Songs of two centuries :: :: University of Virginia Library

Johnny left the farm, an' studied
In the college, quite awhile;
He was sort of student-blooded,
With a dash o' city-style;
So we talked it—me an' Father—
An' concluded we would rather
Toil an extra hour or two
Every day, than let work gall him
That he wasn't built to do;
An' where Nature seemed to call him,
He should go; an' if a dollar
Now an' then, the Fates would bribe
To produce a first-class scholar
For to tassel off our tribe,
We would take it out in knowledge;
So we put the boy to college.

Johnny lots o' letters sent us,
Full o' things we knowed before,
An' a heap o' trouble lent us
Studyin' of 'em o'er and o'er;
While his keep we kep' on earnin'
From our hard an' sulky lan',
We was 'fraid he couldn't be learnin'
Much, if writin' with school-han'
Words that we could understan';
An' we worried much about him
An' begun to fear an' doubt him.

An' I says one day to Father,
“I'm a-goin' to put a stay

To this everlastin' bother:
I shall start for John today.”
An' Pa said, with mannish guesses
'Bout a woman's clothin'-life,
“You are ruther short o' dresses
Fur to go to college, Wife.
Not in length of any of 'em,
But in number's, what I mean.”
An' I says, “I'll rise above 'em,
For I'm al'ays neat an' clean;
An' I'll wear my bombazine,
With substantial hooks an' eyes,
An' the sleeves a Christian size.”
An' I done jus' as I say,
An' went off that very day.

Well, I got there one fine mornin',
An' without a second's warnin',
I, his mother, an' no other—
His own true, hard-workin' mother,
Who had teached the boy to walk,
An' not only that, but talk:
(An' I said, “His eddication
With them things left out, I guess,
Would hev been a tribilation,
Nothin' more an' somethin' less”)
I went hither, there, an' yon,
Jest inquirin' after John.

An' I traced him here an' there,
An' kep' jest so fur behind him,
But somehow, I do declare,
I could never seem to find him!
An' I thought, in great distress,
“He is dodgin' me, I guess:
Me, an' my old faded dress!”

Then my heart made sad complaint,
An' I felt homesick an' faint;
My appearance I compared

With some ladies' that was passin',
An' reflected, while they stared
At my scrimped-up way of dressin';
An' how my old bombazine
Looked so shabby-like an' mean.
An' I thought, with eyes tear-dim,
“Our sweet boy, that used to love us,
We have eddicated him—
Eddicated him above us!”

An' while these thoughts I was summin',
An' was kind o' prone to fear him,
I looked up an' saw John comin'
With a lady some'at near him!
Then I said, “It sha'n't be said
That I ever yet have stood
With a downcast, shamefaced head,
Front of my own flesh an' blood;
An' I teached the boy to talk,
An' not only that, but walk.”
An' I says, “His conversation
With that purty gal I see,
Wouldn't hev proved much consolation
Ef it hadn't hev been fur me.”
So I hurried proudly on,
With such courage as I'd got,
In a sort o' way that John
He c'u'd notice me or not.

When jest opposite, he turned,
An' he see my faded dress—
An' his fair face quickly burned,
With some small ashamèdness;
An' no wonder; for, you see,
There was her, trim as could be,
Dressed like pictur's on the wall,
An' life's sweetness through it all—
For a han'some gal was she!
An' just six foot off was me—
Wrinkled—old—though spick an' clean,

Dressed in my ol' bombazine,
An' with han's as hard as leather
(Me an' Dad oft worked together).
An' my throat was in one lump,
An' my heart it took a jump;
An' I hed all I could do
Holdin' back my feelin's, too;
For ol' times I couldn't forget;
An' I loved him—loved him yet—
Just as well, it should be stated,
As 'fore he was eddicated;

“But”, I says, “I'll walk right on:
I will curb my feelin's so
His nice gal shall never know
That I'm any kin to John.”

Walk right on!—it couldn't be done,
With John's heart there in the road
Bigger than a barley-load!
He went fur me on a run,
An' he kissed my wrinkled cheek,
An' my hands so hard an' rough,
An' wouldn't sca'cely let me speak,
Though I tried to, times enough;
An' half led, half carried me
As if proud as proud could be,
Up to where she stood; an' said,
“It's my mother”; an' her head
Bent as willer trees will do,
An' she hugged an' kissed me, too;
An' I kissed my gal an' boy,
An' was half afaint with joy.

Then I wrote that night to Dad,
“Don't you worry 'bout the lad,
'Cause he wrote in his school-han'
Words that we could understan'.”

AS WELL AS I.

The Daughter of the House Soliloquizes.

No, my mother does not look as well as I,
For the days of her appearing well, are by:
She can sew a bit, and sweep a bit, and fry—
But she doesn't look well
When I entertain a swell,
In the parlor, and she happens to be nigh.
She is good to meet alone
When the brilliant ones are flown;
When the world seems all in vain,
She can soothe away the pain;
She can kiss away the tear-drops if I cry;
But reluctantly I state
She is not quite up-to-date,
And is apt to set the functions all awry.

No, my mother cannot talk as well as I,
And we often wish she wouldn't even try.
She can give the smartest joker his reply,
But her nouns and verbs, you see,
Do not always quite agree;
And my guests are prone to laugh upon the sly.
When we sit and talk alone,
With her arms around me thrown,
And my head upon her breast
In delicious home-made rest,
No raconteur can a moment with her vie;
But she does not always know
When her words should stop or flow;
And her stories of the past are rather dry.

No, my mother cannot sing as well as I:
She is apt to pitch it low or hold it high;
And her methods all my master's rules defy.
But the time seems very near
When she carolled “Hush, my dear”,
As in fancy 'mid the cradle-depths I lie.
And I fell asleep ere long,
Dreaming angels sang the song;
And the loveliest one was she,
Of the hosts that guarded me;
And she often talks about it, with a sigh.
But those baby-days are fled:
There are other songs ahead,
And I have to catch the chances as they fly.

No, my mother is not near so strong as I:
She is nervous; and I often can espy
That her tears have not sufficient time to dry.
She has griefs I do not know,
As the years relentless flow,
And as one by one her visions fade and die.
There is sadness in her heart,
That she keeps from me apart;
There are sorrows, many a while,
That she smothers with a smile;
When she weeps, I cannot always ask her why.
And I fear—or guess—or know—
I myself will have to go
Through the same forlorn experience—by-and-by!

FIXING THE CLOCK.

It's jest as fawther said it was—they's somethin' here that's wrong;
The gran'ther-clock is ailin' sir—we're glad you come along.
It stood an' sulked a week or two, an' wouldn't tick or ring,
Or run its han's aroun' its face, or do a blessed thing.

It's old enough to hev a rest, as people say, you know;
We often think it started out a thousan' year ago.
An' Cousin Pete, who sets an' tells us stories in the dark,
He wonders ef it give the time for Noarh in the ark.

We're glad it's goin' to start ag'in; for when it ain't no good,
It makes a sort o' friendly fuss all through the neighborhood;
The folks inquire as if 'twas folks, an' stop us on the way,
An' anxiously they ask us how the ol' clock is today.

They's lots o' time-machines aroun' that have a deal o' lack,
An' need a steady gran'ther-clock to keep 'em on the track;
I've seen folks stan' out in the road, an' wait an' listen like,
To set their watch by this 'ere clock, as soon's they heard it strike.

We're glad it stopped, though; so's that you could take it all apart,
An' we could see its thinkin' works, an' where it kep' its heart;
An' why, before it's goin' to strike, four minutes an' a half,
It sort o' up an' chuckles, like, as ef it meant to laugh;

An' how it keeps the memory good, although it's got so old,
An' how it knows the moon is new, or full o' yeller gold;
An' tells it with its picture-moons, so's we can know it nigh
As well as ef we went out-door an' found it in the sky;

An' ef it ever has the blues, alone there night an' day,
An' how it come to know the facts, when baby went away;
For half the night there through the dark a-cryin' in our bed,
We heard it talkin' to itself—“She's dead—she's dead—she's dead!”

An' then I guess I went to sleep, an' dreamed a little while,
An' thought I saw her in the clouds, an' knew her by her smile;
An' when the surprise woke me up—'twas maybe six or seven—
It changed its mind, an' says to me, “In Heaven—in Heaven—in Heaven!”

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

A True Story.

Of manner shy, of gleaming eye,
And dainty bill and feather,
With kindly word, a mocking-bird
Was sent from balmy weather;
From oaks and pines, and em'rald vines,
And flow'rets gently clinging;
From grassy leas of orange-trees,
And comrades near him singing.

The chill and rime of Northern clime
Hung round him like a tether;
He beat and pressed his wiry nest,
And yearned for happy weather.
The weeks were long, he gave no song,
However wiled or bidden;
Each jewelled note within his throat
Was but a treasure hidden.

Of orange-blooms and rare perfumes
And buds and leaves together,
With kind intent, a box was sent
From out the South-land weather:

'Gainst looks of rage, into the cage
A gentle finger pressed them:
By rapture stirred, the mocking-bird
With cries of joy caressed them!

Then came his song, as sweet and strong
As on his native heather:
He trilled with ease the psalms and glees
That grace the loveliest weather.
None may indite what message bright
Those perfumed leaves were bringing:
We only say, that since that day,
Our exile-bird is singing!

UP IN THE LOFT.

Up in the loft, 'mid scented clover,
Five of us perched and talked it over;
Talked of the years that lagged and waited,
Full of the gold of Fancy freighted;
Full of the joys that Hope was living—
Joys that the world is slow in giving;
Full of the honors Youth can spread
Over its own fair head.
Tom was a colonel brave and comely,
There in his worsted garments homely;
Jack was a doctor all were seeking,
Jem was a lawyer, glib of speaking;
Fred as a merchant bought and sold
Half of the world for leaves of gold;
And I was sailing the wide seas over,
There in my ship of scented clover.

Up in the tomb of the blossoms sitting,
Ghosts of the past were round us flitting;
Forms that magical deeds had done,
Came to us one by one;
All of the tales we had heard and read,
Now were sung or said.
Tom of the knights with helmets glancing,
Under their snow-white plumage dancing;
Jem of the genii weird of mission—
Jack of the sages' cold ambition:
Fred of the lamp which, dim and old
Lighted Aladdin to fame and gold;

And I was at heart a Sindbad rover,
Gathering gems in a vale of clover.

Up in the couch of the grasses lying,
There as the winds outside were sighing,
There in that field of fragrant clover,
Under the barn-roof's trusted cover,
All of us whispered some sweetheart-name—
Haply no two the same;
All of us murmured secrets there,
Of tiny maidens fair:
In that chapel of scented clover,
Each of us vowed himself a lover.
How did the castles we were building
Fall with the sunrise' fragile gilding!
How were the hopes Desire was giving
Crushed in the wear and tear of living!
How, in the noontide's steady glare,
Gone are our maidens fair!
Tom's, in a few short years, sedately
Married a judge, severe and stately:
Jack had the “mitten” prematurely,
Jem has a wife he loves unsurely;
Fred has one who, dainty elf,
Married his money, and not himself;
And she whose image thoughtfully gay
Lit brightest the loft on that winter day,
Sleeps, when the summer winds fly over,
Solemnly 'neath the blossomed clover.

TO A DEAD BIRD.

Poor, perished thing,
How helpless, now, thy angel-painted wing;
How tired of death the unaffected grace
That lingers on thy little feathered face!
Could any gem that mortals choose to prize
Assume to match the radiance of thine eyes?
Some man destroyed what ne'er again can be,
In killing thee.

Say, silent thing:
Hadst thou the Heaven-invented gift to sing?
Couldst chant a sonnet, undefiled by art,
And thrill and win the chosen of thy heart?
Couldst hush the silent sobbing of the air,
With strains of jewelled laughter, free from care?
One fancies some of God's unsullied glee
Went back with thee.

Didst love to fling
Thyself upon the swelling breast of Spring?
Didst joy to thread the airy lanes with ease,
Or find a swaying throne among the trees?
With dainty prow and firmly planted sail,
Couldst ride along the billows of the gale?
Heaven meant the earth and azure safe and free,
For such as thee.

But, plumaged thing,
If deathly splendor can a comfort bring,
If but thy body, from its sweet control,
May send a message to the restless soul,
Rejoice: it hath a more than royal bed:
Thy mausoleum is my lady's head.
And I can fancy many swains I see,
That envy thee!

THE TWO BOYS.

The “Tot” Discourses.

Of all the peoples in this town,
So far as I can see,
The best two fellows, up and down,
Is Uncle Joe an' me.
We found each other long ago—
How much it is I can't quite know—
I guess a thousan' years or so—
An' never didn't agree.

We know where all the bluejays nest,
Does Uncle Joe an' me,
An' when the robins sings the best,
An' where the squirrels be;
An' when the rabbits romp an' play,
An' where the biggest woodchucks stay,
An' where the owl sleeps every day,
An' where the thrushes be.

When we drive out he lets me drive,
An' then we both agree
There ain't two bigger sports alive,
Than Uncle Joe an' me.
He says he'd just as lives as not
Lend me the fastest horse he's got,
He wouldn't let no other “tot”
Take hold the reins, you see!

We know the biggest stories, too,
Does Uncle Joe an' me.

An' some of 'em is partly true,
An' some is goin' to be;
'Bout Injuns, full of scalps an' noise,
An' giants that had trees fur toys,
An' how things was when we was boys—
Some years ago, you see!

My mommer says we've got to die,
An' angels live an' be,
An' go an' dwell up in the sky,
From sin forever free;
But that's what I don't mean to do,
Till Uncle Joe gets started, too:
For Heaven would be most awful blue,
'Thout Uncle Joe an' me!

BLOWING THE FEATHER.

Blowing the feather, ten together
Sat in the lamplight's honest glare;
While outside, the lips of the weather
Hurried the leaflets here and there.
Blowing the feather, ten together
Laughed in the lamplight's cozy glare.

At right of the feather, two together
Merrily sat—a rival pair:
Each of the swains was wondering whether
That sweet maiden over there—
She with the skeins of golden hair
Holding those two with Love's strong tether—
Had for either a tender care.

Left of the feather, two together
Laughingly sat—another pair;
One was a man of quiet air,
And one was this maid with the golden hair.
He might have been—but was not—her brother;
They never deigned to glance at each other—
Or had for a neighbor a word to spare;
Watching, with laughs they tried to smother,
The two fierce rivals over there.

“Now,” said the maid, “who gets the feather,
Over his heart this rose may wear!”
Then there was grasping here and there—
Then there were breaths that rushed together;
All were striving, except the pair
Sitting so calmly, chair by chair,

Silently watching the dancing feather:
The man with the cool and dreamy air,
And the laughing maid with golden hair.

Front of the rivals stopped the feather;
One was grasping, with eager air,
And one was flushed as the frosted heather,
Blowing the white-winged omen where
His rival should miss it, in despair;
But straight it flew, o'er the surface wide,
To the man who sat at the farther side—
He of the quiet and dreamy air:
“All things come, if we do but wait”,
He said to the maiden, calm as Fate,
And offered his heart to the fingers fair.
The maiden turned as white as the feather,
Then red as the rose, as she pinned it there.

HARVESTS.

Harvests of old, through gold-mines of the peasant,
Delved thy forged sickle—a silvery crescent;
In the cool breeze or the thick sultry weather,
Toiled the strong lad and the maiden together.
Winsomeness into the Eden-curse bringing,
Oft did they charm sober toil with their singing;
Then when the harvest-moon rose in its splendor,
Homeward they fared, oft with words that were tender,
Or through the silver-strown song's gallant measures,
Rumbled the wains with their rish golden treasures.

Harvests less old!—still the memory lingers
Of thy broad blade with its tapering fingers;
How as it swung came the tremulous sighing
Of the trim grain-plants so suddenly dying!
How, a rude music that baffles forgetting
Rang out the song of the scythe in its whetting;
How the glum toiler or jest-loving fellow
Lunched in a shade of their wide camps of yellow,
Gossiping e'en as the idlest of woman—
Showing that both of the sexes are human!

Harvests today! through the grain-forest sweeping
Comes like a cyclone an engine of reaping.
Reaper, and gleaner, and old-fashioned peasant
Flee from this monster—grim child of the present;
Sickle and scythe, and the flail for the threshing
Fused into wheels, through the meadows go crashing.
All of the harvest-songs vanish before us,
Blended and lost in this grand metal chorus.
Such are the harvests these rushing days fling us:
What will the twentieth century bring us?

STARS OF THE GRASSES.

Fireflies! fireflies! fragments of light,
Leading through darkness the careless sight—
Tremulous stars of the lower night;

Living lamps in the green below,
Clinging and swinging to and fro,
Where the forests of grasses grow;

How can we say but yonder star,
Glittering in the blue afar,
May be conscious, as insects are?

Greater and stronger, but still as you,
Oft it will vanish from our view,
Then will glitter, as fired anew.

E'en as an insect, bye and bye
Yonder star in its turn must die,
Making a death-bed of the sky.

GOOD-BYE, OLD HORSE.

The pleasant days have gone their ways, the world is getting old,
The wind is in the north again—the air is damp and cold;
They turn their heads and laugh at us—those days we used to win—
And Fortune when we ask for her, sends word she isn't in.
The earth is growing bare and bleak, and clouds are in the sky;
So I must go and find the sun: my dear old horse, good-bye!

You had a speed and I a rein we both knew how to trust:
Oh 'twas a mighty lively rig that gave us any dust!
We made a race-track of the road whene'er we had a mind,
And you had not the faculty of following on behind.
But luck went off another way, and never told us why:—
And so I've got to walk a bit:—my dear old horse, good-bye!

One night we met a robber band with whom we couldn't agree—
And one caressed you by the bit, and one took charge of me.
I knocked mine over with the whip, and yours you trampled down,
And showed the rest a set of heels unrivalled in the town.
I said, “Old man, we'll never part till one of us shall die”:
But Ruin sneers at hearts and hands—good-bye, old friend, good-bye!

One merry eve when ruby wine had turned my brain to lead,
Beside the road when half-way home I stopped and went to bed.
But I was watched by chivalry all through my night's disgrace:
For when I woke, your warm sweet nose was cuddling round my face.
You vowed no harm should come to me, with you a-lingering nigh:
I'd stay by you now if I could—good-bye, old horse, good-bye!

I think and hope I'm leaving you in good and friendly hands—
I feel as if you'd think of me in distant seas and lands;
And if my fate turns round again, and Effort serves me true,
There'll come first thing across the space, a telegram for you.
I hope that yet some happy days we'll capture, you and I,
And golden stables shall be yours, in Heaven, bye and bye!