They showed him a room where a queen had slept; ""Twan"t up to the tavern daddy kept."
They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk From the beautiful Molechunkamunk.
They took him at last to ancient Rome, And inveigled him into a catacomb: Here they plied him with draughts of wine, Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine, Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head, And he slept as sound as the silent dead; They removed a mummy to make him room, And laid him at length in the rocky tomb.
They piled old skeletons round the stone, Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone, And left him to slumber there alone; Then watched from a distance the taper"s gleam, Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream, When he should wake from his drunken dream.
After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; So never a cry or shout he uttered, But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered: "I see how it is. It"s the judgment day, We"ve all been dead and stowed away; All these stone furreners sleepin" yet, An" I"m the fust one up, you bet!
Can"t none o" you Romans start, I wonder?
_United States ahead, by thunder!_"
_Harlan Hoge Ballard._
OUR NATIVE BIRDS
Alone I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o"er the meadows far and wide I hear the bobolinks-- (We have no nightingales!)
Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old manse on the lea Flies slow the cawing crow-- (In England "twere a rook!)
The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men-- (Alas! we have no swains!)
From farmyards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids Sweeter than catbird"s strains-- (I should say Philomel"s!)
I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun"s bright flame And heard the oriole-- (Alas! we have no lark!)
We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books) The poet does his best:-- It is the rhyme that fails.
_Nathan Haskell Dole._
THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN
"The proper way for a man to pray,"
Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes, "And the only proper att.i.tude Is down upon his knees."
"No, I should say the way to pray,"
Said Rev. Doctor Wise, "Is standing straight with outstretched arms And rapt and upturned eyes."
"Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow, "Such posture is too proud: A man should pray with eyes fast closed And head contritely bowed."
"It seems to me his hands should be Austerely clasped in front.
With both thumbs pointing toward the ground,"
Said Rev. Doctor Blunt.
"Las" year I fell in Hodgkin"s well Head first," said Cyrus Brown, "With both my heels a-stickin" up, My head a-pinting down;
"An" I made a prayer right then an" there-- Best prayer I ever said, The prayingest prayer I ever prayed, A-standing on my head."
_Sam Walter Foss._
ERRING IN COMPANY
"If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln."
--_Theodore Roosevelt_.
If e"er my rhyming be at fault, If e"er I chance to scribble dope, If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope.
An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew, Sooth, I can prove an alibi-- The Bard of Avon did it too.
If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns, Remember, leering jackanape, I err in company with Burns.
If now and then I sigh "Mine own!"
Unto another"s wedded wife, Remember, I am not alone-- Hast ever read Lord Byron"s Life?
If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.
If e"er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don"t forget A. Tennyson"s were pretty tough.
Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most ill.u.s.trious company.
_Franklin P. Adams._
CUPID
Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he?
He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see.
For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry.
Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman"s plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man.
And then he"s so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts.
_William Blake._