 | The harp and plow |  |
203
LINES ADDRESSED TO ‘OLD KNICK.’
Not to the celebrated devil,
Not Nick, thou big, hope-blasting weevil,
Embodying all we know of evil;—
No! Goodness bless me!
Thou 'lt have to use me far more civil,
Ere I address thee.
Not Nick, thou big, hope-blasting weevil,
Embodying all we know of evil;—
No! Goodness bless me!
Thou 'lt have to use me far more civil,
Ere I address thee.
But thou who dwell'st in Gotham city,
The MAN, warm-hearted, wise, and witty,
Thou who first read my rustic ditty,
First called me BARD!
(The holy truth will sure acquit thee
In that regard.)
The MAN, warm-hearted, wise, and witty,
Thou who first read my rustic ditty,
First called me BARD!
(The holy truth will sure acquit thee
In that regard.)
Tho' not thy namesake's kin or pet,
There 's something weird about you, yet;
What Editor before could set
So rich a ‘Table?’
Where could mere human body get
The wherewith-able?
There 's something weird about you, yet;
What Editor before could set
So rich a ‘Table?’
Where could mere human body get
The wherewith-able?
204
Oh, had I but thy facile pen!
Thy fancy to direct it!—then
I 'd hope to win from fellow men
A lofty name;
And leave life's mediocral fen
For ‘braes o' fame!’
Thy fancy to direct it!—then
I 'd hope to win from fellow men
A lofty name;
And leave life's mediocral fen
For ‘braes o' fame!’
I'm coming out an author, now,
In book yclept ‘The Harp and Plow.’
Hopes, fears; fears, hopes; around my brow,
Weeds twine, or bays:
But, hit or miss, I'll make my bow
One of these days.
In book yclept ‘The Harp and Plow.’
Hopes, fears; fears, hopes; around my brow,
Weeds twine, or bays:
But, hit or miss, I'll make my bow
One of these days.
My book! with trembling I shall show it,
Lest you annihilate the poet;
But should you any praise bestow it,
Content I am,
Tho' every other critic blow it
To Rotterd—m.
Lest you annihilate the poet;
But should you any praise bestow it,
Content I am,
Tho' every other critic blow it
To Rotterd—m.
But by thy worth, and fancy fine,
By that small share which may be mine,
By all the favors of the Nine,
In store, or given,
I wish thee, Clark, for thee and thine,
The smiles of Heaven.
By that small share which may be mine,
By all the favors of the Nine,
In store, or given,
I wish thee, Clark, for thee and thine,
The smiles of Heaven.
L. Gaylord Clark, Esq., editor of the venerable and valuable Knickerbocker Magazine;—both himself and Maga familiarly and facetiously styled at times by their thousand admirers, ‘Knick’ or ‘Old Knick.’ Mr. Clark first bestowed upon the author the nom de plume ‘Peasant-Bard.’—See Knickerbocker Mag. vol. xxxi, page 183.
| The harp and plow | |