Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said, "You"re as sound as a nut."
"Hang him up," roared the King in a gale-- In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran-- _The King will be well if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man_.
Wide o"er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man....
They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there!
He whistled and sang, and laughed and rolled On the gra.s.s in the soft June air.
The weary courtiers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend!
You seem to be happy to-day."
"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."
"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright.
I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."
The merry blackguard lay back on the gra.s.s, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it," said he, and he roared with the fun, "But I haven"t a shirt to my back."
Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Pa.s.sed daily under his eyes.
And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.
And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.
JIM BLUDSO.
BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.
Wall, no! I can"t tell whar he lives, Because 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 years That you haven"t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso pa.s.sed in his checks, The night of the _Prairie Bell?_
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 man in a row-- But he never funked, 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 pa.s.sed on the river; To mind the Pilot"s bell; And if the _Prairie Bell_ took fire-- A thousand times he swore, He"d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ash.o.r.e.
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 pa.s.sed.
And so come tearin" along that night-- The oldest craft on the line, With a n.i.g.g.e.r squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For the wilier-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 ash.o.r.e."
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"d seen his duty, a dead-sure thing-- And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain"t a going to fee too hard On a man that died for men.
FREEDOM.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother"s pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed,-- Slaves unworthy to be freed?
Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air, If ye hear, without a blush, Deeds to make the roused blood rush Like red lava through your veins, For your sisters now in chains,-- Answer! are ye fit to be Mothers of the brave and free?
Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts forget That we owe mankind a debt?
No! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free!
They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.
THE COORTIN".
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
G.o.d makes sech nights, all white an" still Fur"z you can look or listen, Moonshine an" snow on field an" hill, All silence an" all glisten.
Zekle crep" up quite unbeknown, An" peeked in thru" the winder; An" there sot Huldy all alone, "Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room"s one side, With half a cord o" wood in; There warn"t no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin".
The wa"nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An" leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Ah" in amongst em rusted The ole queen"s-arm that gran"ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin", An" she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin".