Ernest Lawrence Thayer.



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover City; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity.

Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell! I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain— I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister, Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous), "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure. His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table; And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the house the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step by step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished —Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:

And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! And just as a bulky sugar puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! —I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face Of the piper perked in the market-place, With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke; Beside, our losses have made us thrifty: A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air), There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, And could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say—all? No! one was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— "It's dull in our town since my playmates left; I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings; And horses were born with eagle's wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped, and I stood still, And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas, for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that Heaven's Gate Opes to the Rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children all behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the Children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column. And on the great Church Window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress, On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison, Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick Land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers; And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

Robert Browning.



THE GOOSE

I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm, He utter'd rhyme and reason, "Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season."

She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose—'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours.

And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But, ah! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder.

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle.

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer."

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning; "So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning."

The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder:

And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!"

Lord Tennyson.



THE BALLAD OF CHARITY

It was in a pleasant deepo, sequestered from the rain, That many weary passengers were waitin' for the train; Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmanto, 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 deepo he solilicussed aloud:— "I hev trevelled o'er this cont'nent from Quebec to Bogotaw, But sech 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 umberellas do not come into my plan, But I kin give a dollar to this sufl'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 ary time."

Sayin' this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest, And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best; Other people havin' heard him soon to charity inclined— One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind.

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 Harbor with the rest, Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegently 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!

Charles Godfrey Leland.



THE POST CAPTAIN

When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew, On the "Royal Biddy" frigate was Sir Peter Bombazoo; His mind was full of music and his head was full of tunes, And he cheerfully exhibited on pleasant afternoons.

He could whistle, on his fingers, an invigorating reel, And could imitate a piper on the handles of the wheel; He could play in double octaves, too, all up and down the rail, Or rattle off a rondo on the bottom of a pail.

Then porters with their packages and bakers with their buns, And countesses in carriages and grenadiers with guns, And admirals and commodores arrived from near and far, To listen to the music of this entertaining tar.

When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew. The commodores severely said, "Why, this will never do!" And the admirals all hurried home, remarking, "This is most Extraordinary conduct for a captain at his post."

Then they sent some sailing-orders to Sir Peter, in a boat, And he did a little fifing on the edges of the note; But he read the sailing orders, as of course he had to do, And removed the "Royal Biddy" to the Bay of Boohgabooh.

Now, Sir Peter took it kindly, but it's proper to explain He was sent to catch a pirate out upon the Spanish Main. And he played, with variations, an imaginary tune On the buttons of his waistcoat, like a jocular bassoon.

Then a topman saw the pirate come a-sailing in the bay, And reported to the Captain in the ordinary way. "I'll receive him," said Sir Peter, "with a musical salute," And he gave some imitations of a double-jointed flute.

Then the Pirate cried derisively, "I've heard it done before!" And he hoisted up a banner emblematical of gore. But Sir Peter said serenely, "You may double-shot the guns While I sing my little ballad of 'The Butter on the Buns.'"

Then the Pirate banged Sir Peter and Sir Peter banged him back, And they banged away together as they took another tack. Then Sir Peter said, politely, "You may board him, if you like," And he played a little dirge upon the handle of a pike.

Then the "Biddies" poured like hornets down upon the Pirate's deck And Sir Peter caught the Pirate and he took him by the neck, And remarked, "You must excuse me, but you acted like a brute When I gave my imitation of that double-jointed flute."

So they took that wicked Pirate and they took his wicked crew, And tied them up with double knots in packages of two. And left them lying on their backs in rows upon the beach With a little bread and water within comfortable reach.

Now the Pirate had a treasure (mostly silverware and gold), And Sir Peter took and stowed it in the bottom of his hold; And said, "I will retire on this cargo of doubloons, And each of you, my gallant crew, may have some silver spoons."

Now commodores in coach-and-fours and corporals in cabs, And men with carts of pies and tarts and fishermen with crabs, And barristers with wigs, in gigs, still gather on the strand, But there isn't any music save a little German band.

Charles E. Carryl.



ROBINSON CRUSOE'S STORY

The night was thick and hazy When the Piccadilly Daisy Carried down the crew and captain in the sea; And I think the water drowned 'em, For they never, never found 'em, And I know they didn't come ashore with me.

Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore; But I've made a little tavern In a rocky little cavern, And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking For a girl to do my cooking, As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews; But I had that fellow Friday Just to keep the tavern tidy, And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden That I'm cultivating lard in, As the things I eat are rather tough and dry; For I live on toasted lizards, Prickly pears and parrot gizzards, And I'm really very fond of beetle pie.

The clothes I had were furry, And it made me fret and worry When I found the moths were eating off the hair; And I had to scrape and sand 'em, And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em, Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion In a family excursion, With the few domestic animals you see; And we take along a carrot As refreshment for the parrot, And a little can of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather as we travel Bits of moss and dirty gravel, And we chip off little specimens of stone; And we carry home as prizes Funny bugs of handy sizes, Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy We remain at home and study,— For the Goat is very clever at a sum,— And the Dog, instead of fighting Studies ornamental writing, While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven, And we rise again at seven; And I wish to call attention, as I close, To the fact that all the scholars Are correct about their collars, And particular in turning out their toes.

Charles E. Carryl.



BEN BLUFF

Ben Bluff was a whaler, and many a day Had chased the huge fish about Baffin's old Bay; But time brought a change his diversion to spoil, And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.

He turned up his nose at the fumes of the coke, And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke; As to London, he briefly delivered his mind, "Sparma-city," said he,—but the city declined.

So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff, As soon as his whales had brought profits enough,— And hard by the Docks settled down for his life, But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.

A big one she was, without figure or waist, More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste; In fat she was lapped from her sole to her crown, And, turned into oil, would have lighted a town.

But Ben, like a whaler, was charmed with the match, And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch; A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace, And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece!

For Greenland was green in his memory still; He'd quitted his trade, but retained the good-will; And often when softened by bumbo and flip, Would cry till he blubbered about his old ship.

No craft like the Grampus could work through a floe, What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow! And then that rich smell he preferred to the rose, By just nosing the hold without holding his nose.

Now Ben he resolved, one fine Saturday night, A snug arctic circle of friends to invite; Old tars in the trade, who related old tales, And drank, and blew clouds that were "very like whales."

Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat, Of canting, and flenching, and cutting up fat; And how gun-harpoons into fashion had got, And if they were meant for the gun-whale or not?

At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest, By fancies cetaceous and drink well possessed, When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed, He heard something blow through two holes in its head!

"A start!" muttered Ben, in the Grampus afloat, And made but one jump from the deck to the boat! "Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone,— I look on that whale as already my own!"

Then groping about by the light of the moon, He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon; A moment he poised it, to send it more pat, And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!

"Starn all!" he sang out, "as you care for your lives,— Starn all! as you hope to return to your wives,— Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam! Well done, my old iron; I've sent you right home!"

And scarce had he spoken, when lo! bolt upright The leviathan rose in a great sheet of white, And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two, As only a fish out of water could do.

"Starn all!" echoed Ben, with a movement aback, But too slow to escape from the creature's attack; If flippers it had, they were furnished with nails,— "You willin, I'll teach you that women ain't whales!"

"Avast!" shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech, "I've heard a whale spouting, but here is a speech!" "A-spouting, indeed!—very pretty," said she; "But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea!

"To go to pretend to take me for a fish! You great polar bear—but I know what you wish; You're sick of a wife that your hankering balks, You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!"

"O dearest," cried Ben, frightened out of his life, "Don't think I would go for to murder a wife I must long have bewailed!" But she only cried, "Stuff!" Don't name it, you brute, you've be-whaled me enough!"

"Lord, Polly!" said Ben, "such a deed could I do? I'd rather have murdered all Wapping than you! Come, forgive what is past." "O you monster!" she cried, "It was none of your fault that it passed off one side!"

However, at last she inclined to forgive; "But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live,— If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail, Take a whale for a wife,—not a wife for a whale!"

Thomas Hood.



THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS

A brace of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum, famous in old popish times, For purifying souls that stunk with crimes; A sort of apostolic salt, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray: But very different was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners gallop'd on, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon—peccavi cried— Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way, Hobbling, with outstretch'd arms and bended knees, Damning the souls and bodies of the peas; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!" "Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear: As for Loretto, I shall not go there; No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe. But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain? What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes? Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That, just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my peas."

John Wolcot.



TAM O'SHANTER

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors neibors meet, As market days are wearin' late, And folk begin to tak the gate:

While we sit bousing at the nappy, And gettin' fou and unco happy, We thinkna on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o'Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon! Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a very brither— They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle— Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed! Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares: Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane: And through the whins, and by the cairn Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. Before him Doon pours a' his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods; The lightnings flash frae pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Through ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst mak us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!— The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle i' their heels: At winnock-bunker, i' the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light,— By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristian bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft: Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glower'd, amazed and curious The mirth and fun grew fast and furious The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark. Now Tam! O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strappin' in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonny burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Lowpin' and flingin' on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, "There was ae winsome wench and walie," That night enlisted in the core (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd money a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear). Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun core, Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought, his very een enriched. Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant a' was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke, As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'lt get thy fairin'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross; But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin caught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: Whane'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys ower dear— Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

Robert Burns.



THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON TOWN

AN IDYL OF OREGON

Two webfoot brothers loved a fair Young lady, rich and good to see; And oh, her black abundant hair! And oh, her wondrous witchery! Her father kept a cattle farm, These brothers kept her safe from harm:

From harm of cattle on the hill; From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing The livelong morning, loud and shrill, And lashing sides like anything; From roaring bulls that tossed the sand And pawed the lilies from the land.

There came a third young man. He came From far and famous Boston town. He was not handsome, was not "game," But he could "cook a goose" as brown As any man that set foot on The sunlit shores of Oregon.

This Boston man he taught the school, Taught gentleness and love alway, Said love and kindness, as a rule, Would ultimately "make it pay." He was so gentle, kind, that he Could make a noun and verb agree.

So when one day the brothers grew All jealous and did strip to fight, He gently stood between the two, And meekly told them 'twas not right. "I have a higher, better plan," Outspake this gentle Boston man.

"My plan is this: Forget this fray About that lily hand of hers; Go take your guns and hunt all day High up yon lofty hill of firs, And while you hunt, my loving doves, Why, I will learn which one she loves."

The brothers sat the windy hill, Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold, Their rifles crossed their laps, but still They sat and sighed and shook with cold. Their hearts lay bleeding far below; Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.

Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat; A spotted circle in the grass. The valley lay beneath their feet; They heard the wide-winged eagles pass. The eagles cleft the clouds above; Yet what could they but sigh and love?

"If I could die," the elder sighed, "My dear young brother here might wed." "Oh, would to Heaven I had died!" The younger sighed, with bended head. Then each looked each full in the face And each sprang up and stood in place.

"If I could die,"—the elder spake,— "Die by your hand, the world would say 'Twas accident;—and for her sake, Dear brother, be it so, I pray." "Not that!" the younger nobly said; Then tossed his gun and turned his head.

And fifty paces back he paced! And as he paced he drew the ball; Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced His brother to the death and fall! Two shots rang wild upon the air! But lo! the two stood harmless there!

An eagle poised high in the air; Far, far below the bellowing Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere Vast silence sat all questioning. The spotted hounds ran circling round Their red, wet noses to the ground.

And now each brother came to know That each had drawn the deadly ball; And for that fair girl far below Had sought in vain to silent fall. And then the two did gladly "shake," And thus the elder bravely spake:

"Now let us run right hastily And tell the kind schoolmaster all! Yea! yea! and if she choose not me, But all on you her favors fall, This valiant scene, till all life ends, Dear brother, binds us best of friends."

The hounds sped down, a spotted line, The bulls in tall, abundant grass, Shook back their horns from bloom and vine, And trumpeted to see them pass— They loved so good, they loved so true, These brothers scarce knew what to do.

They sought the kind schoolmaster out As swift as sweeps the light of morn; They could but love, they could not doubt This man so gentle, "in a horn," They cried, "Now whose the lily hand— That lady's of this webfoot land?"

They bowed before that big-nosed man, That long-nosed man from Boston town; They talked as only lovers can, They talked, but he could only frown; And still they talked, and still they plead; It was as pleading with the dead.

At last this Boston man did speak— "Her father has a thousand ceows, An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; He also had this ample heouse." The brothers' eyes stuck out thereat, So far you might have hung your hat.

"I liked the looks of this big heouse— My lovely boys, won't you come in? Her father has a thousand ceows, He also had a heap of tin. The guirl? Oh yes, the guirl, you see— The guirl, just neow she married me."

Joaquin Miller.



THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"

'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'here' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bos'un tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,— I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I. And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can—and will—cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''Twill soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And—as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a vessel in sight I see.

* * * * *

"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark or play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have,—which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bos'un tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

W. S. Gilbert.



FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA

OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN

PART I

At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of love and Tupper.

Mr. Tupper and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing, For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto, And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.

Then she whispered, "To the ballroom we had better, dear, be walking; If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."

There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins, There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.

Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing; Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle, Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling bottle.

So I whispered, "Dear Elvira, say,—what can the matter be with you? Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy, disagree with you?"

But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing, And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me, And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really, really love me?"

"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly— For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly.

"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure, On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell or my Glaisher!

"Tell me whither I may hie me—tell me, dear one, that I may know— Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"

But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes; Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!"

PART II

"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet Close, or Mister Tupper, Do you write the bon-ton mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honor; And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

"Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of you inform us;" But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.

Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me; And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me:

"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,"— Which I know was very clever; but I didn't understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway, Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle; So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy, And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty— He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer— If I am not humming 'Tra la la' I'm singing 'Tirer, lirer!'

"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies, Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is:

"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers: Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers—"

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!" Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him, And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling, "'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"

But until I reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited, And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated!

W. S. Gilbert.



GENTLE ALICE BROWN

It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown. Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.)

But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purpleeyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear— And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear— It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks— Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six."

"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap— Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be— I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!"

"For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two, Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do— A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

W. S. Gilbert.



THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB

Strike the concertina's melancholy string! Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything! Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes, Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens: His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls— Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of Agib, who could readily, at sight, Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite. He would diligently play On the Zoetrope all day, And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter—I am shaky in my dates— Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates; Oh, Allah be obeyed, How infernally they played! I remember that they called themselves the "Oueaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in; Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin. And when (as snobs would say) They had "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before,— The consequences true Of that awful interview, For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

They played him a sonata—let me see! "Medulla oblongata"—key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, "Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel; "Oh, Prince," he says, says he, "If a Prince indeed you be, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you saith: No 'Oueaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be; For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"

Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!" Beth gave a fearful shriek— But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more, They fastened me full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat, I was walloped with a cat For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will.

They branded me and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page.

W. S. Gilbert.



SIR GUY THE CRUSADER

Sir Guy was a doughty crusader, Amuscular knight, Ever ready to fight, A very determined invader, And Dickey de Lion's delight.

Lenore was a Saracen maiden, Brunette, statuesque, The reverse of grotesque; Her pa was a bagman from Aden, Her mother she played in burlesque.

A coryphee, pretty and loyal, In amber and red, The ballet she led; Her mother performed at the Royal, Lenore at the Saracen's Head.

Of face and of figure majestic, She dazzled the cits— Ecstaticised pits;— Her troubles were only domestic, But drove her half out of her wits.

Her father incessantly lashed her, On water and bread She was grudgingly fed; Whenever her father he thrashed her, Her mother sat down on her head.

Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason, For beauty so bright Sent him mad with delight; He purchased a stall for the season And sat in it every night.

His views were exceedingly proper, He wanted to wed, So he called at her shed And saw her progenitor whop her— Her mother sit down on her head.

"So pretty," said he, "and so trusting! You brute of a dad, You unprincipled cad, Your conduct is really disgusting, Come, come, now admit it's too bad!

"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant— Your daughter Lenore I intensely adore, And I cannot help feeling indignant, A fact that I hinted before;

To see a fond father employing A deuce of a knout For to bang her about, To a sensitive lover's annoying." Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."

Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden With a big spiky knob Sit in peace on his cob, While a beautiful Saracen maiden Is whipped by a Saracen snob?

"To London I'll go from my charmer." Which he did, with his loot (Seven hats and a flute), And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.

Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter; Her pa, in a rage, Died (don't know his age); His daughter she married the prompter, Grew bulky and quitted the stage.

W. S. Gilbert.



KITTY WANTS TO WRITE

Kitty wants to write! Kitty intellectual! What has been effectual to turn her stockings blue? Kitty's seventh season has brought sufficient reason, She has done 'most everything that there is left to do! Half of them to laugh about and half of them to rue,— Now we wait in terror for Kitty's wildest error. What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Debutante was Kitty, Frivolous and witty as ever bud that blew. Kitty lacked sobriety, yet she ran society, A leader whom the chaperons indulged a year or two; Corner-men, eligibles, dancing-dolls she knew,— Kitty then was slighted, ne'er again invited; What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! At the Social Settlement Girls of Kitty's mettle meant a mission for a few; Men to teach the classes, men to mould the masses, Men to follow Kitty to adventures strange and new. Some of her benevolence was hidden out of view!— A patroness offended, Kitty's slumming ended. What is there to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a mystic, Deep from cabalistic lore many hints she drew! Freaks of all description, Hindoo and Egyptian, Prattled in her parlor—such a wild and hairy crew! Many came for money, and one or two to woo— Kitty's pet astrologer wanted to acknowledge her! What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a doctor; Nothing ever shocked her, though they hazed a little, too! Kitty learned of medicos how a heart unsteady goes, Besides a score of secrets that are secrets still to you. Kitty's course in medicine gave her many a clue— Much of modern history now is less a mystery. What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Everybody's writing! Won't it be exciting, the panic to ensue? We who all have known her, think what we have shown her! Read it in the magazines! Which half of this is true? Where did she get that idea? Is it him, or who?— Kitty's wretched enemies now will learn what venom is! What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Gelett Burgess.



DIGHTON IS ENGAGED!

Dighton is engaged! Think of it and tremble! Two-and-twenty ladies who have known him must dissemble; Two-and-twenty ladies in a panic must repeat, "Dighton is a gentleman; will Dighton be discreet?" All the merry maidens who have known him at his best Wonder what the girl is like, and if he has confessed. Dighton the philanderer, will he prove a slanderer? A man gets confidential ere the honeymoon has sped— Dighton was a rover then, Dighton lived in clover then; Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!

Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Corinna! Watch and see his fiancee smile on you at dinner! Watch and hear his fiancee whisper, "That's the one?" Try and raise a blush for what you said was "only fun." Long have you been wedded; have you then forgot? If you have, I'll venture that a certain man has not! Dighton had a way with him; did you ever play with him? Now that dream is over and the episode is dead. Dighton never harried you after Charlie married you; Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!

Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Bettina! Did you ever love him when the sport was rather keener? Did you ever kiss him as you sat upon the stairs? Did you ever tell him of your former love affairs? Think of it uneasily and wonder if his wife Soon will know the amatory secrets of your life! Dighton was impressible, you were quite accessible— The bachelor who marries late is apt to lose his head. Dighton wouldn't hurt you; does it disconcert you? Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!

Dighton is engaged! Tremble, Mrs. Alice! When he comes no longer will you bear the lady malice? Now he comes to dinner, and he smokes cigars with Clint, But he never makes a blunder and he never drops a hint; He's a universal uncle, with a welcome everywhere, He adopts his sweetheart's children and he lets 'em pull his hair. Dighton has a memory bright and sharp as emery, He could tell them fairy stories that would make you rather red! Dighton can be trusted, though; Dighton's readjusted, though! Dighton is a gentleman—but Dighton is to wed!

Gelett Burgess.



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870

Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name; And I will not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third; And quite soft was the skies: Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand. It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour—" And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers—that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar— Which the same I am free to maintain.

Bret Harte.



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific man to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

Bret Harte.



"JIM"

Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild! Well,—no offence: Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled!

Jim was my chum Up on the Bar: That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir! you Ain't of that crew,— Blest if you are!

Money?—Not much; That ain't my kind: I ain't no such. Rum?—I don't mind, Seein' it's you.

Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him?— Jess 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes;—

Well, that is strange: Why, it's two year Since he came here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us: Eh? The h——, you say! Dead? That little cuss?

What makes you star,— You over thar? Can't a man drop 's glass 'n yer shop But you must rar'? It wouldn't take D—— much to break You and your bar.

Dead! Poor—little—Jim! —Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,— No—account men: Then to take him!

Well, thar—Good-bye— No more, sir,—I— Eh? What's that you say?— Why, dern it!—sho!— No? Yes! By Jo!

Sold! Sold! Why, you limb! You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim!

Bret Harte.



WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON

They called him Bill, the hired man, But she, her name was Mary Jane, The Squire's daughter; and to reign The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan Her little game. How lovers rash Got mittens at the spelling school! How many a mute, inglorious fool Wrote rhymes and sighed and died—mustache!

This hired man had loved her long, Had loved her best and first and last, Her very garments as she passed For him had symphony and song. So when one day with sudden frown She called him "Bill," he raised his head, He caught her eye and, faltering, said, "I love you; and my name is Brown."

She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept; You would have thought the house on fire. She told her sire, the portly squire, Then smelt her smelling-salts, and slept. Poor William did what could be done; He swung a pistol on each hip, He gathered up a great ox-whip, And drove toward the setting sun.

He crossed the great back-bone of earth, He saw the snowy mountains rolled Like mighty billows; saw the gold Of awful sunsets; felt the birth Of sudden dawn that burst the night Like resurrection; saw the face Of God and named it boundless space Ringed round with room and shoreless light.

Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs, They sought for bigger game; somehow They seemed to see above her brow The forky sign of turkey tracks. The teter-board of life goes up, The teter-board of life goes down, The sweetest face must learn to frown; The biggest dog has been a pup.

O maidens! pluck not at the air; The sweetest flowers I have found Grow rather close unto the ground, And highest places are most bare. Why, you had better win the grace Of our poor cussed Af-ri-can, Than win the eyes of every man In love alone with his own face.

At last she nursed her true desire. She sighed, she wept for William Brown, She watched the splendid sun go down Like some great sailing ship on fire, Then rose and checked her trunk right on; And in the cars she lunched and lunched, And had her ticket punched and punched, Until she came to Oregon.

She reached the limit of the lines, She wore blue specs upon her nose, Wore rather short and manly clothes, And so set out to reach the mines. Her pocket held a parasol Her right hand held a Testament, And thus equipped right on she went, Went water-proof and water-fall.

She saw a miner gazing down, Slow stirring something with a spoon; "O, tell me true and tell me soon, What has become of William Brown?" He looked askance beneath her specs, Then stirred his cocktail round and round. Then raised his head and sighed profound, And said, "He's handed in his checks."

