  "Sing me a song, my Alice, and let it be your choice, So as you pipe out plainly, and give me the sweet o' your voice; An' it be not new-fashioned: the new-made tunes be cold, An' never awake my fancy like them that's good an' old. Fie on your high-toned gimcracks, with rests an' beats an' points, Shaking with trills an' quavers—creakin' in twenty joints! Sing me the good old tunes, girl, that roll right off the tongue, Such as your mother gave me when she an' I was young." So said the Farmer Thompson, smoking his pipe of clay, Close by his glowing fire-place, at close of a winter day. He was a lusty fellow, with grizzled beard unshorn, Hair half combed and flowing, clothing overworn; Boots of mammoth pattern, with many a patch and rent; Hands as hard as leather, body with labor bent; Face of resolution, and lines of pain and care, Such as the slow world's vanguards are ever doomed to bear; While from his eyes the yearnings of unemployed desire Gleamed like the fitful embers of a half-smothered fire. Alice, the country maiden, with the sweet, loving face, Sung these words to an old air, with an unstudied grace: There's nothing like an old tune, when friends are far apart, To 'mind them of each other, and draw them heart to heart. New strains across our senses on magic wings may fly, But there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high. The scenes we have so oft recalled when once again we view, Have lost the smile they used to wear, and seem to us untrue; We gaze upon their faded charms with disappointed eye; And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high. We clasp the hands of former friends—we feel again their kiss— But something that we loved in them, in sorrow now we miss; For women fade and men grow cold as years go hurrying by; And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high. The forest where we used to roam, we find it swept away; The cottage where we lived and loved, it moulders to decay; And all that feeds our hungry hearts may wither, fade, and die; And there's nothing like an old tune to make the heart beat high. "That was well sung, my Alice," the farmer proudly said, When the last strain was finished and the last word had fled; "That is as true as Gospel; and since you've sung so well, I'll give you a bit of a story you've never heard me tell. "When the cry o' the axes first through these parts was heard, I was young and happy, and chipper as a bird; Fast as a flock o' pigeons the days appeared to fly, With no one 'round for a six mile except your mother an' I. Now we are rich, an' no one except the Lord to thank; Acres of land all 'round us, money in the bank; But happiness don't stick by me, an' sunshine ain't so true As when I was five-an'-twenty, with twice enough to do. "As for the way your mother an' I made livin' go, Just some time you ask her—of course she ought to know. When she comes back in the morning from nursing Rogers' wife, She'll own she was happy in them days as ever in her life. For I was sweet on your mother;—why should not I be? She was the gal I had fought for—she was the world to me; And since we'd no relations, it never did occur To me that I was a cent less than all the world to her. "But it is often doubtful which way a tree may fall; When you are tol'ble certain, you are not sure at all. When you are overconscious of travelin' right—that day Look for a warnin' guide-post that points the other way. For when you are feeling the safest, it very oft falls out You rush head-foremost into a big bull-thistle o' doubt. "ALICE, THE COUNTRY MAIDEN, WITH THE SWEET, LOVING FACE, SUNG THESE WORDS TO AN OLD AIR, WITH AN UNSTUDIED GRACE." "'Twas in the fall o' '50 that I set out, one day, To hunt for deer an' turkey, or what came in my way; And wanderin' through the forest, my home I did not seek, Until I was gone from the cabin the better part of a week. "As Saturday's sun was creeping its western ladder down, I stopped for a bit of supper at the house of Neighbor Brown. He was no less my neighbor that he lived ten miles away; For neighborhoods then was different from what they are to-day. "Now Mrs. Brown was clever—a good, well-meaning soul— And brought to time exactly things under her control. By very few misgoings were her perfections marred; She meant well, with one trouble—she meant it 'most too hard. "Now when I had passed the time o' day, and laughed at Brown's last jokes, Nat'rally I asked 'em if they had seen my folks. Whereat she shrugged her shoulders quite dangerous-wise, And looked as if a jury was sittin' in her eyes; And after a prudent silence I thought would never end, Asked if my wife had a brother, or cousin, or other friend; For some one, passing my cabin, she'd heard, had lately found Rather a sleek an' han'some young fellow hanging round; Of course it was a brother, or somethin' of that sort? I told her 'twas a brother, and cut my supper short. "Which same was wrong, as viewed through a strictly moral eye; But who, to shield his wife's name, wouldn't sometime tell a lie? 'Twas nothing but a lie, girl, and for a lie 'twas meant: If brothers sold at a million, she couldn't ha' raised a cent. "Home I trudged in a hurry—who could that fellow be? Home I trudged in a hurry, bound that I would see; And when I reached my cabin I thought 'twas only fair To peep in at the window an' find out what was there. "A nice, good-fashioned fellow as any in the land Sat by my wife quite closely, a-holdin' of her hand, An' whispering something into her willin'-listenin' ear, Which I should judge by her actions she rather liked to hear. "Now seeing such singular doin's before my very eyes, The Devil he came upon me, and took me by surprise; He put his hand on my mouth, girl, and never a word I said, But raised my gun an' aimed it straight at the stranger's head. "Lightly I touched the trigger; I drew a good long breath— My heart was full o' Satan, my aim was full o' death; |
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