The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | ||
THE COUNTRY-BOY'S LETTER.
You needn't tell me of the frolic and glee
Down there, in the holiday days;
With the rattle and rush, and the snow and the slush,
Of the big city's crowded ways;
The people all frown if you holla in town;
You never dare show them your joy,
Nor whistle or shout, if in-doors or out;
And that's rather hard on a boy.
Down there, in the holiday days;
With the rattle and rush, and the snow and the slush,
Of the big city's crowded ways;
The people all frown if you holla in town;
You never dare show them your joy,
Nor whistle or shout, if in-doors or out;
And that's rather hard on a boy.
But here, in the morn, when John sounds the horn,
I look at my snares and my traps;
And they're always complete, for I'm not to be beat
In such things by the neighboring chaps.
I can yell as I go over hard-crusted snow
Where the doodridges grow by the rocks,
To see if each noose be tightened or loose,
Or if bunny be caught in a box.
I look at my snares and my traps;
And they're always complete, for I'm not to be beat
In such things by the neighboring chaps.
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Where the doodridges grow by the rocks,
To see if each noose be tightened or loose,
Or if bunny be caught in a box.
When Betty avers that great trouble is hers,
With the oven not fit for the bread,
The axe then I ply, and the great chips they fly,
At the wood-pile under the shed.
As the dry billets in I bring with a grin,
If Betty complain of the rout,
I say: “What would you for the oven-wood do
If you hadn't a young man about?”
With the oven not fit for the bread,
The axe then I ply, and the great chips they fly,
At the wood-pile under the shed.
As the dry billets in I bring with a grin,
If Betty complain of the rout,
I say: “What would you for the oven-wood do
If you hadn't a young man about?”
While grandfather there in his straight-backed chair,
O'er yesterday's newspaper pores,
Or sinks in a nap, I get mittens and cap,
And go on a lark out of doors.
With my sled off I dash and then like a flash
I coast from the slope of the hill,
Or strap on my skates with their newly-ground plates,
At the pond by the old grey mill.
O'er yesterday's newspaper pores,
Or sinks in a nap, I get mittens and cap,
And go on a lark out of doors.
With my sled off I dash and then like a flash
I coast from the slope of the hill,
Or strap on my skates with their newly-ground plates,
At the pond by the old grey mill.
To the post-office then with one of our men
I ride in the two-horse sleigh;
And John never complains that I handle the reins,
But lets me drive all the way.
But Dobbin and Ball, they don't like it at all,
For I won't stand fooling, you see:
On John they play tricks, but afraid of my licks,
They never cut capers with me.
I ride in the two-horse sleigh;
And John never complains that I handle the reins,
But lets me drive all the way.
But Dobbin and Ball, they don't like it at all,
For I won't stand fooling, you see:
On John they play tricks, but afraid of my licks,
They never cut capers with me.
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For the rest of the day I just take my own way,
And always have fun at a pinch;
I've a man built of snow in the hollow below,
And high—he's six feet if an inch.
And mother, why she's making something for me—
A ball, stuffed with rubber and yarn;
And when Perkin's Bill he comes over the hill,
Don't we have such high times in the barn?
And always have fun at a pinch;
I've a man built of snow in the hollow below,
And high—he's six feet if an inch.
And mother, why she's making something for me—
A ball, stuffed with rubber and yarn;
And when Perkin's Bill he comes over the hill,
Don't we have such high times in the barn?
The shell-barks I've got, you should see what a lot,
And with apples the bins are all full;
There are bushels of pears in the drawers by the stairs;
And father has sold the old bull.
Last summer, you know, the bull frightened you so,
And you ran and crawled under the fence;
'Twas only a cow, not the bull, anyhow—
I thought city boys had more sense.
And with apples the bins are all full;
There are bushels of pears in the drawers by the stairs;
And father has sold the old bull.
Last summer, you know, the bull frightened you so,
And you ran and crawled under the fence;
'Twas only a cow, not the bull, anyhow—
I thought city boys had more sense.
You write of your fun, and you think we have none,
But you'd better believe we have some
At this time of the year; so join me out here—
Coax your mother, and she'll let you come.
Bring skates and some twine—I've used all of mine—
And some snares I'll soon fix up for you;
We'll skate and we'll trap, and coast, too, old chap;
But don't bring a sled—I have two.
But you'd better believe we have some
At this time of the year; so join me out here—
Coax your mother, and she'll let you come.
Bring skates and some twine—I've used all of mine—
And some snares I'll soon fix up for you;
We'll skate and we'll trap, and coast, too, old chap;
But don't bring a sled—I have two.
The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | ||