Then came that hell-born cloven thing-
Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life,
and I hencefoorth shall be your king,
and you shall do my evill strife.
Look round about and you shall see
sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe-
a comely dame is shee!"
Ye divell had him in his power, and not colde Robin say thereto: Soe Robin from that very houre
did what that divell bade him do; He wooed and clipt, and on a daye sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe a many leagues away.
Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore, And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake and knockit at ye cottage door
and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake: Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own, So come with mee & bee my make, syn tother birds ben flown."
But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe;
Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still,
And, tho' he doth despight me soe,
I mean to do him good for ill.
So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way;
ffor whiles I bee on live I will
ffor Robin's coming pray!"
Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed that Godde sholde send her Robin backe. And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made,
and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke, And tho', as moneths dragged away, ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack With griff, she still did praye.
Sicke of that divell's damned charmes,
Aback did Robin come at last,
And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms
and gave a cry and held him fast;
And as she clong to him and cried,
her patient harte with joy did brast,
& Madge, ye hoyden, died.
THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER
KEEP me, I pray, in wisdom's way
That I may truths eternal seek;
I need protecting care to-day,-
My purse is light, my flesh is weak.
So banish from my erring heart
All baleful appetites and hints
Of Satan's fascinating art,
Of first editions, and of prints.
Direct me in some godly walk
Which leads away from bookish strife,
That I with pious deed and talk
May extra-illustrate my life.
But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee
To keep me in temptation's way
I humbly ask that I may be
Most notably beset to-day:
Let my temptation be a book,
Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep,
Whereon when other men shall look,
They'll wail to know I got it cheap.
Oh, let it such a volume be
As in rare copperplates abounds,
Large paper, clean, and fair to see,
Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.
It is very aggravating
To hear the solemn prating
Of the fossils who are stating
That old Horace was a prude;
When we know that with the ladies
He was always raising Hades,
And with many an escapade his
Best productions are imbued.
There's really not much harm in a
Large number of his carmina,
But these people find alarm in a
Few records of his acts;
So they'd squelch the muse caloric,
And to students sophomoric
They'd present as metaphoric
What old Horace meant for facts.
We have always thought 'em lazy;
Now we adjudge 'em crazy!
Why, Horace was a daisy
That was very much alive!
And the wisest of us know him
As his Lydia verses show him,-
Go, read that virile poem,-
He was a very owl, sir,
And starting out to prowl, sir,
You bet he made Rome howl, sir,
Until he filled his date;
With a massic-laden ditty
And a classic maiden pretty
He painted up the city,
And Mæcenas paid the freight!
Us two wuz boys when we fell out,—
Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;
Don't rec'lect what 't wuz about,
Some small deeff'rence, I'll allow.
Lived next neighbors twenty years,
A-hatin' each other, me 'nd Jim,-
He havin' his opinyin uv me,
'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him.
Grew up together 'nd would n't speak,
Courted sisters, 'nd marr'd 'em, too;
"Tended same meetin'-house oncet a week,
A-hatin' each other through 'nd through!
But when Abe Linkern asked the West
F'r soldiers, we answered,-me 'nd Jim,-
He havin' his opinyin uv me,
'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him.
But down in Tennessee one night
Ther' wuz sound uv firin' fur away, 'Nd the sergeant allowed ther' 'd be a fight With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' day; 'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd home Jim stood afore me, long 'nd slim,
He havin' his opinyin uv me,
'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him.
Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to be
Serious trouble f'r me 'nd him;
Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me,
But never a word from me or Jim!
He went his way 'nd I went mine,
'Nd into the battle's roar went we,-
I havin' my opinyin uv Jim,
'Nd he havin' his opinyin uv me.
Jim never come back from the war again,
But I hain't forgot that last, last night
When, waitin' f'r orders, us two men
Made up 'nd shuck hands, afore the fight.
'Nd, after it all, it's soothin' to know
That here I be 'nd yonder 's Jim,-
He havin' his opinyin uv me,
'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him.
THIS talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh,
We 've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh!
He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set
In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet;
But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils swear,—
The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed anywhere!
And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a tack,
And that's because they emanate
From little Mack.
In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man,
As if he'd been constructed on the summer cottage plan;
He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouth
Lies all the sensuous languor of the children of the South;
His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bust
Have given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust;
In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders back
From the grand Websterian forehead
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