And, waking at the dawn of day,
Bliss percolated through me
When, smiling in her artless way,
She murmured "papa" to me.
Strange, was it not? But stranger still
What next claimed my attention—
The robes of wealth with tuck and frill
Too numerous to mention.
Whence came these bibs with lace bedecked
These flannels all so handy?
And who could possibly suspect
The coming of Miss Dandy?
Well, she shall live a thousand years,
Unmindful of each morrow;
Her eyes shall know no plash of tears,
Her heart no touch of sorrow;
And she shall dress in silk and lace
And feed on taffy candy-
God bless her fuzzy little face,
My little angel dandy!
UPON this beautiful expanse
Of purple waves and spray
The wanton prairie zephyrs dance
With sunbeams all the day.
And ships go sailing to and fro;
The sea-gulls circle round;
Above the plash of ebb and flow
The children's voices sound.
See how the playful pickerel speeds
Upon his devious way
Among the lissome, clinging weeds,
In hot pursuit of prey;
And here or there the greedy bass
In their erratic flight
Like dark electric shadows pass
Before our wondering sight.
Oh, what a wealth of life is here-
What pike and carp abound!
Within these waters, cool and clear,
What game may not be found!
You only have to bait your hook
And cast it in the spray;
Down-fathoms down-it sinks; and look!
You've caught your finny prey.
O beauteous lake with pebbly shore
And skies of azure hue,
With gulls and zephyrs skimming o'er
Thy waves of restless blue,
To thee I dedicate this hymn
In melancholic spite
To thee, where bass and pickerel swim,
But only bullheads bite.
THERE's somethin' in your homely ways,
Your simple speech, and honest face
That takes us back to other days
And to a distant, cherished place.
We seem to see the dear old hills,
The clover-patch, the pickerel pond,
And we can hear the mountain rills
A-singin' in the haze beyond.
There is the lane wherein we played,
An' there the hillside, rough an' gray,
O'er which we little Yankees strayed
A-checkerberryin' ev'ry day;
The big red barn, the old stone wall,
The pippin-tree, the fav'rite beach-
We seem to recognize 'em all
In thy quaint face an' honest speech!
An' somehow when we see 'em rise
Like spectres of those distant years,
We kinder weaken, and our eyes
See dimly through a mist o' tears;
For there's no thing will touch the heart
Like mem'ry's subtle wand, I trow,
An' there's no tear that will not start
At thought of home an' long ago.
You make us boys an' girls again,
An' like a tender, sweet surprise,
Come thoughts of those dear moments when
Our greatest joy was mother's pies!
I'd ruther have your happy knack
Than all the arts which critics praise-
The knack o' takin' old folks back
To childhood homes and childhood days.
September 2, 1885.
A CENTURY or so ago,
When we was young an' skittish, We started out to let folks know
That we could tan the British; From Bunker Hill ter Southern sile, And on the ragin' water,
We warmed 'em in sich hearty style,
They quickly begged fur quarter.
Waal, ever sence them early days
When we was young an' skittish,
We Yanks hev been disposed to raise
Ther devil with ther British;
Thar's nary game they kin suggest
But thet we Yankees larn 'em
That we are cuter than the best
Of all their lords-goll darn 'em!
With our Kintucky colts we 've beat
Their stables highfalutin;
Their sportin' men hev met defeat
At cricket and at shootin';
Our pugilists, with skill an' ease,
Hev stopped all furrin blowin';
Our oarsmen on the lakes an' seas
Hev beat 'em all a-rowin'!
An' now, ter save that silver cup
From England's proud "Genesta,"
The Yankee folks have kunjured up
A skimmin' dish ter best 'er.
Thar ain't no ship thet swims the sea
Or sails the briny ocean-
No matter what her flag may be-
Kin beat a Yankee notion!
But what o' thet? It's all in fun,
And thar won't be no squealin';
Fur Yank an' Britisher is one
In language, blud, an' feelin'!
An' though the times we've played 'em smart Are numbered by the dozens,
The Yankee feels, down in his heart, "God bless our British cousins!"
THE Mugwump sat on a hickory limb, "Too-hoo!"
In the autumn twilight, dank and dim,
"Too-hoo!"
When, coming along, a Democrat heard
The doleful voice of the curious bird
Sadly moaning this wild, weird word,
"Too-hoo!"
"Oh, why do you sit on that limb and cry
"Too-hoo?'
Does it mean a lingering, last good-by-
Adieu?
You've been our guest a paltry year,
And now you are going to disappear
With a parting flip-flop, sad and sear-
Boo-hoo!"
But the Mugwump scorned the Democrat's wail, "Too-hoo!"
And flirting its false, fantastic tail,
It spread its wings and it soared away,
And left the Democrat in dismay,
With no pitch hot and the devil to pay-
"Too-hoo!"
Он, what has become of the Mugwump-bird
In this weather of wind and snow,
And does he roost as high as we heard
He roosted a year ago?
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