My baby sleeps–a tiny mound,
All covered by the little flowers, Woos me in all my waking hours,
Down in the quiet burying-ground.
And when I sleep I seem to be
With baby in another land–
I take his little baby hand–
He smiles and sings sweet songs to me.
Sleep on, O baby, while I keep
My vigils till this day be passed! Then shall I, too, lie down at last,
And with my baby darling sleep.
THE TWO COFFINS
In yonder old cathedral
Two lovely coffins lie;
In one, the head of the state lies dead, And a singer sleeps hard by.
Once had that King great power
And proudly ruled the land–
His crown e’en now is on his brow
And his sword is in his hand.
How sweetly sleeps the singer
With calmly folded eyes,
And on the breast of the bard at rest The harp that he sounded lies.
The castle walls are falling
And war distracts the land,
But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot There in that dead king’s hand.
But with every grace of nature
There seems to float along–
To cheer again the hearts of men
The singer’s deathless song.
CLARE MARKET
In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; That I take a delight on a Saturday night In walking that way and in viewing the sight. For it’s here that one sees all the objects that please– New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, And baubles galore while discretion enjoys– But here I forbear, for I really despair Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.
A rich man comes down from the elegant town And looks at it all with an ominous frown; He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud That elsewhere in London this thing’s not allowed; He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, And he’s glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies, And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise At the goodies they vend and the toys without end– And it’s oh! if he had but a penny to spend! But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze– What sense of despair in this world can compare With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites A stroll in old London for curious sights, I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array, The things which some eyes would appear to despise Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend, So long as I’ve got ’em (or chums that will lend); And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare That there’s beauty and good in the market of Clare.
A DREAM OF SUNSHINE
I’m weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase– The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by, Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird’s call Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn’t one at all; And by my side should be a friend–a trusty, genial friend, With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend; Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring– For _then_ I’m going a-fishing with John Lyle King!
How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat– Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be, As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee; Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs, And the devil’s darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs; The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair (This latter metaphoric–we’ve no fimbriae to spare!); And I–transported by the bliss–shan’t do a plaguey thing But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!
Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like, While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike; I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim– But it’s worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks, And hear him tell of things he’s seen or read of in his books– To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about; A fountain-head refreshing–a clear, perennial spring Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King!
Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite– In other words, should we return all bootless home at night, I’d back him up in anything he had a mind to say Of mighty bass he’d left behind or lost upon the way; I’d nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game– I’d cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same; For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out– And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about! Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling O’er perjuries committed for John Lyle King.
At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame, He’d bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same; No diabolic engine this–no instrument of sin– No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin! But a godly hoosier fiddle–a quaint archaic thing Full of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing; With “Bonnie Doon,” and “Nellie Gray,” and “Sitting on the Stile,” “The Heart Bowed Down,” the “White Cockade,” and “Charming Annie Lisle” Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ring Beneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King.
The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more– Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore; The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight– And _not_ the scaly game that flies in darkness of the night! Let those who are so minded pursue this latter game But not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same; For an example to you all one paragon should serve– He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve; No bob-tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wring A groan of desperation from John Lyle King!
A truce to badinage–I hope far distant is the day When from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away! We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land, To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand; We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth, His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth, For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind, For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind– That’s why we folks who know him best so reverently cling (And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King.
And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme– I do remand thee to the shades until that happier time When fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere, And there’s a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air; When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls, And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls; When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springs Two hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things– _Then_ come again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to sing The glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King!
UHLAND’S WHITE STAG.
Into the woods three huntsmen came,
Seeking the white stag for their game.
They laid them under a green fir-tree And slept, and dreamed strange things to see.
(FIRST HUNTSMAN)
I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush, When out popped the noble stag–hush, hush!
(SECOND HUNTSMAN)
As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang, I pelted him hard in the hide–piff, bang!
(THIRD HUNTSMAN)
And as that stag lay dead I blew
On my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo!
So speak the three as there they lay
When lo! the white stag sped that way,
Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three, Then leagues o’er hill and dale was he– Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo!
HOW SALTY WIN OUT
I used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin’ else but luck– It made no diff’rence how or when or where or why it struck; But sev’ral years ago I changt my mind, an’ now proclaim That luck’s a kind uv science–same as any other game; It happened out in Denver in the spring uv ’80 when Salty teched a humpback an’ win out ten.
Salty wuz a printer in the good ol’ Tribune days, An’, natural-like, he fell into the good ol’ Tribune ways; So, every Sunday evenin’ he would sit into the game Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; An’ there he’d sit until he rose, an’, when he rose, he wore Invariably less wealth about his person than before.
But once there came a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night Occurred the tidal wave that put ol’ Salty out o’ sight. He win on deuce an’ ace an’ Jack–he win on king an’ queen– Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen. An’ how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when He said he teched a humpback to win out ten.
There must be somethin’ in it, for he never win afore, An’ when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they swore! For every sport allows it is a losin’ game to luck Agin the science uv a man who’s teched a hump f’r luck; And there is no denyin’ luck wuz nowhere in it when Salty teched a humpback an’ win out ten.
I’ve had queer dreams an’ seen queer things, an’ allus tried to do The thing that luck apparently intended f’r me to; Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard, An’ charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; But what’s the use uv talkin’? I say, an’ say again: You’ve got to tech a humpback to win out ten!
So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I’ll allow That luck, for luck, agin a hump aint nowhere in it now! An’ though I can’t explain the whys an’ wherefores, I maintain There must be somethin’ in it when the tip’s so straight an’ plain; For I wuz there an’ seen it, an’ got full with Salty when Salty teched a humpback an’ win out ten!
THE END