Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

It was drip, drip, all day, very well I remember,
Back along in the forties, and month of November,
The highways were heavy, my nag worn and weary,
The scenery blinked at most dismally dreary,
For the Green Mountain range, to my grim contemplation,
Seemed the fag-end of all out-of-doors and creation.
For hours not a soul had I seen on my way.
If 'twere ever man-haunted, it wasn't that day;
And with the exception, in one or two cases,
Of rain-shedding hovels in out of way places,
With a phiz at the panes like to that of a woman,
I had counted myself there the only thing human.
Tho' the “hills were a thousand,” my vision could scan,
The Lord had no ‘cattle’ there, neither had man;
Unless I except one forlorn looking cow,
That man must have owned,—not the Lord, any how.
As she stood by the side of a ramshackle shed,
Her feet in a half-bushel measure could tread;
Her caudal curl'd under her ribs and her bones,
As plain to be seen as the big bowlder stones,

With a sort of hysterical grin on her face,
That moved me to laughter, tho' sad was my case;
That face was a tableau, most striking, thought I,
Of Job's wife's, when she told him to “curse God and die!”
Down a gorge led my road, and my horse carried me
On a path that the mid summer sun couldn't see,
For the hemlocks so shady, so solemn, so thick;
And night then came down ‘like a thousand of brick.’
I mean it fell heavy and dead, like a log;
The rain holding up for a down-falling fog,—
Such a fog!—Metaphysics! no scholar of thine
Was ever more mistified, reader of mine.
My horse, in the cloud, hung his head and crawled down;
I thinking if Tartarus bottomed the town,
Could only imagine what his thoughts could be,—
His progress was more than his master could see.
I could hear his feet fall, and could feel a slight jog,
But it seemed like a treadmill revolved in the fog,
Or more like a horse-boat a-ferrying o'er,
For a swelled mountain stream filled my ears with its roar;
And Fancy began my location to fix:
Old Charon a horse-boat over the styx.
Perhaps “Pomp” was thinking, if horses e'er think,
His master knew best where was provant and drink,
And trusted his rider's superior skill.
As men often trust to a demagogue's will,

And think that their leader knows what he's about,
When his course is too blind for their eyes to make out.
An hour, more or less, of monotonous tread,
Horse turned a right angle, I lifted my head.
And high in the air hung a beacon of light,
Thrice large as old Jupiter on a clear night,
But whether of heaven or earth, I knew not,
Till Pomp pricked his ears and broke into a trot,
And with three minutes trotting, mayhap little more,
Brought me up to the “Green Mountain Coffee House” door.

Who wouldn't rejoice, after journey like mine,
To get where his features could soften and shine?
Tho' rough be his welcome,—his company be
Bar-room haunting idlers, of every degree,
He knows he can learn, if he isn't a fool,
Something new in each class of humanity's school.

The host I judged Dutch, or of Dutch-land descent,
For he smoked when he sat, and he smoked when he went;
Descended, perhaps, from some lofty old Van,
But shook-down and dumpy descended the man,
Shut into himself like a telescope slide,
And longitude covered by latitude wide.
Kind-hearted he seemed, and appeared to aspire
To make his guests happy, and keep a good fire.
That fire! it was one of the old-fashioned kind,
Like those in the back-wooded country we find;
By those that were lit by our sires on the hearth,
The focus of comfort, good cheer and of mirth.

That fire as it flickered and blazed up the flue,
Lit scenes that Will Mount with his easel should view;
For the rain of the day and the night's foggy weather
Set the “birds of a feather” to flocking together.
The wit of the hamlet, o'er lazy for work;
The rough mountain hind talked of taters and pork;
The blacksmith talked learned in things of his line;
The miller, all “tight” as a hard knot in twine;
The doctor, who managed, by hook or by crook,
To be pretty well “smashed,” and yet dignified look;
The greenhorn as gawky as gawky could be,—
Not green as he thought, but oh! verdant was he;
And a certain old fellow they called “Uncle Mose,”
Very queer in his countenance, queer in his clothes,
Who sat in one corner, his feet on the jamb,
And listened to all, but kept mum as a clam.
A hot iron poker lay red in the coals,
Suggestive of flip and of rollicking souls,
And I made up my mind by an inference fair,
That the law made in Maine never troubled them there.

Well settled among them, I listened to each;
The question, the answer, the jest, or the speech,
Till the greenhorn, whose “organ of language” was great,
Led out by one posted, began to narrate
His travels, perhaps for the fiftieth time,
But new to the stranger who jotted in rhyme.
Now, man may be green, like myself, I opine,
And yet not exhibit its every sign;

But if the great showman this “species” could get,
The tide of his fortunes might flood again yet.
His figure was outre; his making-up wrong;
His body quite short, and his legs very long,
Loose-jointed and crooked; in fine he seem'd made
Of remnants, left o'er from the man-making trade.
With eyes like a frog's, near the top of his skull,
The color of pewter, and that very dull,
They fix'd upon this and on that with a stare,
His jaw dropping down with the vacantest air;
In short, he was just, both in looks and condition,
Illustrated verdure, a live definition!
His voice was a sort of asthmatical jet,
The blurt and the wheeze of a crack'd clarionet.
Imagine, O reader, the looks of the “cretur,”
While I shall attempt his narration in metre:—

THE GREENHORN'S ACCOUNT OF HIS VISIT TO THE CITY.

The greenhorn commences his story in a scientific manner.

You've heard 'em tell of “walks in life”?
Well, I have heard 'em too;
But the greatest walk I ever had
I guess I'll tell to you;
About it you may wish to hear,
Because it's awful true.

Never had been an extensive traveller.

I went the city once to see,
I'd heard so much about
(A dozen miles from home before
I never had been out);
I wore a suit of new sheep's gray,
And cow-hides thick and stout.

How he happened to go.

You see, that year my dad and I
Rais'd “notions” more 'n a plenty,
And he had promised me a share,
'Cause I was one-and-twenty;
So he to market with a load
Out to North River sent me.

How he got to town.

I hitch'd old Dobbin to a post,
Nigh where I'd stopped to trade,
And went aboard a steamboat there
To see how it was made.
First thing I knew, we were half-way
To York, the captain said.

Determines to “go it.”

I felt a little down at first,
Till we the town could spy;
My pockets, tho', were full of rocks
That I'd been laying by;
Methought, since most young fellows “train,”
So now for once will I.

Sagely exposes a lie.

Up what they called Broadway I walked;—
(A fellow told me 'twas.
But I have reason now to think
He lied to me, because
It wasn't wider than the lane
That leads to miller Shaw's.)

Buys a gold watch.

About the third man that I met
A gold watch offered me;
It was a splendid looking thing
As ever I did see;
I gave him for't my silver watch,
And dollars thirty-three.

Finds that all is not gold that shines.

I felt, as you may well suppose,
Elated with my trade,
Till afterwards a jeweller
A little reck'ning made,
And called a bushel of them worth
Less money than I paid.

Acts very discreetly.

A crowd was rushing up and down,
Some meetings sure were nigh;
And so I thought I'd wait until
The “heft” of them got by;
And thro' a window look at prints
That just then struck my eye.

But don't accomplish his object.

stood the pictures viewing there
For half an hour or more,
But faith! the crowd was just as great,
Or greater than before;
And some that pushed and jostled me,
About a greenhorn swore.

Makes an alarming discovery.

Well, on I went; but soon perceived
My coat behind felt queer,
And on examination found
'Twas cut off, “slick and clear!”
Thinks I, am I a-dreaming now,
Or what means all this 'ere?

Sundry valuables missing.

You see, my pocket-book was gone,
And “bran'-new” handkerchief,
And half a card of gingerbread,
And all, 'tis my belief,—
For now I've reason so to think,—
Were taken by a thief.

Meets with a slight disaster.

Thinks I, I'll cross to t'other side,
The coast there looks more clear;
A carriage struck my pantaloons,
And tore them in the rear;
I said that half the road was mine,—
The driver didn't hear.

Is accosted by an unknown fair.

Well, soon I met a lady fine,—
She must have been a belle,—
She smiled, and spoke to me, and seemed
To know me very well;
But who she was I couldn't think,
And now I cannot tell.

Feels flattered and puts his best foot foremost.

She asked me if my friends were well,
And seemed to pity me;
Invited me to walk with her,
And stop with her to tea;
You may believe I honored felt,
And tried polite to be.

Is suddenly taken from “the evil to come.”

I first apologized to her
For all my damaged plight,
And for her invitations kind
Thanked her with bows polite;
But scraping back a step or two,
I vanished from her sight.

Mysterious disappearance. Oblivion; and serious quotation.

For through a scuttle in the walk
I fell like so much lead;
And for a little season then
The light of reason fled;
But when my sense returned I spoke
These lines of Watts I'd read:—
“Down to the regions of the dead,
With endless curses on his head.”

Is unjustly accused.

But while attempting to escape,
A servant came for coal,
Who gave an outcry and alarm,
To find me in the hole;
Then people came and took me out,
And asked me what I stole.

An eventful night.

That night they locked me in a cell,
With scamps of every grade;
I “hollered” murder half the night,
The other half I prayed.
I've reason now to think my hair
That night turned gray a shade.

Thinks the judge piously disposed.

At morn they took me 'fore a judge—
A righteous judge was he!—
He heard my story with a smile,
And straightway set me free;
And made a pious speech about
Uncommon verdancy.

Exit, and home reception.

The next walk that I took was just
To walk straight to the boat,
And for a passage pawned my boots
And remnant of my coat.
When I got home my father said
He'd swap me for a shoat.

The laugh that followed when he ended,
With jibes and squibs of satire blended,
Was such as idlers only hear,—
Rich music to a loafer's ear.
The greenhorn turned his grinning phiz,
And gasped out something like to this,

Which caught my ear, disjointed, blent
With the uprousing merriment:—
“Laugh—ef you want to—but, I swow,
It's a fact—truth,—I tell you now!”
Soon conversation chang'd to play
Upon the topics of the day;
News, stale enough in distant town,
Just in the “Hollow” ushered down;
Murder and rapine, loss by fire,
Steamboat explosions, extra dire;—
Till last at politics they went,
And much of breath and speech were spent
On measures for their country's good;—
For, reader, be it understood,
It was the time, one year in four,
We dread and joy to see well o'er,
When politicians drive their trade,
And some man President is made.
The doctor, with an effort big
To speak, defined himself “a Whig”;
The farmer and the blacksmith, both
Said they wore Democratic cloth;
The miller, biting off a quid,
Said he thought “just as doctor did”;
Old “Mose” would not define at all;
The wit, lean'd back against the wall,
His chair uplifted on two legs,
Shaving a pine stick into pegs,
Said, not much difference he could see
'Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee
(Original with him, no doubt,
But since then quoted all about).

You're right, my friend, the stranger said,
I've little wisdom in my head,
And yet abroad have seen some things
Your speech to recollection brings;
And I will tell a little story
About the road to fame and glory.

THE STRANGER'S TALE.

THE WAY IT IS DONE.—WITH A MORAL.

'Twas early one morn, in a log-cabin land,
Where the tallest air-castles, however, are planned,
Where swagger is often mistaken for sense,
And faith is a thing of no small consequence.
I mean not that faith which is taught in the Bible,—
The backwoods professor would sue for a libel;
The faith of the Book sees a mansion in heaven,
But this sees a town where a stake is just driven.

'Twas early one morn; 'twas the Fourth of July;
Some time must elapse ere the sun lit the sky;
And, thinking o'er-night of the glorious day,
'Twas natural my dreams, too, should wander that way.
So I dreamed, as a Yankee boy frequently will,
Of Lexington, Concord, and old Bunker Hill;
Saw the redcoated column up Bunker arise;
Heard old Putnam's speech 'bout the “white of their eyes.”
They neared the redoubt, and the guns bristled o'er;
But just as the Yankees their volley would pour,

Martial sounds 'gan to rise,
And I opened my eyes,
And thought 'twas a part of the dream gone before.
But I listened, so still;
It was not Bunker Hill,
But without in the street they were making uproar;
While a man with a fife
Squealed as if for his life,
And a drum put in shakes Ole Bull might adore.

Sleep fled past a doubt; so I dress'd and went out;
Had you seen what I saw, you'd have laughed with a shout:
The offspring of Orpheus, blowing the fife,
By the “cut of his jib,” wasn't long for this life;
For five feet and five I should judge the utmost
Longitudinal metre his person could boast;
But Nature, kind dame, had made up, it would seem,
Deficit in length, by the “breadth of his beam.”
His hat was “caved in”—had of brim scarce a bit;
He wore a short jacket, too small for a fit;
And a ludicrous thought flitted over my mind,
That the fifer was very full breasted behind.

The drummer, beside him, personified Saul;
As gaunt as a greyhound, and bony, and tall.
But ever I can
Describe you this man,
I'll state the condition of both—that is all:
Though scarcely 'twas morn,
They'd both had their corn,
Were so drunk, that to stand, they must lean on the wall;

The din and devotion
Inspired them with motion,
At March! they would go; but at Halt! they would sprawl.

Were I good with the charcoal, my tale I'd adorn
With a sketch of the drummer that auspicious morn.
A view of his figure—a side view—to me
Looked, more than aught else, like a bad figure 3;
His hat, which had suffered, was cocked on one side;
His breeks were too short, by a foot, and too wide;
On the toe of his left foot, and heel of his right,
He hitched to the tune of the “Soldier's Delight.”
His aspect was fierce, with a sprinkling of woe,
His eyes dead ahead, and his arms akimbo;
The poor fifer, I fear,
When he staggered too near,
Received from his elbows a cruel side blow;
A pause would occur,
A trill or a slur,
But the roll of the drum was unbroken, I know;
For the sticks down would come
On the head of the drum,
And the way rub-a-dub rattled out wasn't slow.

The rabble behind them were trundling a gun,
About a ten-pounder, I judged such an one;
But foremost, and leading the glorious van,
Marched a man, 'tis my plan to ban if I can.
In his gait, in his dress, in his dignified air,
With his “brethren in arms” like a prince he'd compare;
He'd striven for office, he'd striven for fame.
He longed for a deed to emblazon his name.

The law was his hobby, at least by pretence;
He was great on a case without need of defence;
And his talents, beside, most decidedly were,
For the use of his countrymen, la militaire.
How he lived, the Lord knows; but 'twas my calculation,
It was partly on faith, partly on speculation.
He appeared to feel grand; yea, he felt rather bigger
Than the man who had seen Gen'ral Washington's “nigger!”
But I'll prove him full soon, if my proof doesn't fail,
A “creature of circumstance”; so to our tale.

I joined in the march, with an inkling of fun;
The music roll'd on, and they trundled the gun.
They came to a spot,
A square vacant lot,
Called after the name of the great Washington.
The gun was now tried,
The match was applied,
And forth belched the thunder to herald the sun.
It looked like a fight,
For overcome quite
The martial musicians lay stretched like the done.

Bang! bang! went the gun, till there wanted but one
More shot, and the job for the sunrise was done;
'Twas likely to fail, for I heard a man swear
That nothing to serve for a wadding was there.
To fail in completion the shame would be great,
Amounting almost to the shame of defeat.
No! that wouldn't do; they must give the last shot,
But where was a wadding at hand to be got?

Our hero stood near, in contemplative mood,
Ruminating a speech, as a cow does her cud;
But, sudden a thought!
His pocket he sought
And drew forth a handkerchief dirty as mud.
“Here! take that! my lad,
And use it, egad!
The gun shall not fail for the want of a wad!”
Soon the gun roared anew,
Into shreds the rag flew;—
“There goes my best handkerchief—silk one—by—”

A drizzle set in; and the gun was now housed;
But fame, for our hero, was fully aroused.
Her echoing trump was at once to her mouth;
All over the district, east, west, north, and south,
His name spread abroad; and, spreading, the story
Gathered in bulk, while it gathered him glory;
Till, by the time that the story had back again got,
In the “last war” he'd killed twenty men at one shot!

The next thing we see in the “People's Gazette”;
Our hero for Congress his visage has set.
The editor, there, Mr. Butcher's-meat's-ris,
Comes out with a column of something like this:

“It is time for the people to rouse from their sleep!
The wolves are abroad in the clothing of sheep;
But give the pull long,
The pull very strong,
The pull altogether.—Oh! pull while you weep!
'Tis our duty to sow,
Though our readers must know,
No personal benefit hoping to reap.

Come, bards, tune your lays
To our candidate's praise,
And we to the music our eyeballs will keep.
Our man is a patriot, true as the sun;
Familiarly known as the ‘Son-of-a-gun!’
For what man but he, on that glorious day
When patriots gather, as patriots may;
When likely to fail was the national round,
And brave men e'en wept when no wadding was found;
Save he who would suffer, unanswered, we say,
His own private wardrobe to be shot away?
Let his name, like the clouds, o'er Columbia scud!
Let his name brightly gleam in the annals of blood!
Let this deed of his fame be embalmed with the tale
Of Putnam's bold feat, or the hanging of Hale!”

Success seemed more sure, as election drew nigher;
But one “circumstance” more knocked his fat in the fire;
For lo! there was one
That morn, by the gun,
Who did not exactly belong to the squire;
So merely for sport
He spread the report,
The candidate was as profane as a liar;
That he stood on the spot
When the 'kerchief was shot,
And the squire swore so bad he was forced to retire!

Enough;—for the other side sought out this man;
A dollar in hand, and a swig at the can;
Deposition was made 'fore a magistrate lawful;
The man on his oath said the swearing was awful;

And next day appeared in the “Voice of the People”
A yarn half as long as a meeting-house steeple.
Therein 'twas shown clear as the light of the sun,
That they should not vote for the Son-of-a-gun.
They called on the people to rally anew
And vote for their candidate, called the “True Blue.”
He had all the other man's patriot pride;
Was rather inclined to be pious, beside;
Sure, slander pursued him, but still 'twasn't true
He once was indicted for stealing an ewe;
He held to equality when people meet,—
Been seen shaking hands with a “nig” in the street;
And as for his courage, why blest be his name,
He had entered a house that was roaring on flame,
And saved, at the imminent risk of his life,
A print representing John Rogers and wife;
Then hurrah for True Blue! for he only can save
Our country from Ruin's oblivious grave!

The contest grew fiercer each following day,
The young and the old of both sides joined the fray;
Some voters were bought,
Some duels were fought;
One man had a part of his thigh shot away;
Both editors wrote,
The people would quote,
The candidates mounted the stump for display;
While some Oberlin men,
To the number of ten,
Bethought it a matter for which they should pray.

The day came at last, the ballots were cast,
And both parties' colors were nailed to the mast;
But the Oberlin men,
To the number of ten,
Struck the friends of Son-of-a-gun all aghast!
For neither they knew
The “Gun” or “True Blue,”
But thought it the safest to vote for the last.
And this, as their reasons for voting, they gave:
A man who would greet
A poor nig in the street,
Must certainly be a good friend of the slave;
And a man who would swear,
As profane as the “'square,”
Must certainly be an ungodly old knave.
“True Blue” was returned by majority ten,
And those were the votes of the Oberlin men.

MORAL.

Let every “constituent” coming to call,
Who's seen an election, and lived through it all,
With blush of conviction acknowledge, forsooth,
That the tale I have told isn't far from the truth.
When a President's up, or lower the grade
Of seekers for office, a hubbub is made;
A green one, perusing the prints at such times,
Would deem they'd selected a man for his crimes.
And though we can't say but a “Son-of-a-gun,”
Or another “True Blue,” too often is run,
'Twould be better by far
To have less wordy war,
Less blazonry, billingsgate, twitting, and pun;
For it all ends in self,
The pickings and pelf,—
Division takes place when the battle is won;

But the government stands
Though it changes its hands,
And keeps forward march, as it ever has done.

The story ended, and the flip
Went circling round from hand to lip;
The stranger paid the shot, you see,
Because they'd listened patiently.
Then conversation grew more gay;
Most had some funny thing say,
Till by degrees their stories grew
Warped sadly from the truth askew.
The Farmer told a mighty fib
About the virtues of his rib;
What webs she wove; how long they wore—
Never wore out and never tore.
The very breeches he had on
Got hitch'd a white-oak stump upon
One day, while ploughing; he held fast
And cheered his oxen, till at last
Stump, root and all, broke from the ground,
But left his breeches whole and sound.
The Blacksmith said, when he could see
Better than now, repeatedly
Cast iron he had welded well;
And tho' the thing seem'd strange to tell,
All that was needed, on the whole,
Was gumption and right kind of coal.
The Wit said that his mother's brother,
Or great-grandfather—one or t'other—
Scud in a dreadful gale at sea
That blew straight to eternity,

Ninety-six knots an hour, with all
The masts gone o'erboard in the squall,
And nothing but one scupper nail
Stuck in the deck in place of sail;
While o'er it stood one of the crew
To drive it in, if worse it blew!
The Miller's turn came next to try,
And he essayed a foolish lie
About the rats, or one great rat
That in his mill lived sleek and fat;
Watch'd him in all he had to do,
Was tame, and very knowing, too.
He said the rat, time and again,
Had sat and watched the grinding grain,
Perched on the hopper; and if he
Forgot to take toll properly,
The rat would squeak and fidget round,
Until the toll dish it had found;
Select the right one, and would bring it
If small; if large, the rat would sling it.
The Doctor, still tremendous “blue,”
Had no doubt that the tale was true;
He now knew why, when he sent grain,
So little flour came back again;
He wouldn't say the miller stole it,—
The rat had made him double toll it.
'Twas a strange rat, continued he,—
Strange fact in nat'ral history;
But he a yellow dog once had
That cast his ratship in the shade.
In his young days he played the flute;
The music charm'd the knowing brute,
Who'd sit for hours and hear him do it,
And whine a sort of second to it.

At last, the dog of yellow hairs
Attempted whining several airs,
And practised “Yankee Doodle,” till
The flute knock'd under to his skill.
The dog at last essayed to play,
Or whine out “Hail Columbia.”
He practised long, with patience rare,
And nearly perfect got the air;
Still doggedly resolved to mend it,—
The trouble was he couldn't end it,
But the last strains would keep re-whining,
Till painful 'twas to hear him trying.
And so for days the poor dog tried,
Grew thin upon it, sick and died;
A clear case of a broken heart,
A martyr to the tuneful art.
A great dog, that!—continued he,—
And brought his hand down forcibly,—
Hundreds, with lib'ral offers, sought him,
But, faith! no money could have bought him.
Such is a sample of things told
By those blue worthies; and if old
Munchausen had himself been there,
He'd found his peers, and rivals fair.
“Come, Uncle Mose!” at last cried they,
“Let's hear what you have got to say.”
But Uncle Mose, in accents slow,
Said he'd no wond'rous things to show.
“But we know better,” they replied;
“You've been all o'er the country-side
Have been a soldier, and in strife,
And led a most eventful life;

So to hear something now, we mean,
That you have done, or heard, or seen.”
“Well, gentlemen,” quoth Uncle Mose,
Brushing pipe-ashes from his clothes,—
“I've no great things to tell, indeed;
But if you're willing to give heed,
A little simple thing I'll show,
That happened many years ago.”

UNCLE MOSE'S STORY.

The little thing I tell about
Happened, you see, when I was out
In the last war. I used to do
My duty, like a soldier true,
And all my company were brave
Men as e'er saw a standard wave.
Our courage was so noted grown
That through the army we were known,
From what, in many a bloody fight,
We'd “gi'n and took,” as “Death's Delight.”
I say the men were all true blue;
Each one some feat of prowess knew,
And rough and ready, aye, to show—
Except myself, of course, you know.
At last a little thing took place—
A chance for honor or disgrace—
Made some impression on my mind;
Tho', after all, 'twa'n't much, you'll find.
We then were stationed near the line,
This “true blue” company of mine;

The enemy just o'er the border
Were camp'd in scientific order;
And frequently our scouts were sent
To reconnoitre their intent.
One morn myself and others three
Were sent to see what we could see,
And warily we kept our tramp
Some two, three miles outside our camp,
Each man of us determined he
Some new thing to report would see;
And, faith! we saw, too late to hit one,
Three Indians scouting for the Briton.
They just from out the bush broke cover,
Pop! bang! and laid my comrades over.
It was a serious time for me,
Thus left a lone minority,
And so, thought I, here gives leg bail,
Or who'll be left to tell the tale?
So, gentlemen, you see I run,
Believe me, more for life than fun,
And being then young, strong, and fleet,
Grass did not grow beneath my feet.
Over my shoulder I could see
The three red devils after me;
And after running till I felt
That I should into soap-grease melt,
On looking back, I saw that one
Redskin the others had outrun,
And with his hatchet poised to throw,
Was just preparing for the blow.
I wheeled with desperate intent,
My eye along the barrel bent
And let its direful contents fly,
And blow'd him to eternity.

Then swift as ever on I run,
Reloading, as I ran, my gun,
Kicking off this, and then that shoe,—
Hard followed by the vengeful two!
I ran till at the point of death;
My heart throb'd hard, I gasped for breath:
But looking back, could see that one
Redskin the other had outrun.
And with his hatchet poised to throw,
Was just preparing for the blow.
I wheeled with desperate intent,
My eye along the barrel bent,
And let its direful contents fly,
And blow'd him to eternity!
Then on again I led the race;
Short seem'd to me my day of grace;
'Twas yet a good mile to the camp,
'Twixt it and me a miry swamp,
Where 'twere impossible to run;
But I reloaded my good gun
While running like a panting deer
With bloodhounds gaping in his rear.
Just as I neared the swamp, I knew
The game was o'er, the race was through;
The sweat was steaming thro' my coat,
My heart seem'd right here, in my throat,
My knees felt weak, my eyes grew dim,
All things around appeared to swim;
But still resolved was I to make
One effort more, for life's dear sake;
So turning round, I yet could see
The Redskin no great way from me,
And with his hatchet poised to throw,
Was just preparing for the blow.

I wheeled with desperate intent,
My eye along the barrel bent,
And—“Hang it, Uncle Mose!” cried one,
“You blowed him, also;—do have done!”

No, gentlemen, drawled Uncle Mose,
As with a quiet air he rose
To go; no, gentlemen, said he,
That fellow,—d-a-a-mn him! he killed me!

“Landlord,” quoth I, “the clock says morn,
Give Uncle Mose an extra horn;
The others have done fairly well,
But we'll allow he bears the bell.”