The Last Poems of Philip Freneau

The wedded pair began to look
Askance, on father's chimney smoke;
And many a scheme is set afloat
To quit the old paternal spot,
And seek, in places little known,
Both smoke, and smoke-house of their own.

Around the field, with rueful eye,
A yankee walked, and many a sigh—
A yankee of an ancient stock,
The pilgrims of the Plymouth Rock;
Then, casting one fond glance on Sue,
He said, “My dear—it will not do!

“This field, this soil, so old and worn,
Has seen two hundred crops of corn:
Here onions throve in seasons past,
But onions will not always last;
Here, barley grew some years ago,
But barley will not always grow.
At least, it grows so poor and lean
I am ashamed it should be seen;
I did my best to make manure
But blights and blasts have made us poor.”
Susannah answered, with a tear,
“Then what, Ei-jah, do we here?

“For all I sewed or all I spun,
I have to send the hourly dun;
Of all my truck, in yonder dell,
Three pumpkins only prospered well;

The crop is perished in the ground,
That might have brought me—twenty pound,
Of all my dear potatoe patch,
There never yet was seen the match,
When, yesterday, amidst the dew,
To boil with pork, I scratched a few,
A boy that came from Nabby's hut,
Mistook them for the hickory nut.
The matter is as clear as glass
That we must join the beggar class.—
On household stuff that man of law,
The Sheriff, soon will have his paw.
I dread to see provision scant,
The oven cold—the house in want.”

ELIJAH

Before that you shall want, my duck,
I'll grub the bog, or fall the oak,
Make forests bow, where'er they grow,
And rivers wait, where'er they flow—
In boat, or cart, I take my trick,
And fight the Red-Men—with my stick.

If once resolved to emigrate
We soon may reach another state.
Of climates we can take our choice—
What say you to the Illinois?
That country felt not Adam's course,
If we may credit Doctor Morse,
Who styles it Plenty's favorite seat,
And paints a paradise complete.
By all that's good, this white-oak chest
May reach Missouri in the west:
Shall travel hard, thro' thick and thin,
With double lock on what's therein,

The chest that holds, safe folded down,
Among the rest, your wedding gown.

These oxen, comrades of my toil,
May yet, on Alabama's soil,
In pastures feed, and fields explore,
Such as they never knew before.
I'll pitch my tent, and boil my pot,
Where folks may purchase, steal, or SQUAT.

While light of heart, tho' scant of cash,
No doubt have I to see Wabash;
Adown the Mississippi stream,
I'll travel by the power of steam;—
And thus we sail, my Susan dear,
From Baton Rouge to Bayou Pierre—
We go, where plenty decks the plains,
And Summer suns rear sugar canes.

To such blest scenes of joy complete
Will you and I, dear girl, retreat,
Where Nature, with a liberal hand,
Displays abundance through the land;
And not, as where by frosts oppressed,
We squeeze—a nothing—from her breast.

SUSANNAH
Elijah, were we each divorced,
And things were at the very worst,
Should deacon Nathan press his suit,
Or Congress men, of more repute;
Had they ten thousands in the Bank,
And moving in the foremost rank—
Were you as crooked as a bow,
Or hump-backed as a buffaloe,
As poor as Job (and all agree

That none could be more poor than he)
I would reject their suit, with scorn,
And journey with you to Cape Horne.

ELIJAH

Were you as homely as a squaw,
And wore a bonnet, made of straw,
Still for the virtues of the mind,
Such Spirit, with discretion joined;
Were I a single man again
I would be headmost in your train;
I would prefer a lass, like you,
To all that princes ever knew—
God help us, if you had a nose
As long as what I might suppose,
Still I would swear from mental charms,
I clasped a Goddess in my arms.

But ere we bid our last adieu,
We must consult your father, too;—
To keep ourselves, and bantling, warm,
We rent a corner of his farm.
He once paraded to the west,
And home, again, he came distressed;—
We must discourse him on our plan,
So, off—and see the good old man.

University of Virginia Library

Elijah, The New England Emigrant. No. I