THE

Old Hanging Fork

and

Other Poems.

BY

GEORGE W. DONEGHY.

FRANKLIN, OHIO:
The Editor Publishing Co.
1897.

Copyright, 1897,
By
George W. Doneghy.

CONTENTS.

The

Old Hanging Fork

and

Other Poems.

THE OLD HANGING FORK.

I.

O don't you remember those days so divine,
Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,
When with sapling pole and a painted cork
We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork—
From the railroad bridge, with its single span,
Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam—
From early morn till the shades of night,
And it made no difference if fish didn't bite?

II.

What pleasure it gives to think and to dream
Of those long, happy days, and the old winding stream,
When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee,
And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree,
And were most scared to death when out from the root
The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot,
And you lost your line, your hook and your cork,
And I slipped and fell in the old Hanging Fork!

III.

The years they have come, and the years they have fled,
And frosted with silver the hairs of the head,
But still in fond memory there lingers the joy
Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy
I wandered away to the clear rippling stream—
No cankering care to trouble life's dream;—
And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk,
As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork!

IV.

We sat there and fished with the sun beaming down
On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown,
And when I got a bite or you caught a perch
We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch,
And land him high up on the bank in the weeds,
Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds!
O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk,
Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork?

SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS.

I.

There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days,
That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze;
And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way,
Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-time array.

II.

There's a yellowish tinge a-creeping over Nature's emerald sheen,
And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the stream
Where the glassy pool is shaded by the overhanging limb,
And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery minnows swim.

III.

The tasseled corn is nodding, and the crow on drowsy wing
Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples swing,
And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky,
And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly wafted by.

IV.

The cantaloupes are ripening in their yellow golden rinds;
And the melons, round and juicy, are a-clinging to the vines;
And the merry, laughing children, in their happy hour of play,
Are a-romping in the meadow and a-sliding down the hay.

V.

The busy bees are buzzing where the grapes with purple blush,
And the hanging bunches tempting with their weight the arbor crush,
And the blue jays are a-wrangling in the wood across the road,
Where the hickory boughs are bending 'neath an extra heavy load.

VI.

Let your poets keep a-singing about the Springtime gay,
And the blossoms and the flowers in the merry month of May—
But the early Autumn splendor, with its sweet September days,
Eclipses boasted Springtime in a thousand kind of ways!

YER OLD COB PIPE.

I.

When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door,
And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,
And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!

II.

When the fire is blazing brightly and the room is snug and warm,
And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm,
And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!

III.

When the old split-bottom rocker is far better than a throne,
And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known,
And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!

IV.

When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by a king,
And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing,
And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!

V.

When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head,
And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed,
And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white,
Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!

TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM.

'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood,
And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood;
And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare
That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.

They said the house was "hanted," and that not a man alive,
In all the country round about, could own the place and thrive;
That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera took—
And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look.

But they put it up at auction, and Tim Bluster bid the most,
Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of ghost
That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night
Could make his nerves unsteady, or could fill him with affright!"

So Tim got full possession, and he moved out to his home,
And the first night, as he sat there, within his room alone,
The door was softly opened, and a cat came walking in,
With eyes like balls of fire and a coat as black as sin.

Then squatting on its haunches, it said, in tones polite,
"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim muttered in a trembling voice, as for the door he run,
"Perhaps you think there will be two, but darn me, there's but one!"

Tim staid away the blessed night, but when the daylight came,
It brought him back his courage, and it filled him full of shame;
And then he said, unto himself, "There wasn't any cat
Could make him leave that room again—he'd bet his life on that!"

So when the shades of evening fell, Tim double-barred the door,
And took precautions that, perhaps, he hadn't night before,
And felt quite sure that nothing now could gain admittance there,
And peacefully he dozed and slept, a-sitting in his chair.

Then, all at once, he roused himself, and opening wide his eyes,
Beheld a figure standing there that made his hair arise
Like quills upon a porcupine, and froze his heart with fear,
And headless though it was, it spoke, and said in accents clear,

"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim made a bound, and took with him the sash and every light,
And then he jumped a nine-rail fence, and down the road he spun,
And said, "Perhaps he thinks there's two, but darn me, there's but one!"

'Twas seven miles before he stopped and sat down on a log
To catch his breath and rest awhile from his nocturnal jog
And then he turned his head around, and right before his face
The figure stood, and said to him, "I think we've had a race!"

Tim tried to speak, and not a word he found to utter then,
But as he jumped from off his seat and broke away again,
He spluttered out, "I know we have, but think it's not quite done,
For you can bet right now's the time we'll have another one!"

Away Tim flew—he left the road, and through the woods and fields
The pace he set was wonderful, the ghost right at his heels!
And that old house is tenantless, and slowly rotting down,
Since that dread night Tim had his dream, and moved right back to town!

APPLE BLOSSOMS.

I.

There's the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink,
And many rare flowers which others may think
Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow,
With delicious perfume, and colors that glow—
But go to the orchard and sniff the delight
Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white,
And let the soul float away in a swoon
On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom!

II.

There's the cowslip, narcissus, and sweet mignonette,
The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet,
As much as I love them in Summer array,
It's the white and the pink I dream of to-day,
And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace
And shower their blossoms right down in my face
When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume
Is wafted along where the apple trees bloom!

III.

With glad voices the birds as they flit to and fro
Are singing their songs where the pink and the snow
Of the orchard, bedecked in its garments so rare,
Is diffusing and sending its breath on the air;
And the rays of the sun sift through on the grass,
And the dew-drops that sparkle no jewels surpass!
In Springtime at evening, at morning, at noon,
How sweet is the scent of the apple trees' bloom!

IV.

And when Summer is gone, and Autumn has shed
It's soft, dreamy haze through the trees overhead,
On each spreading branch where blossoms now cling
The red and the gold to the fruit it will bring,
And stripe with a skill and give it that blush
Only Nature can paint with her delicate brush!
O when life ebbs away, then make me a tomb
Right out in the orchard, where the apple trees bloom!

CHICKAMAUGA.

To Chattanooga's vale, where flows the winding Tennessee,
And rugged Lookout sentinels heroic dust of sixty-three—
Where Chickamauga's gory field re-echoed to the cannon's roar,
And shot and shell through serried ranks a bloody pathway tore,
And mountain slope and wood and field were lumined with the blaze
Of musketry from Blue and Gray in those September days—
They come again, the gallant few, survivors of the fray,
Their breasts with hallowed memories filled, but passion passed away!

The fleeting years have silvered o'er the locks of those who live,
And turned to dust the sleeping ones who to their flag did give
The last drop of the crimson tide from ghastly wounds poured out
Amid the conflict's awful din and wild resounding shout;
And yet it seems but yesterday, or like a passing dream,
When marshaled on the mountain's side they saw the bayonets gleam,
As for a moment from the vale the battle's smoke was lifted,
And circling o'er the Blue and Gray in lurid clouds it drifted!

And now upon the blood-soaked ground once more they stand,
Where the unyielding "Rock of Chickamauga" held command,
And strewed the field with heaps of the assaulting Gray
Who dauntless rushed where lines of Blue refused to give the way;
And bloody scenes crowd thick and fast upon the memory here
To fill the heart with grief and dim the eye with misty tear;
And spanning Time's chasm with the imagination's bridge,
They hear the thunder of the guns from Missionary Ridge!

And there the pyramid of balls is reared to tell
And mark the hallowed spot where tuneful genius fell;
The vagrant winds around it now seem sighing
The requiem sad of "I am dying, Egypt, dying!"
Prophetic words by gallant Lytle penned—
A laurel wreath with immortelles to blend!
A halo hovers round about this gifted son,
Whose deathless name with pen and sword was nobly won!

They come to mark with tokens of their love and pride
Each consecrated spot where bleeding heroes fell and died,
And gaze with reverence on some gently swelling mound
Which hides the dust of comrade in his sleep profound;
To picture to the mind—with melancholy pleasure trace
The unforgotten outlines of a dear, remembered face,
Which passed from loved ones and from life away,
A victim on the bloody field of fratricidal fray!

GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON.

Facile Princeps.

I.

O gifted one of the Sunny South, with lips so eloquent,
In whose great heart no malice e'er was found!
And now thou art a messenger of Peace, by heaven sent
On mission of fraternity, to heal the cankering wound!

II.

In that dread day when fratricidal strife
Convulsed with passion—crimsoned with its blood—
No nobler son than thou who staked his life
With veterans Gray withstood the overwhelming flood!

III.

No sweeter tribute could be paid by mortal tongue—
No nobler sentiment the human heart could fill—
In grander strains no poet's praises e'er were sung
Of private soldier—than thy words that burn and thrill!

IV.

No treasured wrong within thy noble soul
Has tainted with its slimy trail of hate—
No broader love of country could embrace the whole,
Or bow more gracefully to iron hand of fate!

V.

Speak on! And scatter broadcast healing seed
That shall a harvest of good feeling yield—
And Peace, no less than War, shall lend her meed
And crown anew this hero of the bloody field!

UP AND DOWN OLD CLARK'S RUN.

Bright visions of childhood! How dear to the heart
Are the scenes which from memory can never depart!
Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears
Which have shadowed the pathway of life's later years,
They come like the rainbow which follows the storm—
On remembrance reflected with colors as warm—
And in dreams of delight they picture the fun
That we had long ago when we fished in Clark's Run!

With a can full of worms and a heart full of joy,
Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy,
A truant from school, my footsteps would stray
To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play,
As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones,
Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones!
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun
What pleasures we've had when we fished in Clark's Run!

Equipped with a pole, a hook and a line,
And stowed in some pocket a long piece of twine
On which you could string, if you seined for a week,
Every fish that was found up and down the old creek—
With one "gallus" to pants that were rolled to the knee,
And holes in our hats through which you could see
Where the sunbeams had turned the light hair to dun—
We hied us away to the banks of Clark's Run!

There we baited the hook and threw out the line,
And watched the cork disappear with a rapture divine!
And felt just as proud as a prince or a king
When we landed high up, with a jerk and a swing,
A fish that would measure two inches or more,
Then anchored him fast with the string to the shore!
But unnumbered now are the silver strands spun
With the hair of the head since we fished in Clark's Run!

O who can there be with a heart in his breast
Would forget the dear scenes which so lovingly rest
In the bosom when life has grown old and cold,
And feel no delight when such pictures unfold,
And would blot out forever from memory's page
The records of childhood which solace old age?
'Till time ends for me and with life I have done,
I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run!

ROBERT BURNS.

(A PARAPHRASE.)

I.

Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray
Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

II.

That sacred day can we forget,
Can we forget the hallowed spot
Where by the winding Ayr was set
The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?
Eternity will not efface
The record dear of time that's past;
Thy memory sweet we still embrace,
And will as long as life shall last!

III.

Ayr, congealèd to its pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green;
The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar
Were planted round the wintry scene;
No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed—
No birds sang love on every spray—
But brightest yet o'er all the rest
Will ever shine thy natal day!

IV.

Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes,
And memory broods with miser care!
Time but their music sweeter makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

WISHING—FISHING.

I.

Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought
The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart,
And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught,
Has naught but transitory solace to impart;
And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought
A joy there is that never can depart—
(As long as we are capable of feeling—wishing)—
And that's to leave dull care behind, and—go a-fishing!

II.

Some dream of wealth—of place—of fame—
And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue;
And some have sighed to win a deathless name
Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew,
And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame;
But these are dizzy heights attained by few;
So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing,
I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to—go a-fishing!

III.

Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream,
Or music with a tone that's more entrancing,
Than just to wander where some mountain stream
Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing?
And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween,
Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing,
You see the happy consummation of your wishing,
And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!

POE.

I.

Oh, melancholy child of want and woe!
A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky!
Thy soul's weird music all did flow
From heart-strings touched by destiny!

II.

The Raven, perched above thy chamber door,
Responsive croaked with a prophetic word—
For in the realm of song may "Nevermore"
Such strains as thine by mortal ear be heard!

III.

Where now doth that proud spirit dwell,
Whose earthly days were clouded o'er with gloom?
In regions with the sweet-voiced "Israfel,"
Where never-fading flowerets bloom?

IV.

Dost rest within some "distant Aidenn,
Beyond the Night's Plutonian shore?
And clasp again a sainted maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore?"

V.

Yes, "echo through the corridors of Time"
Will have a tone that ages yet will know,
And blend with all that's beautiful—sublime—
The deathless name of Edgar Allan Poe!

A BARREN "IDEALTY."

This song that I sing—
It is not of a spring,
Nor yet of a silvery stream—
But of a vision bright
Which came last night
In the garb of a blissful dream—
When I thought, as I lay,
It was Thanksgiving Day,
And I was invited to dine
Where a table stood
On which everything good
Spread a feast that was almost divine!

Where the savors arose,
Right under my nose,
From turkey—and pumpkin pies;
And from jolly roast pig
Were slices as big
As some of the campaign lies!
And celery so white
'Twas a thing of delight
To bite the crisp stalks in two.
And the cranberry sauce—
Oh, I tell you 'twas boss—
And flanked by an oyster stew!

Where the bread and the cake—
The best they can bake—
Were cut into slices heroic.
And the amber ice cream
Melted into my dream
Like love to the heart of a 'poet';
And they heaped up my plate,
And I sat there and ate
Till I awoke with a yell,
And a shiver and shake
And a pain and an ache
That rudely my dream did dispel!

But dreams, as you know,
By contraries go,
And thus I fear if it will be
With the one of delight
That came last night
When I feasted so heartily;
And Thanksgiving Day
In the usual way
Will come to me, don't you see,
And the dinner I had
And the ache that was bad
Prove a——barren "idealty"!

A CHERISHED RELIC.

In the attic, unused, there they put it away;
The old oaken frame has begun to decay;
What iron's about it is eaten with rust,
And upon and around it are cobwebs and dust;
The dear, loving hands that on it have spun,
With labor and toil forever are done,
And long is the time since I saw them unreel
The threads, snowy white, from the old spinning-wheel!

It stood on a porch where the Summer sunshine
Sifted down to the floor through a clambering vine,
Whose tendrils about the lattice-work clung
Like my heart-strings round her, and the song that she sung;
And the pictures of fancy I con o'er and o'er,
Till, raptured, I see the dear features once more,
And thrill with the touch when her lips set the seal
Of her love, as she spun on the old spinning-wheel!

Then through the shadows and mists of many long years
The old cottage home to the vision appears;
And though youth it has fled, and the hair it is gray,
I'm a bare-footed boy returned to his play—
Forgetting the present to dream once again
That life had no anguish, no sorrow, no pain;
And sweetly the bells of the memory peal
When communing up there with the old spinning-wheel!

And back from the past, with its grief and its joy,
Come the tones of a voice I heard when a boy,
And I see once again, as it moved to and fro,
A form that now rests where the wild roses blow,
And the sentinel stars their love vigils keep
Above the dear one in her long, dreamless sleep;
But memories sweet to a heart that can feel
Still cluster around the old spinning-wheel.

Some spokes from the rim are broken and gone,
And it stands there forsaken, neglected, alone;
It knows naught of language, but a story can tell
With a charm that for me time cannot dispel;
And often I climb the old attic stair
The love of my childhood with it to share,
And emotions possess me I cannot conceal
When fondly I gaze on the old spinning-wheel!

The distaff is worn and smooth with the touch
Of the now folded hands that used it so much;
And lingering there I clearly can trace
The sweet smile of love from a well-cherished face,
Which sheds round about it a halo divine
When thus I am kneeling at memory's shrine,
And hallows the thoughts which on the mind steal,
When up there alone with the old spinning-wheel!

'Tis then that I see her in saintly guise,
Through the fast-welling tears that come to my eyes—
A vision arrayed in raiment white
That beckons to me from the regions of light,
And illumines the way that my footsteps may tread
Unerringly where her love for me led—
Along the straight path that she tried to reveal
As she taught me, and spun on the old spinning-wheel!

Yes, the finger of Time has furrowed the brow,
And silvered the hair, yet I dream of her now
As when, long ago, I heard as a child
The words of her love that my sorrows beguiled;
And this relic she used but brings back anew
The morning of life, that was fresh with the dew
Distilled from the heart, as she taught me to kneel
Right down by her side, and the old spinning-wheel!

"RESTLAND."

WRITTEN IN THE DANVILLE (KY.) CEMETERY.

I.

Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day,
We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine,
Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away,
And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find.

II.

In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace
Familiar forms of those in life we knew,
And see again the shadowy outlines of some face
That, living, beamed with kindness—ever true.

III.

Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy
Have dotted o'er with many an emerald mound,
And marked each stone with mournful tracery
Which stands within this consecrated ground.

IV.

And there the marble shaft its stately head
In polished whiteness pointing to the sky,
And here the modest tribute to the lowly dead—
The silent monitors that tell us all must die.

V.

Here lavish Nature her bright smile imparts
And decks with lovely flowers in early Spring,
And here the sympathetic tear unbidden starts,
And loving hands their sweetest tributes bring.

VI.

Loved spot! A solace to the living 'tis to know
That when at last—life's fitful fever o'er—
The cortege sad, with solemn step and slow,
Shall bear us here, to rest forever more,—

VII.

'Till that bright day when ransomed spirits rise,
And loved and lost shall reunited be,
To dwell in realms beyond the star-lit skies
Throughout one circling, vast eternity!

MY VALENTINE.

I.

I passed her on the crowded street—
This winsome maid, demure and sweet—
And envious saw the silken tresses
That seemed to give her cheeks caresses,
And rapture felt that thrilled me through
When on me glanced those eyes of blue
From underneath the drooping lashes
That could not hide their azure flashes!
And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine
If she would be—my Valentine!

II.

And visions of as fair a face
As painter's pencil e'er did trace
Would haunt the mind each waking hour,
And slumber owned its magic power—
Until I found by merest chance
That belladonna made the glance,
And borrowed hair had lent its aid
For silken tresses of this maid—
And padding—paint—did all combine
To make for me—my Valentine!

A SMOKE.

I.

O others may boast of their pleasures galore—
The miser with rapture may count o'er his store,
And some may imagine great happiness there
In the gay shining beam of Society's glare;
But best of all comforts a feller can know,
While wintry winds whistle and fast flies the snow,
Is a pipe after supper, by a bright blazing fire,
Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher!

II.

O doctors may tell you and others declare
It'll shorten your days and your heart will impair—
That nicotine poison will flow through your veins
And nervous distraction will rack with its pains;
But what cares a feller in slippers and gown,
When wintry winds whistle and snow's pouring down,
With papers and books, and his feet near the fire,
Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher?

III.

O rare are the fancies, contentment and bliss,
That drive away care in an hour such as this!
When the ills of this life and the things that provoke
Are lost for the while in the blue curling smoke
Of a pipe and tobacco that's yellow as gold,
And raptures supernal the senses unfold.
O give me a chair by a bright blazing fire,
And sweet-smelling ringlets that curl high and higher!

PERRYVILLE.

FOUGHT OCTOBER 8th, 1862.

Here on this spot, where Nature now, with chilling, icy breath,
Has mantled in a robe of white the field of strife and death,
We view in memory once again the awful scenes where met
In serried ranks the Blue and Gray—and tears the lashes wet;
For those who fell that dreadful day are mingled with the dust,
And often here the plow upturns a bayonet red with rust:
A sad memento of the time when passion held full sway—
Reminder to the rustic swain of fratricidal fray.

From yonder hill the shotted guns in dreadful chorus rang—
And on this plain was heard that day the glittering sabre's clang,
And in that vale, where wound the brook, with waters murmuring,
We stood and heard the Minie balls their deadly message sing,
And saw the life blood, gushing red, from stricken comrade near,
Whose gentle voice his loved ones then no more should ever hear—
His blue eyes close—his bosom heave—his pulse forever still,
A sacrifice to cause held dear, on the field of Perryville!

And the swiftly circling years can ne'er erase
From Memory's tablets or from Nature's face
One spot of all the rest we're standing near—
By fiercely battling hosts the prize held dear;
The old spring's waters still are gurgling from the rock
Where famished soldiers knelt—grim Death himself to mock;
Here on that day in ghastly heaps they lay—
Commingling with the Blue the men that wore the Gray!

And now the virgin snow has covered o'er the sod
Where once in fierce array contending armies trod;
The wintry wind makes mournful music through the trees
Where then the clash of arms was floating on the breeze,
And deep-toned guns belched forth the screaming shell
Like fiendish messengers of Death let loose from hell;
Now Nature's peaceful emblem spread o'er glade and hill
Enwraps beneath its folds the bloody field of Perryville.

December 26, 1895.

LONGINGS.

I.

Gim me back my stone-bruised heel,
And them tow-linen pants,
An' that old pole an' line an' reel,
An' all them boyhood ha'nts,
An' that old hat I used to wear,
That didn't hav' no crown,
An' that same crop uv yeller hair—
Sun-burnt on top ter brown—
An' them playmates I used ter know,
An' loved like very brothers—
An' you kin let the old world go
An' giv' its wealth ter others!

II.

Gim me back one gallus, too,
That buttoned with a peg,
An' them blamed ticks that burrowed through
The skin uv either leg,
An' that old single-barrel gun,
As crooked as a rail,
An' that same dog that used ter run
The molly cotton-tail,
An' lem me hav' the tops I spun—
The kites that I hav' sailed—
An' then at last, when life is done,
Who'd keer if it had failed?

DOWN ABOUT OLD SHAKERTOWN.

You may boast about the landscapes fair so far across the sea
Of castled Rhine, and southern France, and favored Italy—
But have you seen, when Springtime flings the scented blossoms down,
The forests and the meadows green around old Shakertown?

You may boast of some that bask beneath perpetual Summer's smiles—
Those "Eden's of the eastern wave"—the sunny Grecian isles—
And others that perhaps you've seen, of beauty and renown,
But come and view the country spread around old Shakertown!

O come and boast that you have been where Nature's lavish hand
Bestowed the gifts of wood and field that vie with any land—
Where valleys wear a velvet robe—the hills an emerald crown
Of bluegrass shimmering in the sun, around old Shakertown!

O come to old Kentucky then, and to her garden spot,
Then wander wheresoe'er you will, it ne'er will be forgot—
For Nature's face is wreathed in smiles nor wears a single frown
To mar the beauty she has spread around old Shakertown!

MEMORIA IN ÆTERNA.

Sweet Memory! thou faculty divine—
Triumphant o'er the cruel hand of Time!
On thy tablets we may trace
The lines his fingers ne'er efface,
And take with us till latest day
The images that light our way,
And picture thus in a shadowy form
The loved and lost he's from us torn—
Their lids by Death so early sealed—
Life's crimson tide by him congealed—
The tyrant has not all concealed—
They in thy mirror still revealed!

Before the morning sunbeams kissed
The face of Nature—veiled in mist—
And heralded with golden ray
The opening of the perfect day—
Ere yet the sable shades of night
At dawn's approach had winged their flight—
We've listed to the whispering breeze
That's wafted o'er the trembling trees,
And seemed to hear the voices sweet
Of loved ones now we ne'er can meet
Till earthly night shall pass away—
Supplanted by immortal day!

And thus in retrospective mood,
Alone with Nature's solitude
In some secluded sylvan dell,
Her myriad voices float and swell
And flitting shadows softly tell
Of dear ones lost—yet loved so well!
Then to the sunny home where dwelt—
(Ere yet the envious tyrant dealt
The blow that blighted hopes have felt)—
Fond fancy wanders, and can see
Once happy scenes that ne'er can be
Lost in thy shades, O Memory!

But those to us so cruelly denied
Are drifting now upon some fairer tide—
Their scattered ashes on Hope's pinions rise
And people realms beyond the azure skies!
Then may our faltering footsteps lead
To where fond hearts may never bleed—
Where vanished faces, cherished forms,
Are anchored safe from life's rude storms;
Where strains seraphic, soft and low,
The rapt ear greet, and we shall know
The loved and lost we only see
In visions of sweet Memory!

A MOTHER'S GRAVE.

I.

The years have passed in ceaseless round
Since first they laid her here to rest
In dreamless sleep beneath the silent mound,
With folded hands upon her gentle breast.

II.

The ivy twines about the crumbling stone,
And Springtime's scented blossoms fling
Their incense o'er the peaceful home
That knows no more of suffering.

III.

Full many a Summer's sun has shed
Its brightest smile upon the hallowed spot,
And sobered Autumn and wild Winter spread
Their garments here—she heeds them not!

IV.

The feathered wildlings of the wood and field
Their untaught melody around it make,
But she who sleeps with eyes so softly sealed
Their gladsome songs can never more awake.

V.

O restful sleep beneath the crumbling mold
To dream no more of hopes unrealized!
O Grave! What treasures do thy confines hold
By us so dearly loved and fondly prized!

A FRECKLE-FACED BOY.

I.

I'm just in my glory when the cat I can tease,
Or I'm hunting for bird nests up in the trees,
And I wear out my pants in the seat and the knees;
I'm the pride of my daddy, my mammy's own joy—
A frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

II.

I can make a top hum, and at marbles, you bet,
I'm the cock of the walk and the king of the "set;"
I'm hearty and healthy—and don't you forget
The dead loads of "goodies" that I can destroy—
I'm a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

III.

They send me to school with my satchel and books,
And my pockets bulged out with nails and fish-hooks;
And sometimes while there my teacher she looks
And captures the things that provoke and annoy
From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

IV.

My mammy she says that it's quite evident
Of the country some day I'll be President;
But auntie, she says from the way I am bent
The gold of her dream will be full of alloy
From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

V.

I'm huntin' for fun, and I don't have a care,
And there's dirt on my hands, and I don't comb my hair,
And off-colored patches quite often I wear;
But there's no kind of sport the young heart can cloy
Of a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

THE DAM BELOW THE MILL.

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom,
With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June,
And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine,
Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line,
And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still,
And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below,
And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know—
But never mind about 'em—just yer slip away and feel
That something so delectable that over yer will steal;
For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill
When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on,
Why yer boun' ter go a-fishin', just as shore as yer born;
Then ye'd better git yer trapping's in the proper kind o' fix,
And go and hear the music when yer reel a-spinnin' clicks;
For he rushes through the water at a pace that's fit ter kill
When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

THE SERENADE.

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high
The fleecy clouds were drifting,
And through them as she sailed the sky
The moon's soft light was sifting.

II.

Beneath her pale and tender ray,
Its silvery kiss imprinting,
All dew-bedecked each flower and spray
Like myriad jewels glinting.

III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound
Of music sweet—entrancing—
'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound,
Where love-lit eyes were glancing.

IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin
There dulcet notes were blending,
And strains divine from a violin
In harmony ascending.

V.

Enraptured by the magic spell,
I lingering stood, and listening,
It seemed to me that I could tell
What love to her was whispering.

* * * * *

VI.

I looked above and chanced to see
The man in the moon was scowling,
For they had struck up "Sweet Marie,"
And the old watch-dog was howling!

"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much—I'd sizzle and I'd stew,
And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,
If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew,
Who greets you with the chestnut phrase—
"Is it hot enough fer you?"

II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top—
The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop—
I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too,
If it wasn't for the cuss who says—
"Is it hot enough fer you?"

III.

The sun might shine his level best—the sky seem molten brass—
The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass—
The evening come without a breeze—the morning have no dew—
If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks
"Is it hot enough fer you?"

THE TOKEN.

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair,
Tied with a ribbon blue,
Laid by the hand of a mother there—
Cherished with love so true!

II.

Only a soft and silken curl,
Bound with a knotted bow;
Worn on the head of a little girl
Lost in the long-ago.

III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept
From the grave's decay and mold,
Over which her eyes have wept
With anguish all untold!

IV.

Only a link in the golden chain,
By Death's cold hand unbroken,
Which leads to where she'll meet again
The wearer of this token.