Then care fed on her damaged cheek, And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, And smelt her smelling-salts in vain, She wandered, weary, worn, and weak. At last, upon a hill alone. She came, and there she sat her down; For on that hill there stood a stone, And, lo! that stone read, "William Brown."

"O William Brown! O William Brown! And here you rest at last," she said, "With this lone stone above your head, And forty miles from any town! I will plant cypress trees, I will, And I will build a fence around, And I will fertilise the ground With tears enough to turn a mill."

She went and got a hired man, She brought him forty miles from town, And in the tall grass squatted down And bade him build as she should plan. But cruel cow-boys with their bands They saw, and hurriedly they ran And told a bearded cattle man Somebody builded on his lands.

He took his rifle from the rack, He girt himself in battle pelt, He stuck two pistols in his belt, And, mounting on his horse's back, He plunged ahead. But when they showed A woman fair, about his eyes He pulled his hat, and he likewise Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.

At last he gat him down and spake: "O lady dear, what do you here?" "I build a tomb unto my dear, I plant sweet flowers for his sake." The bearded man threw his two hands Above his head, then brought them down And cried, "Oh, I am William Brown, And this the corner-stone of my lands!"

Joaquin Miller.



LITTLE BREECHES

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On a handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing— But I be'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along— No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong— Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight— And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started— I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie! Went team, Little Breeches, and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat, but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And hero all hope soured on me Of my fellow-critter's aid; I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. * * * * * By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm: They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.

John Hay.



THE ENCHANTED SHIRT

The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score. They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,— He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble: If they recovered, they paid him well; If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale— In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran— The King will be well, if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man.

* * * * *

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waist in stays, And women that shorthose wore.

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled, On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has lead us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

John Hay.



JIM BLUDSO

Wal, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint—them engineers Is all pretty much alike— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row— But he never flunked, and he never lied; I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had— To treat his engines well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats have their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last. The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed; And so come tearin' along that night,— The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made To that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint—but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing— And went for it thar and then: And Christ ain't a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

John Hay.



WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE"

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below; For de win' she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore.

De Captinne walk on de fronte deck, An' walk de hin' deck, too— He call de crew from up de hole He call de cook also. De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win' she blow from nor'—eas'—wes' De sout' win' she blow, too, W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne, Mon cher, w'at I shall do?" Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can't pass on de shore, Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark, lak' one black cat, De wave run high an' fas', Wen de Captinne tak' de Rosie girl An' tie her to de mas'. Den he also tak' de life preserve, An' jomp off on de lak', An' say, "Goa Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak'."

Nex' morning very early, 'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four— De Captinne, scow, an' de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore; For he win' she blow lak' hurricane Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore.

MORAL

Now, all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm, An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' leev on wan beeg farm; De win' can blow lak' hurricane, An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre, So long you stay on shore.

William Henry Drummond.



THE ALARMED SKIPPER

"IT WAS AN ANCIENT MARINER"

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, And so below he'd "dowse the glim"— After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept—for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag—the peddler's son— And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools To think the skipper knows by tasting What ground he's on—Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck—a parsnip-bed— And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then ope'd his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, "Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"

James Thomas Fields.



THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat. On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.

The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat; And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.

The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat; And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat.

His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat; So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat.

Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman sat; So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig, and hat.

His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his fat; And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat.

George Canning.



SAYING NOT MEANING

Two gentlemen their appetite had fed, When opening his toothpick-case, one said, "It was not until lately that I knew That anchovies on terra firma grew." "Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they grow, indeed, Like other fish, but not upon the land; You might as well say grapes grow on a reed, Or in the Strand!"

"Why, sir," returned the irritated other, "My brother, When at Calcutta Beheld them bona fide growing; He wouldn't utter A lie for love or money, sir; so in This matter you are thoroughly mistaken." "Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit To the assertion—none e'er saw or read it; Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."

