The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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A LAY OF THE LAUNCH
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
A LAY OF THE LAUNCH
(After Tennyson)
My heart is wasted with my woe,
Camanche;
In vain I strove to see the show,
Camanche;
Divorced from shore—from libels free—
I came to view thy charms per se;
It was no maiden plunge to thee,
Camanche.
Camanche;
In vain I strove to see the show,
Camanche;
365
I came to view thy charms per se;
It was no maiden plunge to thee,
Camanche.
I did not see thee launched at all,
Camanche;
The crowd was large—the gate was small,
Camanche.
I stood without and cursed my fate,
The time, the tide that would not wait,
With others who had come too late,
Camanche.
Camanche;
The crowd was large—the gate was small,
Camanche.
I stood without and cursed my fate,
The time, the tide that would not wait,
With others who had come too late,
Camanche.
Why did they send thee off so soon,
Camanche?
They should have waited until noon,
Camanche.
O cruel fate, that from my gaze
Hid wedges, props, and broken stays,
And made thy ways as “secret ways,”
Camanche.
Camanche?
They should have waited until noon,
Camanche.
O cruel fate, that from my gaze
Hid wedges, props, and broken stays,
And made thy ways as “secret ways,”
Camanche.
I was thine own invited guest,
Camanche;
I missed the feast, with all the rest,
Camanche.
I missed the cold tongue, and the flow
Of eloquence and Veuve Clicquot;
I missed my watch and chain, also,
Camanche.
Camanche;
I missed the feast, with all the rest,
Camanche.
I missed the cold tongue, and the flow
Of eloquence and Veuve Clicquot;
I missed my watch and chain, also,
Camanche.
For when I strove to reach thy deck,
Camanche;
A hand was passed around my neck,
Camanche;
A false, false hand my beaver pressed
Upon mine eyes, and from my vest
Unhooked my chain—why tell the rest?
Camanche.
Camanche;
366
Camanche;
A false, false hand my beaver pressed
Upon mine eyes, and from my vest
Unhooked my chain—why tell the rest?
Camanche.
My coat was torn—the best I had,
Camanche;
I wished I, too, were ironclad,
Camanche.
They tore my coat and vest of silk,
They groaned and cried, “a bilk, a bilk!”
Rude boys and others of that ilk,
Camanche.
Camanche;
I wished I, too, were ironclad,
Camanche.
They tore my coat and vest of silk,
They groaned and cried, “a bilk, a bilk!”
Rude boys and others of that ilk,
Camanche.
Thy yard was full of stumbling blocks,
Camanche;
That told a sudden fall in stocks,
Camanche.
I stood where late thy keel had slid—
I did not heed as I was bid,
Hence what thy keel had done, I did,
Camanche.
Camanche;
That told a sudden fall in stocks,
Camanche.
I stood where late thy keel had slid—
I did not heed as I was bid,
Hence what thy keel had done, I did,
Camanche.
It was a bitter, frightful fall,
Camanche;
I slid some thirty feet in all,
Camanche.
Some thirty feet upon my back
I slipped along the slimy track;
They cried, “Another launch—alack!”
Camanche.
Camanche;
I slid some thirty feet in all,
Camanche.
Some thirty feet upon my back
I slipped along the slimy track;
They cried, “Another launch—alack!”
Camanche.
367
My heart was wasted with my woe,
Camanche;
I thought that I would homeward go,
Camanche.
In vain I hailed a crowded car;
They answered not my signs afar;
O day, cursed by my evil star,
Camanche.
Camanche;
I thought that I would homeward go,
Camanche.
In vain I hailed a crowded car;
They answered not my signs afar;
O day, cursed by my evil star,
Camanche.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |