 | Farm ballads |  |
107
THE OLD MAN MEDITATES.
Nay, Maggie, let my old-style fancies be—
I'm sorry that you interrupted me!
'Tis sweet to press a pretty hand like this,
And taste the flavor of a grandchild's kiss;
I love to draw you to me tender-wise,
And look off at my boyhood through your eyes
(For they are telescopes of wondrous view
That bring me back a girl that looked like you);
Your voice is, as you just now used it last,
A silver key that takes me through the past;
And now you're here, you girl-witch, you shall stay,
But still I'd rather you had kept away.
I'm sorry that you interrupted me!
'Tis sweet to press a pretty hand like this,
And taste the flavor of a grandchild's kiss;
I love to draw you to me tender-wise,
And look off at my boyhood through your eyes
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That bring me back a girl that looked like you);
Your voice is, as you just now used it last,
A silver key that takes me through the past;
And now you're here, you girl-witch, you shall stay,
But still I'd rather you had kept away.
For I've been sitting here an hour, I'll own,
Catching some thoughts a man holds best alone;
And shadows on my poor old soul have found
That might feel chilly like, to folks around.
I've seen the sun go sailing out of sight,
Far from the gloomy, shifting shores of night,
And wondered (though perhaps 'twas wicked) why
God would not swing those gold doors of the sky,
And take me from this world, that's grown so strange,
To heaven, where maybe fashions do not change;
For I am like a gnarled and withered tree
With a new growth of forest shading me.
Catching some thoughts a man holds best alone;
And shadows on my poor old soul have found
That might feel chilly like, to folks around.
I've seen the sun go sailing out of sight,
Far from the gloomy, shifting shores of night,
And wondered (though perhaps 'twas wicked) why
God would not swing those gold doors of the sky,
And take me from this world, that's grown so strange,
To heaven, where maybe fashions do not change;
For I am like a gnarled and withered tree
With a new growth of forest shading me.
The world keeps newing so!—they fashion it
So old men find no place wherein to fit.
“On and right on!” leaps hot from every tongue;
“Live while you live!” and “Go it while you're young!”
An average, moderate life, if these things last,
Will be among the lost arts of the past;
These rushing days of lightning and of steam
Push everything out into some extreme.
The rich grow richer, smarter grow the smart;
It's harder for the rest to get a start;
And Wholesale grows more Wholesale every day,
And Retail has to stand back out the way.
It's hard to tell, 'mid all Progression's jumps,
How far this world will make up into lumps.
Farewell, old churn, with dasher fringed with cream,
These times when cows are all but milked by steam;
And in the bustling dairy may be found
Butter by tons, instead of by the pound;
While several of the corner groceries keep
Its bogus brother, oleomargarine, cheap!
So old men find no place wherein to fit.
“On and right on!” leaps hot from every tongue;
“Live while you live!” and “Go it while you're young!”
An average, moderate life, if these things last,
Will be among the lost arts of the past;
These rushing days of lightning and of steam
Push everything out into some extreme.
The rich grow richer, smarter grow the smart;
It's harder for the rest to get a start;
And Wholesale grows more Wholesale every day,
And Retail has to stand back out the way.
It's hard to tell, 'mid all Progression's jumps,
How far this world will make up into lumps.
Farewell, old churn, with dasher fringed with cream,
These times when cows are all but milked by steam;
And in the bustling dairy may be found
Butter by tons, instead of by the pound;
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Its bogus brother, oleomargarine, cheap!
Good-by, old country mill of water-power:
This steam one does your week's work in an hour!
Adieu, gas, tallow, kerosene, and whale:
The blue-eyed, earth-born lightning makes you pale!
You sailing craft, make wide your fluttering crown,
Lest the great fire-fed frigate run you down!
Old-fashioned politics, cease your mild strife,
When men can say “An office or your life!”
And you, small rogues, ere you so guilty feel
Because a thousand dollars you may steal,
Look at that scamp of sanctimonious style,
Who pilfers millions with a charming smile!
This steam one does your week's work in an hour!
Adieu, gas, tallow, kerosene, and whale:
The blue-eyed, earth-born lightning makes you pale!
You sailing craft, make wide your fluttering crown,
Lest the great fire-fed frigate run you down!
Old-fashioned politics, cease your mild strife,
When men can say “An office or your life!”
And you, small rogues, ere you so guilty feel
Because a thousand dollars you may steal,
Look at that scamp of sanctimonious style,
Who pilfers millions with a charming smile!
Once I my sorrel nag in peace could drive,
With some fair chance of reaching home alive;
Now, every other mile a sign-board bars,
With “Railroad Crossing: look out for the Cars.”
These cars—they carry thousands in a day,
And maybe take some that had better stay;
While often, in a crash of wail and woe,
They take folks where they do not want to go!
And I have heard and read distressing things
Of railroad cliques, monopolies, and rings:
I've tried to understand their “stock reports,”
Their “bulls” and “bears,” their curious “longs” and “shorts;”
Wherefrom the most that I can calculate
Is, if to fall among them is your fate,
Your heart, ere many months, will sing the song,
“My pocket's short, my countenance is long.”
It may be right, the way those fellows do it,
But old men can not fit themselves down to it!
With some fair chance of reaching home alive;
Now, every other mile a sign-board bars,
With “Railroad Crossing: look out for the Cars.”
These cars—they carry thousands in a day,
And maybe take some that had better stay;
While often, in a crash of wail and woe,
They take folks where they do not want to go!
And I have heard and read distressing things
Of railroad cliques, monopolies, and rings:
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Their “bulls” and “bears,” their curious “longs” and “shorts;”
Wherefrom the most that I can calculate
Is, if to fall among them is your fate,
Your heart, ere many months, will sing the song,
“My pocket's short, my countenance is long.”
It may be right, the way those fellows do it,
But old men can not fit themselves down to it!
Once all my worries (and a plenty, too)
Were kind of circumscribed to folks I knew;
But now the telegraph and papers try
To bring this whole world underneath the eye,
And my old fool heart into sorrow drive
O'er deaths of folks I didn't know were alive.
It is an interesting fact to know
That news can sweep across the country so;
But it gets out of breath, I calculate,
And sometimes fails to tell the story straight;
And talk that's false, or frivolous, or too small,
The slower it goes, the better for us all.
It's smart, this flashing news from shore to shore,
But old men value peace a good deal more.
Were kind of circumscribed to folks I knew;
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To bring this whole world underneath the eye,
And my old fool heart into sorrow drive
O'er deaths of folks I didn't know were alive.
It is an interesting fact to know
That news can sweep across the country so;
But it gets out of breath, I calculate,
And sometimes fails to tell the story straight;
And talk that's false, or frivolous, or too small,
The slower it goes, the better for us all.
It's smart, this flashing news from shore to shore,
But old men value peace a good deal more.
In the hay field how gallant and how blithe
Sang their loud song my whetstone and my scythe!
How in the dewy morning used to pass
My bright blade's whisper through the shuddering grass!
And gayly in the harvest fields of old
My sickle gathered God's most precious gold.
But now the patent reaper rattles there,
The men it drove out gone—the Lord knows where.
It brags and rattles through the field in haste,
Gathers the harvest—what it does not waste—
And leaves not much for poor old men like me,
Except to sit upon the fence and see.
God bade man till the soil; but it would seem
He's shirked it off on horses, steel, and steam.
It's well—if he don't use the extra time
In wicked mischief or mischievous crime.
This giving Work the go-by may be smart,
But, I have noticed, doesn't improve the heart.
I know I'm 'way behind these rushing days,
But still I like the good old working ways.
Sang their loud song my whetstone and my scythe!
How in the dewy morning used to pass
My bright blade's whisper through the shuddering grass!
And gayly in the harvest fields of old
My sickle gathered God's most precious gold.
But now the patent reaper rattles there,
The men it drove out gone—the Lord knows where.
It brags and rattles through the field in haste,
Gathers the harvest—what it does not waste—
And leaves not much for poor old men like me,
Except to sit upon the fence and see.
God bade man till the soil; but it would seem
He's shirked it off on horses, steel, and steam.
It's well—if he don't use the extra time
In wicked mischief or mischievous crime.
This giving Work the go-by may be smart,
But, I have noticed, doesn't improve the heart.
I know I'm 'way behind these rushing days,
But still I like the good old working ways.
Your grandam made her own trim wedding dress,
And fitted it, and wove it too, I guess;
There never, Maggie, was a witching elf
That went past her—not even you yourself.
You have her gentle eyes, her voice, her touch—
But, sakes! you cost a hundred times as much!
They've had to flute, and flounce, and trick you out,
And squeeze, and pull, and jerk you all about,
Till it's a question rather hard to meet,
How you came through it all so good and sweet!
And fitted it, and wove it too, I guess;
There never, Maggie, was a witching elf
That went past her—not even you yourself.
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But, sakes! you cost a hundred times as much!
They've had to flute, and flounce, and trick you out,
And squeeze, and pull, and jerk you all about,
Till it's a question rather hard to meet,
How you came through it all so good and sweet!
You wouldn't have had to bother in that way
If some cute Yankee had not, one fine day,
Placed, with eyes made by money-hunger keen,
A sewing circle in one small machine,
Which hungers after cloth and thread; and so
Dress often takes up some new furbelow.
My old-style pocket with gaunt pain it fills;
But I won't groan—I do not pay the bills!
If some cute Yankee had not, one fine day,
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A sewing circle in one small machine,
Which hungers after cloth and thread; and so
Dress often takes up some new furbelow.
My old-style pocket with gaunt pain it fills;
But I won't groan—I do not pay the bills!
Church matters, maybe, ain't for me to name,
For true religion always keeps the same;
And they may higgle, contradict, and doubt,
And turn the good old Bible wrong side out;
But they can't change, however hard they try,
Arrangements on the top side of the sky.
I like to read the new way that 'tis told—
It often helps me understand the old;
But when my daily prayers I come to say,
I think I'll use the straight, old-fashioned way.
He taught that grand old prayer to us, you know—
'Twas more than eighteen hundred years ago;
And if its words were any way amiss,
He'd probably have told us long ere this.
Leastways, He's heard me so far in that style,
And I'll hang to it yet a little while.
Ah me! this matter's just like all the rest:
Old ways for old men mostly are the best.
For true religion always keeps the same;
And they may higgle, contradict, and doubt,
And turn the good old Bible wrong side out;
But they can't change, however hard they try,
Arrangements on the top side of the sky.
I like to read the new way that 'tis told—
It often helps me understand the old;
But when my daily prayers I come to say,
I think I'll use the straight, old-fashioned way.
He taught that grand old prayer to us, you know—
'Twas more than eighteen hundred years ago;
And if its words were any way amiss,
He'd probably have told us long ere this.
Leastways, He's heard me so far in that style,
And I'll hang to it yet a little while.
Ah me! this matter's just like all the rest:
Old ways for old men mostly are the best.
But whatsoever changes I can name,
One institution always keeps the same,
And soon or late enacts its noble part,
And that's the grand and glorious human heart.
Perhaps it lurks in wretchedness and slime—
Is dragged by Passion through the waves of crime;
Or Indolence around its couch may creep,
And lull it for a season into sleep;
Or Selfishness may ravage all about,
Eat its supplies and well-nigh starve it out;
But when it can the body's grossness shed,
The god-like human heart comes out ahead!
No, Maggie, do not go away from me,
But turn your eyes round here where I can see;
They show me that there's much that earth can give
Designed to coax an old man yet to live;
The tender, true heart you have always shown
In brightening up my dim life with your own,
The way you've treated me—with as much grace
As if I owned three-quarters of this place,
While you and all your folks are well aware
My purse is full of poverty to spare—
Show, in the sandy shifting of life's ways,
That Love's first fashion still among us stays;
And that young fellow coming down the lane
Will help to make my meaning doubly plain.
One institution always keeps the same,
And soon or late enacts its noble part,
And that's the grand and glorious human heart.
Perhaps it lurks in wretchedness and slime—
Is dragged by Passion through the waves of crime;
Or Indolence around its couch may creep,
And lull it for a season into sleep;
Or Selfishness may ravage all about,
Eat its supplies and well-nigh starve it out;
But when it can the body's grossness shed,
The god-like human heart comes out ahead!
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But turn your eyes round here where I can see;
They show me that there's much that earth can give
Designed to coax an old man yet to live;
The tender, true heart you have always shown
In brightening up my dim life with your own,
The way you've treated me—with as much grace
As if I owned three-quarters of this place,
While you and all your folks are well aware
My purse is full of poverty to spare—
Show, in the sandy shifting of life's ways,
That Love's first fashion still among us stays;
And that young fellow coming down the lane
Will help to make my meaning doubly plain.
| Farm ballads | |