 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes |  |
MARTHA HOPKINS.
A BALLAD OF INDIANA.
From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stands there making pies,
Southward looks, along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;
Where, along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,
And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.
Southward looks, along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;
Where, along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,
And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.
All the air is full of noises, for there is n't any school,
And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;
Blithely frisk unnumbered chickens, cackling, for they cannot laugh:
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.
And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;
Blithely frisk unnumbered chickens, cackling, for they cannot laugh:
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.
Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze
On the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?
Tell me wherefore down the valley ye have traced the turnpike's way,
Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brickyard, with its clay?
On the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?
Tell me wherefore down the valley ye have traced the turnpike's way,
Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brickyard, with its clay?
Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine,
With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line,
And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her freckled cheek,—
Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.
With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line,
And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her freckled cheek,—
Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.
453
When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed,
She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike-road;
Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,
Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.
She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike-road;
Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,
Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.
Ere the supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick,
Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded quite a creek,
And his flatboat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,
With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.
Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded quite a creek,
And his flatboat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,
With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.
Therefore watches Martha Hopkins, holding in her hand the pans,
When a sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;
Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,
But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.
When a sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;
Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,
But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.
Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough,
But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;
Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,
As he jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a sheep's.
But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;
Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,
As he jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a sheep's.
She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest;
By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;
By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread,
By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.
By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;
By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread,
By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.
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None like he the yoke of hickory on the unbroken ox can throw,
None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe;
And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen
That can dance with him the Polka, touch with him the violin.
None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe;
And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen
That can dance with him the Polka, touch with him the violin.
He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now,
For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,
When the buckeye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,
Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.
For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,
When the buckeye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,
Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.
He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown,
And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;
That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,
To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.
And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;
That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,
To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.
Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape?
'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape.
Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,
One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.
'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape.
Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,
One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.
But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread,
As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.
Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,
'T is the sorrel horse that gallops, 't is John Jackson's self that 's there!
As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.
Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,
'T is the sorrel horse that gallops, 't is John Jackson's self that 's there!
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes | |