brither,An' ye hae the Scholarly;A' last, ye hae the butt o' baith —Which sall it be?

THE EARTHQUAKE

CHARLESTON, SEPTEMBER 1, 1886An hour ago the lulling twilight leantAbove us like a gentle nurse who slipsA slow palm o'er our eyes, in soft eclipseOf feigned slumber of most sweet content.The fragrant zephyrs of the tropic wentAnd came across the senses, like to sipsOf lovers' kisses, when upon her lipsSilence sets finger in grave merriment.Then – sudden – did the earth moan as it slept,And start as one in evil dreams, and tossIts peopled arms up, as the horror crept,And with vast breast upheaved and rent across,Fling down the storied citadel where wept,And still shall weep, a world above its loss.

A FALL-CRICK VIEW OF THE EARTHQUAKE

I kin hump my back and take the rain,And I don't keer how she pours;I kin keep kind o' ca'm in a thunder-storm,No matter how loud she roars;I hain't much skeered o' the lightnin',Ner I hain't sich awful shakesAfeard o' cyclones– but I don't want noneO' yer dad-burned old earthquakes!As long as my legs keeps stiddy,And long as my head keeps plum',And the buildin' stays in the front lot,I still kin whistle, some!But about the time the old clockFlops off'n the mantel-shelf,And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen,I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!Plague-take! ef you keep me stabledWhile any earthquakes is around! —I'm jes' like the stock, – I'll bellerAnd break fer the open ground!And I 'low you'd be as nervousAnd in jes' about my fix,When yer whole farm slides from in-under you,And on'y the mor'gage sticks!Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill youEf you don't drive 'crost the track;Crediters never'll jerk you upEf you go and pay 'em back;You kin stand all moral and mundane stormsEf you'll on'y jes' behave —But a' EARTHQUAKE: – Well, ef it wanted youIt 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!

LEWIS D. HAYES

OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886In the midmost glee of the ChristmasAnd the mirth of the glad New Year,A guest has turned from the revel,And we sit in silence here.The band chimes on, yet we listenNot to the air's refrain,But over it ever we strive to catchThe sound of his voice again; —For the sound of his voice was music,Dearer than any noteShook from the strands of harp-strings,Or poured from the bugle's throat. —A voice of such various ranges,His utterance rang from the heightOf every rapture, down to the sobsOf every lost delight.Though he knew Man's force and his purpose,As strong as his strongest peers,He knew, as well, the kindly heart,And the tenderness of tears.So is it the face we rememberShall be always as a child'sThat, grieved some way to the very soul,Looks bravely up and smiles.O brave it shall look, as it looked its lastOn the little daughter's face —Pictured only – against the wall,In its old accustomed place —Where the last gleam of the lamplightOut of the midnight dimYielded its grace, and the earliest dawnGave it again to him.

IN DAYS TO COME

In days to come – whatever acheOf age shall rack our bones, or quakeOur slackened thews – whatever gripRheumatic catch us i' the hip, —We, each one, for the other's sake,Will of our very wailings makeSuch quips of song as well may shakeThe spasm'd corners from the lip —In days to come.Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rakeThe past up! – how our dry eyes slakeTheir sight upon the dewy dripOf juicy-ripe companionship,And blink stars from the blind opaque —In days to come.

LUTHER A. TODD

OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURIGifted, and loved, and praisedBy every friend;Never a murmur raisedAgainst him, to the end!With tireless interestHe wrought as he thought best, —And – lo, we bendWhere now he takes his rest!His heart was loyal, toIts latest thrill,To the home-loves he knew —And now forever will, —Mother and brother – theyThe first to pass away, —And, lingering still,The sister bowed to-day.Pure as a rose might be,And sweet, and white,His father's memoryWas with him day and night: —He spoke of him, as oneMay now speak of the son, —Sadly and tenderly, —Yet as a trump had done.Say, then, of him: He knewFull depths of careAnd stress of pain, and youDo him scant justice there, —Yet in the lifted faceGrief left not any trace,Nor mark unfair,To mar its manly grace.It was as if each daySome new hope dawned —Each blessing in delay,To him, was just beyond;Between whiles, waiting, heDrew pictures, cunningly —Fantastic – fond —Things that we laughed to see.Sometimes, as we looked onHis crayon's work,Some angel-face would dawnOut radiant, from the mirkOf features old and thin,Or jowled with double-chin,And eyes asmirk,And gaping mouths agrin.That humor in his art,Of genius born,Welled warmly from a heartThat could not but adornAll things it touched with love —The eagle, as the dove —The burst of morn —The night – the stars above.Sometimes, amid the wildOf faces queer,A mother, with her childPressed warm and close to her;This, I have thought, somehow,The wife, with head abow,Unreconciled,In the great shadow now.…O you of sobbing breath,Put by all sighsOf anguish at his death —Turn – as he turned his eyes,In that last hour, unknownIn strange lands, all alone —Turn thine eyes toward the skies,And, smiling, cease thy moan.

WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK

A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meetIs some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:The slow hearse and the hosses – slow enough, to say the least,Fer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased!The low scrunch of the gravel – and the slow grind of the wheels, —The low, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash crackA quickstep fer the hosses,When theHearseComesBack!Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes —But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise —You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look awayAnd 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest —Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!And this is why – when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred and blackI like the flash and hurryWhen theHearseComesBack!It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes,Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks; —I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps —Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's, —I've buried father, mother – but I'll haf to jes' git youTo "excuse me," as the feller says. – The p'int I'm drivin' toIs, simply, when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack,It he'ps to shape us up, like,When theHearseComesBack!The idy! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe,When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine, don't you know!When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the barsAnd skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars:And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend'At wants expressed my last request – I'll, mebby, rickommendTo drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track,But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'emWhen theHearseComesBack!"

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't runWhen you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun;It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not,Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black,And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back; —But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail,When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay,And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway;I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall,That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can;I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman;But most I like – with you, my boy – our old friend Neverfail,When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

DAN O'SULLIVAN

Dan O'Sullivan: It's yourLips have kissed "The Blarney," sure! —To be trillin' praise av me,Dhrippin' shwate wid poethry! —Not that I'd not have ye sing —Don't lave off for anything —Jusht be aisy whilst the fitAv me head shwells up to it!Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,Whilst yer singin', loike ye can,To cry shtop because ye've bleshtMy songs more than all the resht: —I'll not be the b'y to axAny shtar to wane or wax,Or ax any clock that's woun',To run up inshtid av down!Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan! —Him that made the IrishmanMixt the birds in wid the dough,And the dew and mistletoeWid the whusky in the quareMuggs av us – and here we air,Three parts right, and three parts wrong,Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song!

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY

SEPULTURE – BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890Dead? this peerless man of men —Patriot, Poet, Citizen! —Dead? and ye weep where he liesMute, with folded eyes!Courage! All his tears are done;Mark him, dauntless, face the sun!He hath led you. – Still, as true,He is leading you.Folded eyes and folded handsTypify divine commandsHe is hearkening to, intentBeyond wonderment.'Tis promotion that has comeThus upon him. Stricken dumbBe your moanings dolorous!God knows what He does.Rather as your chief, aspire! —Rise and seize his toppling lyre,And sing Freedom, Home, and Love,And the rights thereof!Ere in selfish grief ye sink,Come! catch rapturous breath and think —Think what sweep of wing hath he,Loosed in endless liberty.

MEREDITH NICHOLSON

Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of youHeavened and blest of you young singers gone, —Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you,Leave us this like of you yet to sing on!Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him,Even as now, or in fancy, you do:Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to usMusical musings of glory and – you.Never a note to do evil or wrong to us —Beauty of melody – beauty of words, —Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to usRippled along to us clear as the bird's.No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him —Feasting and fêting him faint of her joys,But singing on where the laurels are waiting him,Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's.

GOD'S MERCY

Behold, one faith endureth still —Let factions rail and creeds contend —God's mercy was, and is, and willBe with us, foe and friend.

CHRISTMAS GREETING

A word of Godspeed and good cheerTo all on earth – or far or near,Or friend or foe, or thine or mine —In echo of the voice divine,Heard when the Star bloomed forth and litThe world's face, with God's smile on it.

TO RUDYARD KIPLING

To do some worthy deed of charityIn secret and then have it found out bySheer accident, held gentle Elia —That – that was the best thing beneath the sky!Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing —(Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon meIf impious!) – I think a better thingIs: being found out when one strives to be.So, Poet and Romancer – old as young,And wise as artless – masterful as mild, —If there be sweet in any song I've sung,'Twas savored for that palate, O my Child!For thee the lisping of the children all —For thee the youthful voices of old years —For thee all chords untamed or musical —For thee the laughter, and for thee the tears.And thus, borne to me o'er the seas betweenThy land and mine, thy Song of certain wingCircles above me in the "pure serene"Of our high heaven's vast o'er-welcoming;While, packeted with joy and thankfulness,And fair hopes many as the stars that shine,And bearing all love's loyal messages,Mine own goes homing back to thee and thine.

THE GUDEWIFE

My gudewife – she that is tae be —O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae meAs her ain croon tuned wi' the chiel'sOr spinnin'-wheel's.An' faire she'll be, an' saft, an' light,An' muslin-brightAs her spick apron, jimpy lacedThe-round her waiste. —Yet aye as rosy sall she bloomeIntil the roome(The where alike baith bake an' dine)As a full-fineRipe rose, lang rinset wi' the raine,Sun-kist againe, —Sall seate me at her table-spread,White as her bread. —Where I, sae kissen her for grace,Sall see her faceSmudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bitO' floure on it,Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi' meLuve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy.

TENNYSON

ENGLAND, OCTOBER 5, 1892We of the New World clasp hands with the OldIn newer fervor and with firmer holdAnd nobler fellowship, —O Master Singer, with the finger-tipOf Death laid thus on thy melodious lip!All ages thou has honored with thine art,And ages yet unborn thou wilt be partOf all songs pure and true!Thine now the universal homage dueFrom Old and New World – ay, and still The New!

ROSAMOND C. BAILEY

Thou brave, good woman! Loved of every one;Not only that in singing thou didst fillOur thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill,Even as a wild bird singing in the sun —Not only that in all thy carols noneBut held some tincturing of tears to thrillOur gentler natures, and to quicken stillOur human sympathies; but thou hast wonOur equal love and reverence becauseThat thou wast ever mindful of the poor,And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends.So, loving, serving all, thy best applauseThy requiem – the vast throng at the doorOf the old church, with mute prayers and amens.

MRS. BENJAMIN HARRISON

WASHINGTON, OCTOBER 25, 1892Now utter calm and rest;Hands folded o'er the breastIn peace the placidest,All trials past;All fever soothed – all painAnnulled in heart and brain,Never to vex again —She sleeps at last.She sleeps; but O most dearAnd best beloved of herYe sleep not – nay, nor stir,Save but to bowThe closer each to each,With sobs and broken speech,That all in vain beseechHer answer now.And lo! we weep with you,One grief the wide world through:Yet with the faith she knewWe see her still,Even as here she stood —All that was pure and goodAnd sweet in womanhood —God's will her will.

GEORGE A. CARR

GREENFIELD, JULY 21, 1914O playmate of the far-awayAnd dear delights of Boyhood's day,And friend and comrade true and triedThrough length of years of life beside,I bid you thus a fond farewellToo deep for words or tears to tell.But though I lose you, nevermoreTo greet you at the open door,To grasp your hand or see your smile,I shall be thankful all the whileBecause your love and loyaltyHave made a happier world for me.So rest you, Playmate, in that landStill hidden from us by His hand,Where you may know again in truthAll of the glad days of your youth —As when in days of endless easeWe played beneath the apple trees.

TO ELIZABETH

OBIT JULY 8, 1893O noble, true and pure and lovableAs thine own blessed name, Elizabeth! —Ay, even as its cadence lingerethUpon the lips that speak it, so the spellOf thy sweet memory shall ever dwellAs music in our hearts. Smiling at DeathAs on some later guest that tarrieth,Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell,Thou hast turned from us but a little space —We miss thy presence but a little while,Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer,The radiant glory of thine eyes and face,The glad midsummer morning of thy smile, —For still we feel and know that thou art here.

TO ALMON KEEFER

INSCRIBED IN "TALES OF THE OCEAN"This first book that I ever knewWas read aloud to me by you!Friend of my boyhood, therefore takeIt back from me, for old times' sake —The selfsame "Tales" first read to me,Under "the old sweet apple tree,"Ere I myself could read such greatBig words, – but listening all elate,At your interpreting, untilBrain, heart, and soul were all athrillWith wonder, awe, and sheer excessOf wildest childish happiness.So take the book again – forgetAll else, – long years, lost hopes, regret;Sighs for the joys we ne'er attain,Prayers we have lifted all in vain;Tears for the faces seen no more,Once as the roses at the door!Take the enchanted book – And lo,On grassy swards of long ago,Sprawl out again, beneath the shadeThe breezy old-home orchard made,The veriest barefoot boy indeed —And I will listen as you read.

TO – "THE J. W. R. LITERARY CLUB"

Well, it's enough to turn his head to have a feller's nameSwiped with a Literary Club! – But you're the ones to blame! —I call the World to witness that I never agged ye to itBy ever writin' Classic-like—because I couldn't do it:I never run to "Hellicon," ner writ about "Per-nassus,"Ner ever tried to rack or ride around on old "P-gassus"!When "Tuneful Nines" has cross'd my lines, the ink 'ud blot and blur it,And pen 'ud jest putt back fer home, and take the short way fer it!And so, as I'm a-sayin', – when you name your LiteraryIn honor o' this name o' mine, it's railly nessessary —Whilse I'm a-thankin' you and all – to warn you, ef you do it,I'll haf to jine the thing myse'f 'fore I can live up to it!

LITTLE MAID-O'-DREAMS

Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with yourEery eyes so clear and pureGazing, where we fain would seeInto far futurity, —Tell us what you there behold,In your visions manifold!What is on beyond our sight,Biding till the morrow's light,Fairer than we see to-day,As our dull eyes only may?Little Maid-o'-Dreams, with faceLike as in some woodland placeLifts a lily, chaste and white,From the shadow to the light; —Tell us, by your subtler glance,What strange sorcery enchantsYou as now, – here, yet afarAs the realms of moon and star? —Have you magic lamp and ring,And genii for vassaling?Little Maid-o'-Dreams, confessYou're divine and nothing less, —For with mortal palms, we fear,Yet must pet you, dreaming here —Yearning, too, to lift the tipsOf your fingers to our lips;Fearful still you may rebel,High and heav'nly oracle!Thus, though all unmeet our kiss,Pardon this! – and this! – and this!Little Maid-o'-Dreams, we callTruce and favor, knowing all! —All your magic is, in truth,Pure foresight and faith of youth —You're a child, yet even so,You're a sage, in embryo —Prescient poet – artist – greatAs your dreams anticipate. —Trusting God and Man, you doJust as Heaven inspires you to.

TO THE BOY WITH A COUNTRY

DAN WALLINGFORDDan Wallingford, my jo Dan! —Though but a child in years,Your patriot spirit thrills the landAnd wakens it to cheers, —You lift the flag – you roll the drums —We hear the bugle blow, —Till all our hearts are one with yours,Dan Wallingford, my jo!

CLAUDE MATTHEWS

GOVERNOR OF INDIANASteadfastly from his childhood's earliest hour —From simplest country life to state and power —His worth has known advancement, – each new heightA newer glory in his fellow's sight.So yet his happy fate – though mute the breathOf thronging multitudes and thundrous cheers, —Faith sees him raised still higher, through our tears,By this divine promotion of his death.

TO LESLEY

Burns sang of bonny LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border, —Gaed like vain Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.I sing another Lesley,Wee girlie, more alluring,Who stays at home, the wise one,Her conquests there securing.A queen, too, is my Lesley,And gracious, though blood-royal,My heart her throne, her kingdom,And I a subject loyal.Long shall you reign, my Lesley,My pet, my darling dearie,For love, oh, little sweetheart,Grows never old or weary.

THE JUDKINS PAPERS

FATHER AND SON

Mr. Judkins' boy came home yesterday with a bottle of bugs in his pocket, and as the quiet little fellow sat on the back porch in his favorite position, his legs elbowed and flattened out beneath him like a letter "W," his genial and eccentric father came suddenly upon him.

"And what's the blame' boy up to now?" said Mr. Judkins, in an assumed tone of querulous displeasure, as he bent over the boy from behind and gently tweaked his ear.

"Oh, here, mister!" said the boy, without looking up; "you thist let up on that, will you!"

"What you got there, I tell you!" continued the smiling Mr. Judkins, in a still gruffer tone, relinquishing the boy's ear, and gazing down upon the fluffy towhead with more than ordinary admiration. "What you got there?"

"Bugs," said the boy – "you know!"

"Dead, are they?" said Mr. Judkins.

"Some of 'em's dead," said the boy, carefully running a needle through the back of a large bumblebee. "All these uns is, you kin bet! You don't think a feller 'ud try to string a live bumblebee, I reckon?"