I was sailing in a vessel a long time ago,

All the while dead against us the wind used to blow,

And it seemed as if aboard us that nothing would go right,

When over the Bahamas a-sailing by the night.

   Chorus. By the night, by the night,

          When over the Bahamas a-sailing by the night.

  In the dark, up in the rigging, or somewhere on high,

  “Hallo! Stand from under!” a voice used to cry;

  But the Being who hallooed it was always out of sight,

  When over the Bahamas a-sailing by the night.

  On that gloomy haunted vessel, and all among her crew,

  Was a dark and silent sailor whom no one ever knew;

  And the Voice it called the loudest when that seaman came to light,

  When over the Bahamas a-sailing by the night.

  And we said to him one midnight when we heard it worst of all,

  “Your friend there in the rigging is giving you a call.”

  Then he looked up above him with such bitterness and spite,

  When over the Bahama Isles a-sailing by the night.

  When the Voice with “Stand from under!” once again to him salamed,

  He hallooed back like thunder: “Let go then and be damned!”

  Like a man in desperation who expects a cruel fight,

  All over the Bahamas a-sailing by the night.

  And as the word was spoken—like coming to a beck—

  A something came a-whizzing and fell down upon the deck,

  And the body of a mariner was there before our sight,

  All over the Bahama Isles a-sailing by the night.

  And looking at the dead man, he said: “I do declare!

  An hour’s sail from Cuba I stabbed that fellow there.

  And now he always haunts me, though I killed him fair, in fight,

  All over the Bahama Isles a-sailing by the night.”

  “But the devil a bit of fear have I of dead or living men,

  I’ve lifted him before and I can lift him up again,

  And pitch him in the water, and sink him out of sight,

  All over the Bahamas a-sailing by the night.”

  He grappled with the dead man in spite of all our cries,

  When life and awful anger came in the corpse’s eyes;

  It tore him to the toffrail and held him deadly tight,

  All over the Bahama Isles a-sailing by the night.

  And overboard together in a grapple went the two,

  And downward sunk before us into the water blue;

  But in and all around them shone a corpo-santo light,

  All over the Bahama Isles a-sailing by the night.

  But from that very minute the wind blew well and fair,

  And everything went right with us when we had lost the pair;

  But I always shall remember while I live that awful sight,

  All over the Bahama Isles a-sailing by the night.

    “Now that we’re gittin’ t’wards the Spanish Strand,”

    Said Moses Brown, a-waving his bandana,

    “I just propose that first of all I land—

    As all of us have done—at the old Havanna.

    Adventures there do gin’rally abound,

    The natives being all sus-ceptive creeters;

    For if romance upon this airth is found,

    It sartinly is ’mong the senoritas.

    Though he who of ’em would advantage take,

    Must be on hand and al’ays wide awake:

    Quien el diablo ha de engaÑar

    MaÑana ha bien de levantar.”

    Meanin’ that “who the devil would deceive,

    Must rise uncommon early,” I believe.

    That is the precious time to pick a salad,

    As happened to the fellow in my ballad;

    Who carried off the booty, as the Fox

    Took the fair Hen from the two fighting Cocks.

Ever so far and far away,

Down in the hollow by the bay,

Where the beach is dry and the rocks are high,

Under the sand three dead men lie.

      There they lie alow, low, low,

      Nor hear the cockrel’s crow.

Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,

      There they lie alow, low, low.

One was drowned in yonder sea,

One was shot as it may be,

One was left on the beach to die,

But all in the hollow sleeping lie.

      There they lie alow, low, low,

      Nor wake at the cockrel’s crow.

Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,

      There they lie alow, low, low.

Sometimes when the moon is bright

You can see the three, like gulls in flight,

Flitting along above the waves,

Or sitting and talking on their graves,

      Where they lie alow, low, low,

      Nor hear the cockrel’s crow.

Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,

      There they lie alow, low, low.

      There was a pause—when some one merrily

      Struck up a song which all have known of old;

      How Billy Taylor’s sweetheart went to sea,

      And how she fought in an engagement bold:

      And as the talk ran on of female sailors

      Who’ve gone to sea in men-of-war, or whalers,

      Until I spoke and said: “I know a lay

      About a Spanish lady, old lang syne,

      Who, as a sailor, wished to sail away—

      The words are by another and not mine:”

I’ll tell you of a sailor now, a tale that can’t be beat,

His name was Samuel Jackson, and his height was seven feet;

And how this man was shipwrecked in the far Pacific Isles,

And of the heathen natives with their suppositious^[8] wiles.

When up there came a tilted wave, and like a horse it romped,

It fell like mountains on the boat, and so the boat was swamped;

And of those selfish mariners full every one was drowned,

While Samuel, standing on the deck, beheld it safe and sound.

Now when the sea grew soft and still, and all the gale was o’er,

Sam Jackson made himself a raft, and paddled safe ashore.

For fear of fatal accidents—not knowin’ what might come,

He took a gun and matches, with a prudent cask of rum.

Now this island where he landed proved as merry as a fife,

For its indigents had ne’er beheld a white man in their life;

Such incidents as rum and guns they never yet had seen,

And likewise, in religion, they were awful jolly green.

But they had a dim tradition, from their ancestors, in course,

Which they had somehow derived from a very ancient source:

How that a god would come to them, and set the island right;

And how he should be orful tall, and likewise pearly white.

Now when they saw this Samuel approachin’ on his raft,

The news through all the island shades was quickly telegrapht,

How all their tribulations would speedily be past,

’Cos the long-expected sucker was invadin’ ’em at last.

Now when Sam Jackson stept ashore, as modest as you please,

Nine thousand bloomin’ savages received him on their knees;

He looked around in wonderment, regardin’ it as odd,

Not bein’ much accustomed to be worshipped as a god.

But he twigged the situation, and with a pleasin’ smile

Stretched out his hands, a-blessin’ all the natives of the isle;

He did it well, although his paws were bigger than a pan,

Because he was habitual a most politeful man.

So to return their manners, and nary-wise for fun,

He raised himself with dignity, and then fired off his gun:

So all allowed that he must be one of the heavenly chaps,

Since he went about with lightning and dispensed with thunderclaps.

They took him on their shoulders, and he let it go for good,

And went into their city in the which a temple stood,

And sot him on the altar, and made him their salams,

And brought him pleasant coco-nuts, with chickens, po and yams.

And from that day henceforward, in a captivating style,

He relegated, as he pleased, the natives of that isle;

And when an unbeliever rose—as now and then were some,

He cured their irreligion with a little taste of rum.

He settled all their business, and he did it very well,

So everything went booming like a blessed wedding bell;

Eleven lovely feminines attended to his wants,

And a guard of honour followed him to all his usual haunts.

Now what mortal men are made of, that they can’t put up with bliss,

I do not know, but this I know, that Sam got tired of this;

He wished that he was far away, again aboard a ship,

And all he thought of—night and day—was givin’ ’em the slip.

And so one night when all was still and every soul asleep,

He got into a good canoe and paddled o’er the deep,

But oh the row the natives made, when early in the morn

They came to worship Samuel, and found their god was gone!

Then Samuel travelled many days, but had the luck at last

To meet a brig from Boston where he shipped before the mast;

And he gave it as his sentiments, and no one thought it odd,

He was better off as sailor than when sailing as a god.

Now many years had flown away when Samuel was forgot,

There came a ship for pearl shell unto that lonely spot;

They went into the temple, and what do you suppose

They found the natives worshipping—a suit of Samuel’s clothes!

And this was the tradition of the people of the soil,

How once a great divinity had ruled upon their isle;

Four fathom tall, with eyes like fire, and such was their believin’,

One night he got upon the moon—and sailed away to Heaven!

    “Wall, it’s a fact,” cried Doolittle, “I’ll swear

    A rover ain’t contented anywhere;

    But if he is a real sailor slip,

    He’s happiest on the hull—aboard a ship—

    For there at times he has his tallest fun,

    Especially if ’tis a dandy one

    Where all is fine—O mateys, that’s the thing!”

    He raised his voice, and thus began to sing:

    (While up and down he merrily did prance)

    Unto the air of Dance, the Boatman, dance!

Where the rockiest Rocky Mountains interview the scornful skies,

And the sager kinds of sage-bush in the middle distance rise,

There the cultured eye descending from the dreamlike azure hill,

Lights in an Æsthetic foreground on the town of Gloryville.

It was in the Middle Ages—’bout the end of Sixty-eight,

So I found the hoary legend written on an ancient slate—

That one Ezry Jenks prospecting, when he reached this blooming spot,

Thus uplifted to his pardner: “Glory! Moses, let us squat!”

Thus rebounded Moses Adams: “Glory was the foremost word

Which in the untrammelled silence of this wilderness was heard,

And I arnswer, dimly feelin’ like a prophet, grand and slow,

‘Glory kinder sounds like Money—up to glory let her go!’ ”

And this casual conversation in the year of Sixty-eight,

As if by an inspiration he recorded on a slate,

Which ’twas said in later ages—six weeks after—used to hang

As a curiositary in the principal shebang.

On the spot that very evening they perceived a beauteous gleam

From a grain of shining metal in a wild auriferous stream:

As their eyes remarked the symptom thus their tongues responsive spoke:

“In this undiscovered section there is pay-dirt, sure as smoke!”

Little boots or little shoes it to inform you how, like crows

To a carcase, folks came flying, and the town of Glory rose;

As in country schools the urchins cast each one a spittle-ball,

Till at last a monstrous paper fungus gathers on the wall.

’Long the road they built their cabins, in a vis-a-visual way,

As if each man to his neighbour kind of wished to have his say;

But ’twas also said that like two rows of teeth the houses grew,

Threatening uncommon danger to the stranger passing through.

Yes, for like the note of freedom sounded on Hibernia’s harp,

Every person in the party was a most uncommon sharp;

And it got to be a saying that from such an ornery cuss

As a regular Gloryvillin—oh, good Law deliver us!

First of all the pay-dirt vanished or became uncommon rare,

Then they wandered more than ever to the Cross and from the Square,

For when all resources failed them nary copper did they mind,

For they had fine-answering Genius, which is never left behind.

So they got incopperated as a city fair and grand,

Spreading memoirs of their splendour over many a distant land,

Mind I say in distant places—people near them knew

Into what unearthly beauty the great town of Glory grew.

Then they sent an ex-tra Governor over seas and far beyond,

Even unto distant Holland, loaded up with many a bond,

Splendidly engraved in London, having just the proper touch

Quite imposing—rather—for they did impose upon the Dutch.

And with every bond the Governor had a picture to bestow

Of the town of Gloryville a-bathing in the sunset’s glow;

This they had performed in Paris by an artist full of cheek,

Who was told to draw a city comme il faut dans l’AmÉrique.

The ideas of this artist were idead from long ago,

Out of scenery in an opera, “Cortez in the Mexico.”

Therefore all his work expanded with expensive fallacies:

Castles, towered walls, pavilions, real-estately palaces.

In the foreground lofty palm-trees, as if full of soaring love,

Bore up coco-nuts and monkeys to the smiling heaven above;

Jet-black Indian chieftains, at their feet too lovely girls were sighin,

With an elephant beyond them—here and there a casual lion.

You have seen in Pilgrim’s Progress the Celestial City stand

Like a hub in half a cart-wheel raying light o’er all the land.

Well, in that, it is the felloes of the wheel which cause the blaze;

So in Gloryville the fellows were the ones who made the rays.

When these views were well matured the Governor went to Amsterdam,

Where to Mynheer Schmuel Ganef first of all he made his slam:

At a glance each “saw” the other—at a glance they went aside,

And without a word of bother soon the plan was cut and dried.

For one hundred thousand dollars then the Governor at will

Gave away the full fee-simple of the town of Gloryville.

“Dat for you,” said Schmuel Ganef, “is, I dink, not much too much,

But I makesh de shtock a million ven I sells him to the Dutch.”

And the secret of his selling was upon the artful plan

Known to the police in Paris as the vol AmÉricain,

Whereby he who does the spilling manages the man who’s spilt

Very nicely, for he makes him an accomplice in the guilt.

Even as of old great sages managed the Parisian fonds,

So in Amsterdam Heer Ganef peddled out his Glory bonds;

And to all he slyly whispered, “I will let you in de first

On de ground-floor—sell out quickly—for you know de ding may burst.”

Woe to you who live by thieving, though you be of rogues the chief,

Even the greatest will discover in due time his master-thief.

True, he “let them in,” and truly on the very bottom floor,

But was with the Gloryvillins in the cellar long before.

And to tell you how the biters all got bitten were in vain;

Here the Governor leaves my story, and he comes not in again.

I will pass to later ages, when all Gloryville, you bet,

Found itself extreme encumbered with an extra booming debt.

Those who sold the bonds had vanished, those who hadn’t held the town,

Little knew they of its glory over seas or great renown.

They had nothing of the fruitage, though, alas! they held the plant,

Nothing saw they of the picture, save, indeed, the Elephant.

He who had been in the background now came trampling to the fore;

Terribly he trampled on them, very awful was his roar!

Very dreadful is the silence when no human voice responds

To a legal requisition for the interest of our bonds.

But ere long a shrewd reflection unto Moses Adams came—

“Darned ef I’m a-gwine to suffer fur another party’s game;

Wings is given to muskeeters—like muskeeters men can fly;

Ef a strawberry-vine can travel with its roots, then why not I?”

Silently, in secret, Moses to himself a plan reveals,

Got a three-inch plank and sawed it into surreptitious wheels,

And when night in solemn mystery had succeeded unto day,

Put his hut and things on axles, and quite lonely drove away

To a place just over yonder by the old Coyote Road;

There, no more a man of glory, Moses Adams dropped his load,

And when resting from his labour and refreshing from his jug,

Having known a town called Julesberg, called his shanty Splendourbug.

On the following morn as usual in due time arose the sun,

And the Gloryvillins followed his example one by one;

While he smiled upon the city, as on other things beneath,

’Twas observed one snag was wanting in the double row of teeth.

Little said the Left-behinders, but they seemed to take the hint,

And each man surveyed his neighbour with a shrewd and genial squint;

All day long there was a sound of sawing timber up and down,

Seven more houses in the morning were a-wanting in the town.

And before the week departed all the town departed too,

Just like the swallows in the autumn to another soil they flew;

Only that, unlike the swallows which we hear of in the song,

When the Gloryvillins squandered each one took his nest along.

All except one ancient darkey, obstinate and blind and lame,

Who for want of wheels and credit could not follow up the game;

So the others had to leave him, which they did without regret,

Left him there without a copper—just one million deep in debt.

If you seek them you may find them comfortable as in a rug,

All of them at length established in the town of Splendourbug;

And the driver to the traveller as by Gloryville he goes,

Points him out, an ancient darkey who a million dollars owes.

          When Eagle Davis died,

          I was sittin’ by his side,

’Twas in Boston, Massachusetts; and he said to me, “Old boy!

          This climate—as you see—

          Isn’t quite the size for me;

Dead or livin’, take me back if you can to Ellanoy!”

          So I took him by the hand,

          But he’d just run out his sand,

And his breath was gone for ever—before a word would come;

          Then I and other three

          Together did agree

In a party for to travel and to funeralise him home.

          But Goshen Wheeler said,

          As he looked upon the dead,

Weepin’ mildly, “Just remark my observation what I say:

          That deceased, now glorious,

          Was in life a curious cuss,

And somethin’ unexpectable will happen on the way.

          “Frum the time that he was born

          Till he doubled round the Horn

Of Death, all his measurements and pleasurements were odd;

          And odd his line will be,

          As you’re registered to see,

Till his walnut case is underneath the gravel and the sod.”

          It was bitter winter weather

          When we all four got together

At the depÔt with the coffin in an extra packin’ box;

          And a friend with good intent,

          A cask of whisky sent,

Just to keep our boats from wrackin’, as they say, upon the rocks.

          Then a ticket agent he

          Seein’ mournin’, says to me,

“Can I get the cards, or help you in your trouble, Mister Brown?”

          So with solemn words I said,

          As I pinted to the dead,

“There you’ll find, I guess, our pilgrimage and shrine is written down.”

          Then all night beneath the stars

          We sat grimly in the cars,

Sometimes sleepin’, sometimes thinkin’, sometimes drinkin’, till the dawn;

          And each man went in his turn

          To the baggage-crate to learn

If the box was keepin’ time with us, and how ’twas gettin’ on.

          Then all day beneath the sun

          Still the train went rushin’ on,

While we still kep’ as silent as grave-stones as we went:

          Playing euchre solemnly,

          Which we kinder did agree

With the stakes to build for Davis a decent monument.

          ’Bout once in every mile

          Some mourner took a smile,

But we did no other smilin’ as we travelled day or night;

          And once in every hour

          Some one went into the bower,

And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right.

          But when four days were past,

          Which we still were flyin’ fast,

Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,

          “Where we are it should be freezin’

          And our very breaths a-squeezin’,

Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmon pies.

          “Don’t you smell a rich perfume

          As of summer flowers in bloom?

’Tis magnolias a-peddled by yon humble coloured boy:

          Now, I never yet did know

          That the sweet mag-no-li-o

Grew in winter in the latitude of Northern Ellanoy.”

          Then said Ebenezer Dotton,

          “I behold a field of cotton,

And I wonder how in thunder such a veg’table got here.

          I don’t know how we’re fixed,

          But the climate’s getting mixed,

And it’s spilin’ very rapidly with warmness as I fear.”

          Spoke Mister Aaron Bland,

          “I perceive on yonder land

That sugar-cane is bloomin’, correctly, all in rows,

          And not to make allusions

          To Republican delusions,

But the niggers air a-gettin’ all around as thick as crows.”

          Still we sat there mighty glum

          Till along a fellow come.

And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means,

          Just inform us where we be?”

          “Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he,

“I reckon we air comin’ to the spot called New Or-leÉns!”

          So we rushed all in a row,

          When we got to the depÔt,

To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin’ at these transformation scenes;

          And we found out unexpected

          That the box had been directed

Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leÉns!

          Without carin’ if I’d catch it,

          I straightway took a hatchet,

And busted off the cover without openin’ my mouth;

          And found a grand pianner

          Which we’d followed for our banner

All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South!

          Now Eagle Davis lies

          Beneath the Northern skies,

Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm;

          But I reckon if his spirit

          Should ever come to hear it,

He’ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm.

It was a balmeous day in May, when spring was springing high

And all amid the buttercups the bees did butterfly;

While the butterflies were being enraptured in the flowers,

And winsome frogs were singing soft morals to the showers.

Green were the emerald grasses which grew upon the plain,

And green too were the verdant boughs which rippled in the rain,

Far green likewise the apple hue which clad the distant hill,

But at the station sat a man who looked far greener still.

An ancient man, a boy-like man, a person mild and meek,

A being who had little tongue, and nary bit of cheek.

And while upon him pleasant-like I saw the ladies look,

He sat a-counting money in a brownsome pocket-book.

Then to him a policeman spoke: “Unless you feel too proud,

You’d better stow away that cash while you’re in this here crowd;

There’s many a chap about this spot who’d clean you out like ten.”

“And can it be,” exclaimed the man, “there are such wicked men?

“Then I will put my greenbacks up all in my pocket-book,

And keep it buttoned very tight, and at the button look.”

He said it with a simple tone, and gave a simple smile—

You never saw a half-grown shad one-half so void of guile.

And the bumble-bees kept bumbling away among the flowers,

While distant frogs were frogging amid the summer showers,

And the tree-toads were tree-toadying in accents sharp or flat—

All nature seemed a-naturing as there the old man sat.

Then up and down the platform promiscuous he strayed,

Amid the waiting passengers he took his lemonade,

A-making little kind remarks unto them all at sight,

Until he met two travellers who looked cosmopolite.

Now even as the old was green, this pair were darkly-brown;

They seemed to be of that degree which sports about the town.

Amid terrestrial mice, I ween, their destiny was Cat;

If ever men were gonoffs,^[9] I should say these two were that.

And they had watched that old man well with interested look,

And gazed him counting greenbacks in that brownsome pocket-book;

And the elder softly warbled with benevolential phiz,

“Green peas has come to market, and the veg’tables is riz.”

Yet still across the heavenly sky the clouds went clouding on,

The rush upon the gliding brook kept rushing all alone,

While the ducks upon the water were a-ducking just the same,

And every mortal human man kept on his little game.

And the old man to the strangers very affable let slip

How that zealousy policeman had given him the tip,

And how his cash was buttoned in his pocket dark and dim,

And how he guessed no man alive on earth could gammon him.

In ardent conversation ere long the three were steeped,

And in that good man’s confidence the younger party deeped.

The p’liceman, as he shadowed them, exclaimed in blooming rage,

“They’re stuffin’ of that duck, I guess, and leavin’ out the sage.”

He saw the game distinctly, and inspected how it took,

And watched the reappearance of that brownsome pocket-book,

And how that futile ancient, ere he buttoned up his coat,

Had interchanged, obliging-like, a greensome coloured note.

And how they parted tenderly, and how the happy twain

Went out into the Infinite by taking of the train;

Then up the blue policeman came, and said, “My ancient son,

Now you have gone and did it; say what you have been and done?”

And unto him the good old man replied with childish glee,

“They were as nice a two young men as I did ever see;

But they were in such misery their story made me cry;

So I lent ’em twenty dollars—which they’ll pay me by-and-bye.

“But as I had no twenty, we also did arrange,

They got from me a fifty bill, and gimme thirty change;

But they will send that fifty back, and by to-morrow’s train——”

“That note,” out cried the constable, “you’ll never see again.”

“And that,” exclaimed the sweet old man, “I hope I never may,

Because I do not care a cuss how far it keeps away;

For if I’m a judge of money, and I reether think I am,

The one I shoved was never worth a continental dam.

“They hev wandered with their sorrers into the sunny South,

They hev got uncommon swallows and an extry lot of mouth.

In the next train to the North’ard I expect to widely roam,

And if any come inquirin’, jist say I ain’t at home.”

The p’liceman lifted up his glance unto the sunny skies,

I s’pose the light was fervent, for a tear were in his eyes,

And said, “If in your travels a hat store you should see,

Just buy yourself a beaver tile and charge that tile to me.”

While the robins were a-robbing acrost the meadow gay,

And the pigeons still a-pigeoning among the gleam of May,

All out of doors kept out of doors as suchlike only can,

A-singing of an endless hymn about that good old man.

In the gloomsome abysses where darkness is kept,

And the spirit of silence for ages has slept,

  In the great shaft of Pottsville, way down in the hole,

  There came seven parties, all dealers in coal;

But they never had been in that chasm before,

Nor had the sensation of darkness all o’er,

  Which so greatly expandeth the soul.

And one of ’em said, “It’s an awful delight

To be infinite deep into no end of night,

  Where the heavenly sunshine can’t manage to spring,—

  And, talking of that, I’ve a notion, by Jing!

Let we ourselves mine out some coal lumps to-day

To show to the folks,—which I think, by the way,

  Would be a poetical thing.”

So they filled up their pockets, untried by a doubt,

And in the hotel they unveiled ’em all out;

  But their glances grew strange as they turned o’er the weight,

  Till one of them shouted, “By thunder, it’s slate!”

Yet the youngest among them had dealered in coal,

And unto that traffic surrendered his soul,

  Since the Anno Eighteen Forty-eight.

For all of man’s wisdom is only a dream,

Which passeth away like a plate of ice-cream,

  And the best of experience fails, as we mark,

  If you go for to dig when you’re all in the dark;

For there’s always a moral inside of a tale,

And big things in little things always prevail

  As sure as there’s wood in the bark.

When they had finished the ethnology,

And polished up the climate and the crops,

And glorified the different kinds of bugs,

And told in turn their lies about the snakes,

And fish and deer and things, of Idaho,

A pensive cuss in spectacles inquired,

“All this is well enough; now how about

Your educational facilities?

And let me see in dots the time they go.”

“And that’s the only thing we really lack,”

Replied the Ancient, with a silvery sigh;

“We do defect in that ostensibly.

We have the schools, but then we cannot git

The folks to run ’em, or who will remain

Adjacent to ’em, for they will not keep.”

“How!—do they die?” “Wall, some on ’em expired,

Though Idaho ain’t an expirin’ State;

But I will tell you just the time they go.

“We had a fine young fellow from the East;

He licked the boys, and also kissed the gals,

And was all round uncommon popular,

Bein’ likewise an awful fightin’ man,

And there he did slop over. For one day

He met a grizzly bar upon the prowl,

And whistled to it, and the grizzly come;

But when he went he carried by express

All of that fine young man inside of him;

And that is just about the time they go.

“We had another from Connecticut:

A widder run him down, and married him

Inside the very school-house where he taught,

Just as an Injun cooks a terrapin

In its own shell, or as a lovely deer

Is sometimes aboriginally biled

Inside of its own skin, for that poor man

Has been in bilin’ water ever sense:

They say she makes it solemn hot for him.

And that is just about the time they go.

“The third was well enough, but he was lame;

I needn’t tell you how that one got spiled;

For sense he couldn’t run, one day, of course,

The Injuns overtook him, and the way

They treated him was pretty nigh as bad

As if they had been widders, and that man

Their lawful spouse. They also made it hot,

Because they took and briled him at the stake.

And that is just about the time they go.

“Then we tried women-folks to keep the school.

We writ for one. She came; and as she lit

Down from the stage, a man proposed to her

And was accepted, and she married him

That very night; in fact, within an hour

He gin a party, and we had a dance;

But Education suffered all the same,

As she declined to teach, bein’ inclined

To conjugate—excuse my little joke;

But that is just about the time they go.

“The second—wall, I took the second one

About the middle of the week she come;

But telegraphed unto the Institute,

‘Send on some more; keep sending of ’em on.’

And so they kept a-comin’, but they kep’

A-going speedier than they arrove,

For the third lady was abducted by

A highwayman before she got to us—

She took it awful kindly, I believe.

And that is just about the time they go.”

“But why,” exclaimed the wondering traveller,

“Don’t you obtain a scareful, ugly one—

Some hideous old faggot, just like that

Tremendous terror with the lantern-jaws

By yonder ticket-window? She would keep.”

“Alas! how strange,” replied the Ancient Man;

“How is it that you people from the East

Will never understand us pioneers?

That woman is my wife—the very one

I cut away from school; and she’s by far

The handsomest there was in all the drove.

For that is just about the time they go.”

Know’st thou the burning lay of Dante’s own,

“Nix mangiare É il diavolo!

Ma peggior la donna?” that’s to say,

“ ’Tis hard to be hard up, but harder still

To get ahead of women.” Never much,

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Oh, listen to me, for the tale I tell

Is of Chicago, and the latest out,

And by the noble Tribune novelist.

“Say, do you mean it, honest Injun, now?”

Said Vivian O’Riley to his sire.

“And faith I do,” the earnest sire replied:

“Marry this girl if so ye choose, me son,

But—if ye do—the divil a ha’penny

Of all me fortune will yees ever see,

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-hids shine.”

Two hours have passed, and so have eight or ten

Slow-rolling tramway cars, until there comes

The one which Vivian wants, and soon it lands

The lover at the door of Pericles

O’Rourke, the father of bellissima,

The Lady Ethelberta. Lo, she sits

In her boudoir (the high-toned word for “room”),

Casting her soul in reverie o’er the trees,

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“I have bad news for you, my utmost own,”

Said Vivian in sad tones unto his love.

“Cusses and crocuses upon my luck!

And damns and daffodils on everything!”

And as he spoke there came into his face

A grey old scaly look which seemed to say,

Don’t bluff or you’ll be called. “My dad and I

Have had a round about, and he has dis—

Sis—sis—inherited me; and I have

Been given the g.-b. on your account,

My be—b—beau—tiful. And I am now

A beg—egg—eggar for you, Bertie dear!

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Her soft dusk eyes grew wide and serious.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am regular poor,

Poor as a busted Indian, and of course

It follows in the logic of our life

That I must give you up. I cannot ask

One in the golden glory of events

To come and share a fate which runs upon

A thousand annual dollars. Ne’er a case.

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

She looked at him with an incarnadine,

Rich, passionate, scarlet-sanguine crimson flush

Surging into her cheeks. If it had been

A full, ’tis probable that Vivian

Would have gone under; but a flush

Could never scare him or his similar,

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“Oh, Vivian!” she gurgled, like a dove,

“Oh, do you think I will let up on you?

And do you deem I would go back upon

The note I signed, and run to protest?—no—

Not while the snowy paper of my truth

Is quirÉd by the young-eyed cherubim,

And in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

Three months or ninety days went by, and then

Upon a golden Californian

December afternoon, with azure skies

Like those of summer as they are produced

In less expensive countries, men beheld

A diamondaine wedding at the house

Of Ethelberta’s sire. As Vivian

And his fair bride sat in the car—ri—age

Which bore them to the station, ever on

She gazed upon him like a Lamia

With a strange look, which one might call, in fact,

A weirdly precious smile. He gazed at her.

“And so you would not leave me, love?” he cooed,

“Even when you thought me poor?” And she replied,

“Never, my precious one. I learned lang syne

That when a sucker once drops off the hook

It never bites again. And well you know

That you were on the point of dropping off,

And so your pa and I put up the job

So as to land you, dear—as faith we did—

A little quicker. Oh, men, men, men, men!

If ye thus round, girls will get square with you,

While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

Yes, I’ll tell you how it happened—that, too, with all due respect

To the memory of Scroper, late departed architect—

How it came that he departed so abruptly in the train;

Why it was he’s been so late, too, in returnin’ back again.

Now some folks are born to greatness, some achieve it, as you’ve read;

And some justly stand and take it as it dollops on their head;

But in this sublime Republic, where it’s help and help again,

We all generally make it in cahoot with other men.

Scroper was a fine young fellow, of a monstrous enterprise;

Likewise really ambitious, for he was so bound to rise,

And he left no stone unturned—nor a log—he rolled ’em all,

Till at last he got the contract for our new great City Hall.

Now, of all our mortal actors here upon this earthly stage,

The contractors have the hardest parts to play, I will engage;

Specially in bran-new cities, just between the knead and bake,

And where all the population are severely on the make.

What between the Common Council, and the more uncommon sort,

Politicians, Press, and preachers, Scroper fell uncommon short.

All of such as come a-plummin’ when a puddin’s to be had;

All against his best contractin’ counteractin’ mighty bad.

Therefore when this edificial had got up his edifice,

All who’d not been edifishing with him soon got up a hiss;

Said the stuff upon the buildin’ was the worst that could be had,

Likewise called the architexture architechnically bad.

So it came one solemn evenin’ in a Presbyterian rain

Mr. Scroper all in silence gently took the Northern train;

All he left was one small message to a friend who shared his home,—

When the darned affair blows over, telegraph for me to come.

So he sat one summer mornin’, far away in Montreal,

Musin’ on his recent patrons, while at heart he darned ’em all,

When there came a little letter datin’ from his recent home,—

“All the thing is quite blown over, back again we bid you come.

“For last night we had a tempest,—while the mighty thunder rang,

Up there came a real guster, which blew down the whole shebang.

(Shebang’s a word from Hebrew, meanin’ Seven, sayeth Krupp,

And applied to any shanty where they play at seven-up.)

“Truly it was well blown over all to splinders in the night,

And the winds of heaven are blowing o’er the ruins as I write.”

Gentlemen, the story’s over. It would last for many a day

If it told of every buildin’ built upon the swindlin’ lay.

Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs

Has travelled in Europe more than a year,

And no one need ever be troubled with pangs

At telling him aught which he thought was severe;

For there’s ne’er a Yankee of any size,

No matter how sharply he chaffs or slangs,

That can boast he ever has taken a rise

On Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs.

He was the man whom Dr. Snayle

Read a lecture to on a morning call—

Read it clear through from bill to tail;

And Bangs like Old Piety bore it all.

Said Snayle, when the sheets were all up-read,

“I’m a-going with this to Boston, you know”—

“I’m glad to hear it,” his listener said:

“I always did hate those Bostonians so!”

Well, last week on a City Atlas ’bus

The Professor and I went riding down,

While the driver politely gave to us

Opinions on things about the town.

And finding my friend was “prone to receive,”

And came from the Western land afar,

He told him just what one ought to believe

In politics, piety, love, and war.

Then glancing at Bangs, who sat to leeward,

Looking as mild as cambric tea,

He said: “I once ’ad—but I soon got cured

Of—a wish to go to Amerikee.

I was tired of always a-drivin’ these cusses,

And so I thought I would like to range”——

“You were right,” said Bangs. “In our Yankee ’busses

It’s the driver who takes (and keeps) the change!”

Sharp glanced the driver at Bangs; then said,

“What scared me of goin’ was this, d’ye see,—

I’d a friend in New York, whose letters I read;

And he wrote: In the whole of your country,

He ’ad looked the biggest graveyards through,

Looked ’em through with uncommon keer,

But never ’ad come to a single view

Of a cove^[10] as wos aged fifty year.

“And as this is the case in hevery State,

I think there’s nothink on hearth for cure’n

A chap hof a fancy to hemigrate

Like readin’ of them graveyards of yourn.

So I thought I’d rather perlong my breath,

Tho’ sometimes here a fellow they hangs”——

“You are right, my friend. Choose your own way of death,

I go in for that,” said Professor Bangs.

“But I see you have not understood

Why no aged person is ever found

Among us. We only want young blood

On our driving, thriving, Yankee ground.

Youth alone has the power to go it;

Old men are a drag on putting it through,

So we kill them off—and our tombstones show it—

Before they arrive at forty-two.”

Here the driver gave a long cher—rup!

And gazed at the Yankee, dark and wan,

As if he had woke the wrong passenger up

While calmly Professor Bangs went on:

“In walking up and down Broadway,

Large mourning sign-boards at times appear

With this inscription in letters grey—

‘Elderly persons extinguished here.’

“And they put in your hand a pamphlet small,

Adapted to people of different stations,

Which cites the law, and exhorts them all

To dismiss in peace their old relations.

‘Why let them linger in a vale,’

It states, ‘where often colds they catch?

Send them to us, and we’ll end the tale

With politeness, humanity, and dispatch.’

“ ‘N.B.—For those who would die by the trigger

We’ve a merciful man who’s a practised shot,

With an elegant room, and a careful nigger

To lay them genteelly out on the spot.

Our principal has a chemist of fame,

Whom he exclusively employs on

Those who set their checks on a different game

And like to pass to heaven by poison.’

“ ’Tis thus the ladies generally choose it;

They love to die without pain or pangs

By a nice little globule—who could refuse it?

None but a man,” said Professor Bangs.

“A saw buck extra they always charge

For the stylish mode of extinguishing breath.

A saw buck’s ten dollars. It’s rather large,

But then it ensures you a cocktail death.”

“Vot may that be?” said the driver, meekly,

In the tone of a greatly altered man.

I observed that he seemed to be growing weakly

Since the Professor his story began.

“A cocktail’s a tipple—America vaunts of it—

So flavoured, so foamy, so spiced, and whirled,

That he who can get as much as he wants of it

Very soon drinks himself out of the world.

“ ’Tis said in the sky—right over Paris,

Where the American heaven is found,

Where everything brick-like and fast and rare is—

The cocks with tumblers for tails run round.

They cut to the bar for all things thinkable,—

All that is nice is a gratis boon,—

Then they come back with your favourite drinkable

And their sickle-feather’s a silver spoon!

“But he who invented the cocktail brew is

The man before you. Thus came the hint:

I had once been kissing a pretty Jewess,

Who just before had been nibbling mint;

And in order to recall the taste

Which I found in pressing her luscious two lips,

I mingled brandy and mint, in haste,

With sugar and ice—and thus made Juleps.

“The first step was, therefore, the julep perfected,

Which gives us a menthal spirit of wine;

And finding myself thereby respected,

I sought to make bitter and sweet combine.

So I took of bitters aromatic

(I prefer the tincture of bark myself,

With orange flavoured, but if you lack it,

Try any kind on the bar-room shelf).

“And I fixed them with sugar, and ice, and spirits,

In a silver tumbler, lightning-quick, sir,

Which I shook till all their several merits

Were combined in one subtle and strange elixir.

Then I passed it through a silver sieve

Kept carefully free from spot or rust;

And the final jimglorious touch to give,

I threw in a sprinkle of nutmeg-dust.

“And I am told by the spirit-rappers

That in the American Paris-heaven,

Though they’ve fancy drinks which are total snappers,

There’s nothing better than mine are given.

So they die in New York without any pangs,

For they know in the next world, to requite ’em,

They’ll sit over Paris,” said Mr. Bangs,

“A-drinking cocktails ad infinitum.”

Here we got down, and the driver said,

“Vell, you’re of the kind that will allers bang ’em!”

And turning our mocassins homeward, we sped

To that great American wigwam, the Langham.

Said Bangs, “O’er my eyes there is drawn no wool.

That man has no heart who would tell you a mock tale;

But story for story I told to the Bull,

What I call a real American cocktail.”

Long ago, in the State of Maine,

  There lived a Judge—a good old soul,

Rather well up in “genial vein,”

  And not by any means “down on” the bowl.

N.B.—By “bowl” I mean the “cup,”

  And by “cup”—N.B.—I mean a glass,

Since neither bowls nor cups go up

  At present when we our liquor pass.

        (Although I recall—

        ’Tis three years this Fall—

When travelling in the wilderness,

And things were all in an awful mess,

And our crockery, with a horrible crash,

Had gone its way to eternal smash)

(It came, as the driver allowed, from racin’),

We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin.

Excuse the digression—non est crimen—

And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman.

The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie

  Kept by a man whose name was Sterret,

Where he met with jolly company,

  But where the whisky was void of merit.

The real MiniÉ rifle brand,

That at forty rods kills out of hand.

Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge

  At Sterret’s, after a long, hot day,

Got so tight that he couldn’t budge,

  And found himself “well over the bay,”

With a “snake in his boot” and one in his hat,

  Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned,

Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat,

  Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned.

Couldn’t tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne,

  Couldn’t see the difference ’tween fips and cents;

And when he attempted to walk alone,

  Simply made a Virginia fence;

Till liquor yielded at last to sleep,

And he sank into Dream River—four miles deep.

Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non latro.

“Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief,

For though a lawyer he wasn’t a thief.”

This is what the story declares,

Which says he listens to lawyers’ prayers.

Likely enough! perhaps he may—

Whenever a lawyer tries to pray!

But another legend, old and quaint,

Assigns them a different kind of saint,

With a singular foot and peculiar hue,

Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue;

  And this was rather the saint, I think,

Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four,

  Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink,

And made them rejoice to hear him snore.

  Who, save the devil, would not have wept

To see these graceless legal loons

  Tricking the good old Judge as he slept,

And filling his pockets with Sterret’s spoons?

  With silver spoons; likewise for butter

A handsome ten-dollar silver knife;

  Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter,

And carried him home to his loving wife.

If any ladies read these rhymes,

  Which in Edgar A. Poetry are called “runes,”

They may just imagine what sort of times

  Mrs. Wyman had when she found the spoons!

The Judge’s grief was full of merit,

  And his lady wasn’t inclined to flout it;

But she quietly took the spoons to Sterret,

  And nothing more was said about it.

A month went by, and Fama, the wench!

  Had not spread a whisper to urge remorse,

And Judge Wyman sat on the legal bench,

  Trying a fellow for stealing a horse.

The evidence was all due north.

  It froze the prisoner every minute,

Till Judge Wyman called the culprit forth,

  And asked what “he had to say agin it?”

The prisoner looked at the planks of pine

  Of the little rural court-house ceiling,

At all the jury in a line,

  Then answered, his only small card dealing,

“Judge, I hev lots of honesty,

  But when I’m drunk I can’t control it;

And as for this ’ere hoss—d’ye see?—

  I was drunk as blazes when I stole it.”

Answered the Judge, “If this Court were a dunce,

  She would say, in law that is no excuse;

For the Court held that opinion once,

  But of late her connection’s been gettin’ loose.

One may be certain on law to-day,

  And find himself to-morrow dumb.—

“But answer me one thing truly, and say

  Where’bouts it was you got your rum?”

“I drank because I was invited,

  And got my rum at Sterret’s, d’ye see?”

“Mr. Sheriff,” cried the Judge, excited,

  “This instant set that poor man free!

The liquor that Sterret sells, by thunder!

  Would make a man do anything,

And some time or other, I shouldn’t wonder

  If it made a saint on the gallows swing;

It will run a man to perdition quicker

  Than it takes a fiddler to reel off tunes;

Why, this Court herself once got drunk on that liquor,

  And stole the whole of old Sterret’s spoons!”

I am the member of a club of reg’lar noble seeds,

Whose object is to give rewards for philanthropic deeds.

We root for magnanimity as spiders hunt for flies,

So we lately held a meeting to award our annual prize.

Then our President reported with great solemnity

The case of Dayball Carter, a man in Tennessee,

Who plunged into a burning store as if his doom had come,

But emergÉd with an infant—and a gallon jug of rum.

But the club could nowise settle, admitting all the fact,

If the baby or the liquor had inspired the noble act,

For ’twas proved he kept the liquor while he let the infant go,

So the case of Mr. Carter was adjourned in dubio.

Then the Secretary read us, in very moving tones,

The wondrous case of courage of General Pompey Jones,

Who found a hydrophobic dog upon a neighbour’s farm,

And roped his neck and led him off where he could do no harm.

Then Brother Chunk, of Pewterville, declared that it was sad

To have to state that Jones had no idea the dog was mad,

And that in circles where he moved ’twas very freely said

He’d picked it up intending to come out one dog ahead.

Then the next case reported in the doings of the day

Was that of Huckleberry Pod, a man in Iowa,

Who slopped into a raging flood to save a drowning maid,

And did it like a beaver, as admiring neighbours said.

Then Brother Chunk again let down his fist with startling bump,

And said he’d found that Mr. Pod refused to make the jump

Till offered fifty dollars by the people of the town,

And that then he wouldn’t do it till he got the money down.

Last of all we heard the instance of Golias Purple Fife,

Who went into an awful well to save a fellow’s life,

A man who always spoke of Fife as of a blooming fool,

And who recently had done him blind in trading for a mule;

And on top of this, moreover, in addition, ’twas a fact,

He refused a quarter-dollar for this noble manly act,

And when they asked him what he’d drink, or if he’d take a bite,

He jumped in silence on his mule and rode into the night.

This case, in the opinion of the members of the club,

Was much the most deserving, and the nearest to the hub;

And each allowed he’d never heard the like in all his life,

So, by general acclamation, they bestowed the prize on Fife:—

A silver-plated snuff-box, with a compass in the lid,

With the words, “If sold at auction always do as you are bid,”

Which we sent him in a hurry ere it might be understood

That this, too, was not an instance of the pure unmingled good.

And these are the proceedings of these noble-minded seeds,

Who make it their profession to discover virtuous deeds;

And every day turns out a lot, but still ’tis on our mind

That a case without a speck in it is very hard to find.

Pete Jonsing went to see the County Clerk

About a marriage license, and the man

Said unto him for fun, but seriously:

“I hope the bride possesses fifty cents,

Because the Legislature’s passed a law

That any girl with less must not be wed.”

“Jis’ go ahead wid dat ’ar paper, Boss,”

Peter replied; then whispered, bending down:

“Dar’s rumers—and dey is reliable—

Dat de young woman dat I’m goin’ fur

Has got two dollars and a quarter—shoa.

And dat’s de reason wy I marries her.”

When William Penn appeared before King Charles

To get the charter of his Promised Land

            In PennsylvaniÁ,

’Twas in his usual free-and-easy style,

With hands in pockets and his hat on side—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

Let us drink and be merry, laugh, sing, and rejoice,

With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

King Charles at once removed his feathered tile.

“Keep on your hat, young man!” said William Penn,

            “It is our Quaker way;

And people will not know that you are bald;

Be quite at home to make your guests at home—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

This changeable world to our joys is unjust,

All treasure’s uncertain, so down with your dust,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

“It is the custom here,” the King replied,

“For only one to cover at a time;

            This is the courtly way.”

“Then you should have more covers,” warbled Penn.

“Warm people’s heads to make them merry men—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

And in frolics dispose of your shillings and pence,

Since we all shall be past it a hundred years hence,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

“ ’Tis a queer world, and faith! I do not lay

My hat around, loose, in a domicile

            Where I don’t know the way,

Unless some party gives a check for it;

I’ve travelled some—I have—and can’t be bit—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

Since, despite your invention, and learning, and sense,

You’ll be non est inventus a hundred years hence,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

“Odds-fish!” exclaimed his Royal Majesty,

“He talks full well, but as it seems to me,

            According to our way,

There’s a tremendous pig in this same Penn.”

“Bravo, young man!” said William; “try again—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

You have brought me a terrible one on the nob,

But I bear you no malice, not being a snob,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

And thus it is that history is writ,

And thus it is good men are slandered sore

            From ever till to-day.

Some writer pastes a joke; it may remain

Safe in a corner from Time’s wind and rain

            Till Time has rolled away.

So, hurrah for King Charles! and hurrah, too, for Penn!

And all such and similar excellent men!

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

It was in the Indian summer-time, when life is tender brown,

And people in the country talk of going into town,

When the nights are crisp and cooling, though the sun is warm by day,

In the home-like town of Glasgow, in the State of Iowa;

It was in the railroad deepÔ of that greatly-favoured zone,

That a young man met a stranger, who was still not all unknown,

For they had run-countered casual in riding in the car,

And the latter to the previous had offered a cigar.

Now as the primal gentleman was nominated Gale,

It follows that the secondary man was Mr. Dale;

This is called poetic justice when arrangements fit in time,

And Fate allows the titles to accommodate in rhyme.

And a lovely sense of autumn seemed to warble in the air;

Boys with baskets selling peaches were vibratin’ everywhere,

While in the mellow distance folks were gettin’ in their corn,

And the biggest yellow punkins ever seen since you were born.

Now a gradual sensation emotioned this our Gale,

That he’d seldom seen so fine a man for cheek as Mr. Dale;

Yet simultaneous he felt that he was all the while

The biggest dude and cock-a-hoop within a hundred mile.

For the usual expression of his quite enormous eyes

Was that of two ripe gooseberries who’ve been decreed a prize;

Like a goose apart from berries, too—though not removed from sauce—

He conversed on lovely Woman as if he were all her boss.

Till, in fact, he stated plainly that, between his face and cash,

There was not a lady living whom he was not sure to mash;

The wealthiest, the loveliest, of families sublime,

At just a single look from him must all give in in time.

Now when our Dale had got along so far upon the strain,

They saw a Dream of Loveliness descending from the train,

A proud and queenly beauty of a transcendental face,

With gloves unto her shoulders, and the most expensive lace.

All Baltimore and New Orleans seemed centered into one,

As if their stars of beauty had been fused into a sun;

But, oh! her frosty dignity expressed a kind of glow

Like sunshine when thermometers show thirty grades below.

But it flashed a gleam of shrewdness into the head of Gale,

And with aggravatin’ humour he exclaimed to Mr. Dale,

“Since every girl’s a cricket-ball and you’re the only bat,

If you want to show you’re champion, go in and mash on that.

“I will bet a thousand dollars, and plank them on the rub,

That if you try it thither, you will catch a lofty snub.

I don’t mean but what a lady may reply to what you say,

But I bet you cannot win her into wedding in a day.”

A singular emotion enveloped Mr. Dale;

One would say he seemed confuseled, for his countenance was pale:

At first there came an angry look, and when that look did get,

He larft a wild and hollow larf, and said, “I take the debt.

“The brave deserve the lovely—every woman may be won;

What men have fixed before us may by other men be done.

You will lose your thousand dollars. For the first time in my life

I have gazed upon a woman whom I wish to make my wife.”

Like a terrier at a rabbit, with his hat upon his eyes

Mr. Dale, the awful masher, went head-longing at the prize,

Looking rather like a party simply bent to break the peace,

Mr. Gale, with smiles, expected just a yell for the police.

Oh! what are women made of? Oh! what can women be?

From Eves to Jersey Lilies what bewildering sights we see!

One listened on the instant to all the Serpent said;

The other paid attention right away to Floral Ned.

With a blow as with a hammer the intruder broke the ice,

And the proud and queenly beauty seemed to think it awful nice.

Mr. Gale, as he beheld it, with a trembling heart began

To realise he really was a most astonished man.

Shall I tell you how he wooed her? shall I tell you how he won?

How they had a hasty wedding ere the evening was done?

For when all things were considered, the fond couple thought it best—

Such things are not uncommon in the wild and rapid West.

Dale obtained the thousand dollars, and then vanished with the dream.

Gale stayed in town with sorrow, like a spoon behind the cream;

Till one morning in the paper he read, though not in rhymes,

How a certain blooming couple had been married fifty times!

How they wandered o’er the country; how the bridegroom used to bet

He would wed the girl that evening,—how he always pulled the debt;

How his eyes were large and greensome; how, in fact, to end the tale,

Their very latest victim was a fine young man named Gale.

When in a situation it always pays the best

To have your wits about you, for it helps the interest;

And a man gets so encouraged by succeedin’ when he tries,

That the more you crowd him downward, the more he’s bound to rise.

As when near Tres Alamos, while workin’ at his mine,

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, without the least design

To involve himself whatever in any kind of tricks,

Got inside an unprovided and a most unpleasant fix.

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, had but just put in a blast,

When he saw four buck Apaches approximatin’ fast

Upon their headlong horses in a rackaloose career,

And every one preceded by a long projectin’ spear:

He had planted all the powder, and was just atop the shaft,

While the foemen kept a-comin’ like as they was telegrapht.

To run was to be taken, and to stay was to be slew—

And in such a situation how-whatever could he do?

Bein’ quick upon the trigger Lyons did not stop to choose,

For a match was in his fingers, so he lighted up the fuse,

And dropped behind a boulder for to disabuse their aim,

When at him like a sheriff’s writ full dig the Injuns came.

He had timed the fuse so nicely that the ’Paches reached the rock

Exactly at the nick of the explosionary shock:

Bang! How the big rock busted as the powder gave a flare!

While a rain of stones and gravel went a-thunderin’ through the air.

It was four red Apaches who also had a rise,

And started for the hunting-grounds on horseback thro’ the skies;

Or as if they had the notion, but recalled it there and then,

For they speedily descended as four non-existent men.

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, just down behind his rock,

Escaped the influential effect of such a shock,

And examinin’ the prospect, he very plainly sees

He has worked the blast quite perfect—likewise slammed his enemies.

When narratin’ the adventure which I’ve chanted in my song,

If he terms them “blasted Injuns” no one calls his language strong—

For their hopes were surely blasted which they fondly reckoned on,

And with patent giant-powder by this Arizona John.

It was in a pleasant deepÔ, sequestered from the rain,

That many weary passengers were waitin’ for the train;

Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmantÓ,

Ivory-handled umberellas made a most touristic show.

Whereunto there came a person, very humble was his mien,

Who took an observation of the interestin’ scene;

Closely scanned the umberellas, watched with joy the mighty trunks,

And observed that all the people were securin’ Pullman bunks:

Who was followed shortly after by a most unhappy tramp,

Upon whose features poverty had jounced her iron stamp;

And to make a clear impression as bees sting you while they buzz,

She had hit him rather harder than she generally does.

For he was so awful ragged, and in parts so awful bare,

That the folks were quite repulsioned to behold him begging there;

And instead of drawing currency from out their pocket-books,

They drew themselves asunder with aversionary looks.

Sternly gazed the first newcomer on the unindulgent crowd,

Then in tones which pierced the deepÔ he solilicussed aloud:—

“I hev trevelled o’er this cont’nent from Quebec to BogotÁw,

But setch a set of scallawags as these I never saw.

“Ye are wealthy, ye are gifted, ye have house and lands and rent,

Yet unto a suff’rin’ mortal ye will not donate a cent;

Ye expend your missionaries to the heathen and the Jew,

But there isn’t any heathen that is half as small as you.

“Ye are lucky—ye hev cheque-books and deeposits in the bank,

And ye squanderate your money on the titled folks of rank;

The onyx and the sardonyx upon your garments shine,

An’ ye drink at every dinner p’r’aps a dollar’s wuth of wine.

“Ye are goin’ for the summer to the islands by the sea,

Where it costs four dollars daily—setch is not for setch as me;

Iv’ry-handled umberellers do not come into my plan,

But I kin give a dollar to this suff’rin’ fellow-man.

“Hand-bags made of Rooshy leather are not truly at my call,

Yet in the eyes of Mussy I am richer ’en you all,

For I kin give a dollar wher’ you dare not stand a dime,

And never miss it nother, nor regret it any time.”

The first who gave the dollar led the other one about,

And at every contribution he a-raised a joyful shout,

Exclaimin’ how ’twas noble to relieviate distress,

And remarkin’ that our duty is our present happiness.

Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp,

When he bid ’em all good evenin’ and went out into the damp,

And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech,

And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach.

Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met,

And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt;

And the man who did the preachin’ took his twenty of the sum,

Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum.

And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbour with the rest,

Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegantly dressed.

Any fowl with change of feathers may a brilliant bird become:

Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some!

This is a Merry Tale of Bergamo.

It chanced in Fifteen Hundred Twenty-Eight

[As I do find the fact recorded in

A pleasing book of Sixteen Thirty-Six

Entitled Scelta di Facetie—

A little yellow, quaint, italic tome,

Which looks as if it were behind the age,

And would have been black letter if it could]

That in fair Venice raged a pestilence

Whereof in time full many people died,

And among these a trusty servitor

Who blew the bellows for the organist

All in the great Cathedral of Saint Mark,

Whose billowy pavement truly seems to roll

In time and measure with the music sweet,

So perfect were the harmonies of Art

Which men imagined in the olden time.

Now as this man had died while at his work,

Even while blowing a Magnificat

All in the holy church, it was adjudged

That he almost deserved to be a saint.

And he who preached the sermon over him

Said that “his soul had risen on the notes

Of the grand anthem which he had inspired,

And having reached the Music all divine

Had softly sunk, as light is lost in light,

Into the pure Celestial.” Here he stopped.

Men were great preachers in the olden time.

It happened that a certain Giannolo,

Facchino Bergamasco, or a man

From Bergamo, a porter by his trade,

Who carried heavy burdens, yet withal

Was not o’erburdened with a load of wit,

Hearing this sermon, got it in his head—

And no great wonder either—that the late

Departed bellows-blower must have been

The Chief Musician of the Holy House;

And knowing that the man who bloweth up

A pair of bagpipes also is the one

Who plays upon the same—drew inference

That the deceased was the true organist,

And he who played thereon his humble aid,

Who only worked to keep the tune in time.

Now being smitten with a deep desire

To rise in life and also to be called

A Child of Art—with a nice salary—

And have a sermon preached o’er him when dead,

Giannolo unto the Bishop went,

And made a great entreaty to be placed

Among the holy followers of Saint Mark,

And that the aim of his ambition was

Alzare i mantici quando suonava

gli organi—that’s to say:

“To lift the bellows when the organ played.”

And as he was a stout and lusty knave

Who might be useful in a hundred ways,

They gladly took him on, so there he stayed

Blowing the bellows faithfully in time.

I ween there is not in all Italy

A man—unless he came from Bergamo—

Who could have blown an organ seven years

In the full faith that he was playing it,

And was indeed the real organist.

Yet this, in fact, unless the legend lies,

Was what befell Giannolo. By this time,

Having laid by a very handsome sum,

And being well attired though modestly,

As is becoming to a Son of Art,

He went a-visiting his native place,

Where all who were related unto him—

That is to say about one-half the town—

Did greatly marvel at his handsome clothes

And at his air of stately dignity,

But most of all when he informed them that

He was no more a porter: he had felt

Immortal longings in him to arise

Above that vulgar calling, and to soar

“ ’Mid palpitations sweet and pleasures soft,

The manifestations of that beauteous life

Diffused unseen throughout eternal Space”

Which men call Music; and that he had risen

Even to a monthly salary of ten francs,

Wherewith were many pleasing perquisites;

And that he played the organ in Saint Mark’s,

As all the world allowed, in perfect time.

Up rose a buzz of strangest wonderment,

Or, as ’tis writ, Di che restarono

PiÙ maravigliati; for they all

Were much amazed that such a common man—

Si vile e si rozzo—such a boor—

Had risen to the pinnacle of Art

In Venice, where all Art was at its height,

And gained the crown of glory—Iddio!

“Ten francs a month besides the perquisites!”

They bowed before him with deep reverence,

Hoping he’d stay with them a little time.

Then some one spoke with hesitating tone,

As if in fear to take a liberty,

And said: “Your Excellence—if we might dare—

Since we would celebrate the kind return

Of such an Honour to our noble town,

Would you not grace the occasion, and increase

Our joy and sense of deep respectfulness,

By playing Vespers for us in the Dome

On Sunday next?” Giannolo bowed low,

And in a speech adorned with many flowers,

Which he had culled from sermons in Saint Mark,

Acceded gracefully to their request,

And said he would be there to play, in time.

When Sunday came there came with it a crowd

Such as Bergamo never saw before,

For in her streets and past her palaces

Thousands in holiday attire swept on,

And even afar there was a thundering roar,

From time to time, which rolled from square to square,

As when the incoming ocean, with a tide

Urged by a tempest, breaks among the rocks.

Yea, there were many—tanto popolo—

All that the church would hold, and then outside

A vast, impatient, brilliant multitude,

Such as had ne’er been there at any time.

And at the appointed hour Giannolo came,

Rising before the people in his state,

Waiting awhile the appearance of the man

Who was to play the organ while he—blew!

And all the congregation waited too,

All staring steadily at the great man

In anxious expectation, till at last

Giannolo from the pulpit cried aloud:

“Where is the man who is to touch the keys?

What is the use of making music, hey—

And filling up the thing with melody,

As I have come to do, unless there be

Some one to click the bones and let it out?

You don’t suppose that I can raise the wind,

And steer, and sail the ship as well, my friends.

Such things were ne’er beheld at any time.”

There was an instant’s silence—deep and strange;

In all the great cathedral rang no sound.

All stared at one another open-eyed,

Or at Giannolo—just as if some power

Before unknown in life had seized on them

With a tremendous sense of dire amaze,

Not knowing what the devil it could mean;

When all at once they took—and from them all

There rose a roar of laughter like a crash

Of thunder, and so near it that one seemed

To miss the lightning—or, as I might say,

’Twas like a flash of sound—and then again

It came re-echoed from the multitude

Gathered outside, as the electric peal

Resounds, repeated by the mountain tops.

Yea, such a peal of laughter as the book

Declares “at vespers ne’er was heard before,”

And ne’er again will be at any time.

Moral. I pray you think upon it well.

      There are full many people in this world

      Who think that they are wondrous wise in art,

      And who, as Critics, write about the same

      In transcendental phrase with capitals,

      And call it Faith, and Love, and Heaven knows what,

      And cannot think of it without a gasp

      And uttering phrases silly, mystical,—

      Because they are the empty, windy ones,

      Inflating and inflated, who but blow

      The bellows of the organ, yet believe

      That they are leaders in the Realm of Art!