"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are Perverse—in short—" "Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar, And then his port— "If you will say impossibles are true, You may affirm just anything you please— That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue, And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese! Only you must not force me to believe What's propagated merely to deceive."

"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool," Return'd the bragger. Language like this no man can suffer cool: It made the listener stagger; So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied, "The traveler lied Who had the impudence to tell it you;" "Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face That anchovies don't grow like cloves and mace?" "I do!"

Disputants often after hot debates Leave the contention as they found it—bone, And take to duelling or thumping tetes; Thinking by strength of artery to atone For strength of argument; and he who winces From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint, Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding, Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading (Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show It might be better they shook hands but no; When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right, Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight! And they did fight: from six full measured paces The unbeliever pulled his trigger first; And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces, The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst, Ran up, and with a duelistic fear (His ire evanishing like morning vapors), Found him possess'd of one remaining ear, Who in a manner sudden and uncouth, Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth; For while the surgeon was applying lint, He, wriggling, cried "The deuce is in't Sir, I meant CAPERS !"

William Basil Wake.



HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dey had biano-blayin': I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, Her name was Madilda Yane. She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und ven dey looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in two.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: I vent dere, you'll pe pound. I valtzet mit Madilda Yane Und vent shpinnen round und round. De pootiest Fraeulein in de house, She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: I dells you it cost him dear. Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks Of foost-rate Lager Beer, Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in De Deutschers gifes a cheer. I dinks dat so vine a barty Nefer coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dere all vas Souse und Brouse; Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house. Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, De Bratwurst und Braten fine, Und vash der Abendessen down Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty. We all cot troonk ash bigs. I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane Und she shlog me on de kop, Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks Dill be coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty— Where ish dat barty now! Where ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de moundain's prow? Where ish de himmelstrablende Stern— De shtar of de shpirit's light? All goned afay mit de Lager Beer— Afay in de Ewigkeit!

Charles Godfrey Leland.



BALLAD BY HANS BREITMANN

Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein Rode out mit shpeer and helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meermaid, Fot hadn't got nodings on, Und she say, "Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?"

And he says, "I ride in de creenwood, Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, Und dere I trinks some beer."

Und den outshpoke the maiden Vot hadn't got nodings on: "I ton't tink mooch of beoplesh Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

"You'd petter coom down in de wasser, Vhere deres heaps of dings to see, Und hafe a shplendid tinner Und drafel along mit me.

"Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin', Und you catches dem efery von:"— So sang dis wasser maiden, Vot hadn't got nodings on.

"Dere ish drunks all full mit money In ships dat vent down of old; Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! To shimmerin' crowns of gold.

"Shoost look at these shpoons and vatches! Shoost see dese diamant rings! Coom down and fill your pockets, And I'll giss you like efery dings.

"Vot you vanst mit your schnapps and lager? Come down into der Rhine! Der ish pottles de Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!"

Dat fetched him—she shtood all shpell-pound; She pooled his coat-tails down; She drawed him oonder der wasser, De maiden mit nodings on.

Charles Godfrey Leland.



GRAMPY SINGS A SONG

Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis, Hush up your teasin' and listen to this: 'Tain't much of a jingle, 'tain't much of a tune, But it's spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon. The thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade. He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose; When the 'larm rung he'd start, sis, a-sheddin' his clothes, —Slung cote and slung wes'cote and kicked off his shoes, A-runnin' like fun, for he'd no time to lose. And he'd howl down the ro'd in a big cloud of dust, For he made it his brag he was allus there fust. —Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout, And he never shut up till the fire was out. And he'd knock out the winders and save all the doors, And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the floors, For he allus allowed 'twas a tarnation sin To 'low 'em to burn, for you'd want 'em agin. He gen'rally stirred up the most of his touse In hustling to save the outside of the house. And after he'd wrassled and hollered and pried, He'd let up and tackle the stuff 'twas inside. To see him you'd think he was daft as a loon, But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.