 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
BLOWN UP.
Take care and move me easy, boys, and let the doctor see
'F there's any use to try and patch what little's left of me.
There—that'll do. It's all no use—I see it in your eye.
You needn't purse your mouth that way—Van Valen's got to die:
And if there really be no chance to save a fellow's life—
Well, well! the blast was quite enough, and we'll excuse the knife.
'F there's any use to try and patch what little's left of me.
There—that'll do. It's all no use—I see it in your eye.
You needn't purse your mouth that way—Van Valen's got to die:
And if there really be no chance to save a fellow's life—
Well, well! the blast was quite enough, and we'll excuse the knife.
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Just loose my collar gently, boys—it hurts me as I lie;
Put something underneath my head—don't raise me quite so high;
And let me have some water—ah-h! I tell you that's the stuff;
It beats old rye—I ought to know, I've surely drunk enough.
You'll say, whatever were my faults, to say the thing that's right,
That Jim Van Valen never shirked his liquor or a fight.
Put something underneath my head—don't raise me quite so high;
And let me have some water—ah-h! I tell you that's the stuff;
It beats old rye—I ought to know, I've surely drunk enough.
You'll say, whatever were my faults, to say the thing that's right,
That Jim Van Valen never shirked his liquor or a fight.
The circuit-rider? What's the use? I hardly think one prayer,
However long, has power enough my whole account to square:
And at the Day of Judgment, when the world its work is through,
And all the miners round about account for what they do,
The Lord above, who knows all things, will be as just to me
And merciful—at all events, with him I'll let it be.
However long, has power enough my whole account to square:
And at the Day of Judgment, when the world its work is through,
And all the miners round about account for what they do,
The Lord above, who knows all things, will be as just to me
And merciful—at all events, with him I'll let it be.
Somehow my mind goes backward, boys, to many years ago,
To the Valley of the Overproek and the farm-house long and low,
When I wandered yon the Palisades to gather Pinxter bloom,
And, mixed with lilacs, mother placed them in our sitting-room.
I see them in the fireplace, in that pitcher white and high:
What queer things come across the mind when one's about to die!
To the Valley of the Overproek and the farm-house long and low,
When I wandered yon the Palisades to gather Pinxter bloom,
And, mixed with lilacs, mother placed them in our sitting-room.
I see them in the fireplace, in that pitcher white and high:
What queer things come across the mind when one's about to die!
Why, I can see the orchard, boys, upon the sideling hill;
The place I fished for killies in the crooked Pellum Kill;
The deep hole where the pickerel lay—the rascal long and lank,
I caught him with a noose of wire, and snaked him on the bank;
The places in the meadow where I went to trap the mink;
The mill-pond by the roadside where I drove the cows to drink.
The place I fished for killies in the crooked Pellum Kill;
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I caught him with a noose of wire, and snaked him on the bank;
The places in the meadow where I went to trap the mink;
The mill-pond by the roadside where I drove the cows to drink.
And there was little Kitty, boys, her house was close to ours,
The gardens almost joined, but she was prettier than the flowers.
We went to school in winter time upon the Tineck road,
And when I put her books with mine it seemed to ease the load;
But when we both grew up, somehow I wasn't quite so near;
She married Peter Brinkerhoff—and that is why I'm here.
The gardens almost joined, but she was prettier than the flowers.
We went to school in winter time upon the Tineck road,
And when I put her books with mine it seemed to ease the load;
But when we both grew up, somehow I wasn't quite so near;
She married Peter Brinkerhoff—and that is why I'm here.
There was my good old father, boys, with stern and rugged brow;
I used to think him hard on me—I know him better now.
And, then, my dear old mother, with that pleasant smile of hers—
Oh, what a gush of tenderness the thought within me stirs!
Come, father, raise me in your arms; and, mother, stroke my brow—
Your hand is cool—what odd conceit! they're neither living now.
I used to think him hard on me—I know him better now.
And, then, my dear old mother, with that pleasant smile of hers—
Oh, what a gush of tenderness the thought within me stirs!
Come, father, raise me in your arms; and, mother, stroke my brow—
Your hand is cool—what odd conceit! they're neither living now.
They're gone, the old Van Valens, boys; there's no one left but me,
And I am going, too—and so I send no word, you see.
The boys I used to play with, and the girls I used to know,
Grown up to men and women, have forgot me long ago!
I've not been to Bergen County, now, for many and many a day,
And no one there would care to hear what I might have to say.
And I am going, too—and so I send no word, you see.
The boys I used to play with, and the girls I used to know,
Grown up to men and women, have forgot me long ago!
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And no one there would care to hear what I might have to say.
I find I'm getting weaker, boys; my eyes are growing dim;
There's something dancing in the air; my head begins to swim.
Water! That's good! that stirs me up! that gives me life again!
You talk about your dead men—why, I'm just as good as ten.
There's something heavy on my breast—you take the thing away—
Mother! there's Kitty Demarest—may I go out—to—play!
There's something dancing in the air; my head begins to swim.
Water! That's good! that stirs me up! that gives me life again!
You talk about your dead men—why, I'm just as good as ten.
There's something heavy on my breast—you take the thing away—
Mother! there's Kitty Demarest—may I go out—to—play!
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |