A Parody Anthology :: AFTER LONGFELLOW THE MODERN HIAWATHA

AFTER LONGFELLOW THE MODERN HIAWATHA

Carolyn Wells

"THE DAY IS DONE"

THE day is done, and darkness

From the wing of night is loosed,

As a feather is wafted downward,

From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker,

Gleam through the rain and mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,

That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing

That is not like being sick,

And resembles sorrow only

As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,—

A good and regular meal—

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers,

Not from the shops for cake;

I wouldn't give a farthing

For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,

Such things would but suggest

Some dishes more substantial,

And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,

Whose beef is fresh and nice,

As any they have in the city,

And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

For sad and desperate feelings,

Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power

To aid and reinforce,

And come like the "finally, brethren,"

That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin

From off the bench or hook.

And lend to its sterling goodness

The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,

And the cares with which it begun

Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,

And silently cut and run.

Phoebe Cary.

A PSALM OF LIFE

TELL me not, in idle jingle,

Marriage is an empty dream,

For the girl is dead that's single,

And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest,

Single blessedness a fib,

Taken from man, to man returnest,

Has been spoken of the rib.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Nearer brings the wedding-day.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting,

And our hearts, if there we search,

Still like steady drums are beating

Anxious marches to the Church.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle;

Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act—act in the living Present.

Heart within, and Man ahead!

Lives of married folks remind us

We can live our lives as well,

And, departing, leave behind us;—

Such examples as will tell;—

Such examples, that another,

Sailing far from Hymen's port,

A forlorn, unmarried brother,

Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Let us then be up and doing,

With the heart and head begin;

Still achieving, still pursÙing,

Learn to labor, and to win!

Phoebe Cary.

HOW OFTEN

THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,

In a park not far from the town;

They stood on the bridge at midnight,

Because they didn't sit down.

The moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church spire;

The moon rose o'er the city

And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh, how often!

They whispered words so soft;

How often, oh, how often;

How often, oh, how oft!

Ben King.

DESOLATION

SOMEWHAT back from the village street

Stands the old fashioned country seat.

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.

And there throughout the livelong day,

Jemima plays the pi-a-na.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,

And there Jemima plies her hands,

While her papa, beneath his cloak,

Mutters and groans: "This is no joke!"

And swears to himself and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth

She plays as if she owned the earth.

Through every swift vicissitude

She drums as if it did her good,

And still she sits from morn till night

And plunks away with main and might

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted hospitality;

But that was many years before

Jemima dallied with the score.

When she began her daily plunk,

Into their graves the neighbors sunk.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they've long since fled,

All thankful that they're safely dead.

They stood the racket while alive

Until Jemima rose at five.

And then they laid their burdens down,

And one and all they skipped the town.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Tom Masson.

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

I SHOT a partridge in the air,

It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;

For just as it dropped, with my right

I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,

It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;

For though a pheasant's flight is strong,

A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,

I found the birds in jelly lie;

And the pheasant at a fortnight's end,

I found again in the carte of a friend.

Punch.

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