The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme The witch of Shiloh, the last of the Wampanoags, the gentle earl, the enchanted voyage |
 |
 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. | XV |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
| 39. |
| 40. |
| 41. |
| 42. |
| 43. |
 | The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme |  |
XV
Thereon did puzzled Downing stammer
His wonderment in Shiloh grammar.
His wonderment in Shiloh grammar.
“May I be tomahawked,” he blurted,
“If Satan's kingdom aint converted!
I've offen heerd of hell a-floatin',
An' didn't bleeve in no sich boatin';
But here it comes as plain as blazes,
A-sayin' prayers an' singin' praises.
For either Downing's lost his reason,
An' needs confinement for a season,
Or we behold that fiendish notion,
The Flyin' Dutchman—plague of ocean—
Who allays keeps a-sailin'-sailin',
To pick the puss of trade an' whalin.
“If Satan's kingdom aint converted!
I've offen heerd of hell a-floatin',
An' didn't bleeve in no sich boatin';
But here it comes as plain as blazes,
A-sayin' prayers an' singin' praises.
For either Downing's lost his reason,
An' needs confinement for a season,
Or we behold that fiendish notion,
The Flyin' Dutchman—plague of ocean—
173
To pick the puss of trade an' whalin.
“But now, it seems, his will an' inwards
Incline no longer, hell-an-sinwards,
If one can jedge a feller's goin'
By pleasant ways an' pious showin'.
So let us hope the spangled creetur
Will pitch his hymn to shortish metre
An' launch his wherry hurry-scurry
To snake us out of wet an' worry.
If not, I doubt his whole profession
An' count him nawthin' but a Hessian,
For gospel talk withouten kindness
Is ruther wuss than pagan blindness
An' fetches neither scrapes nor thankys
From native-born, enlightened Yankees.”
Incline no longer, hell-an-sinwards,
If one can jedge a feller's goin'
By pleasant ways an' pious showin'.
So let us hope the spangled creetur
Will pitch his hymn to shortish metre
An' launch his wherry hurry-scurry
To snake us out of wet an' worry.
If not, I doubt his whole profession
An' count him nawthin' but a Hessian,
For gospel talk withouten kindness
Is ruther wuss than pagan blindness
An' fetches neither scrapes nor thankys
From native-born, enlightened Yankees.”
| The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme | |