THE BLACKSMITH'S SERENADE
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(A pantomine and farce, to be acted by My Lady on one side of a shutter while the singer chants on the other, to an iron guitar)
John Littlehouse the redhead was a large ruddy man
Quite proud to be a blacksmith, and he loved Polly Ann, Polly Ann.
Straightway to her window with his iron guitar he came
Breathing like a blacksmith—his wonderful heart's flame.
Though not very bashful and not very bold
He had reached the plain conclusion his passion must be told.
And so he sang: “Awake, awake,”—this hip-hoo-ray-ious man.
“Do you like me, do you love me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?
The rooster on my coalshed crows at break of day.
It makes a person happy to hear his roundelay.
The fido in my woodshed barks at fall of night.
He makes one feel so safe and snug. He barks exactly right.
I swear to do my stylish best and purchase all I can
Of the flummeries, flunkeries and mummeries of man.
And I will carry in the coal and the water from the spring
And I will sweep the porches if you will cook and sing.
No doubt your Pa sleeps like a rock. Of course Ma is awake
But dares not say she hears me, for gentle custom's sake.
Your sleeping father knows I am a decent honest man.
Will you wake him, Polly Ann,
And if he dares deny it I will thrash him, lash bash mash
Hash him, Polly Ann.
Hum hum hum, fee fie fo fum—
And my brawn should wed your beauty.
Do you hear me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”
Polly had not heard of him before, but heard him now.
She blushed behind the shutters like a pippin on the bough.
She was not overfluttered, she was not overbold.
She was glad a lad was living with a passion to be told.
But she spoke up to her mother: “Oh, what an awful man:—”
This merry merry quite contrary tricky trixy, Polly Ann, Polly Ann.
The neighbors put their heads out of the windows. They said:—
“What sort of turtle dove is this that seems to wake the dead?”
Yes, in their nighties whispered this question to the night.
They did not dare to shout it. It wouldn't be right.
And so, I say, they whispered:—“Does she hear this awful man,
Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”
John Littlehouse the redhead sang on of his desires:
“Steel makes the wires of lyres, makes the frames of terrible towers
And circus chariots' tires.
Believe me, dear, a blacksmith man can feel.
I will bind you, if I can to my ribs with hoops of steel.
Do you hear me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”
And then his tune was silence, for he was not a fool.
He let his voice rest, his iron guitar cool.
And thus he let the wind sing, the stars sing and the grass sing,
The prankishness of love sing, the girl's tingling feet sing,
Her trembling sweet hands sing, her mirror in the dark sing,
Her grace in the dark sing, her pillow in the dark sing,
The savage in her blood sing, her starved little heart sing,
Silently sing.
“Yes, I hear you, Mister Man,”
To herself said Polly Ann, Polly Ann.
He shouted one great loud “Good night,” and laughed,
And skipped home.
And every star was winking in the wide wicked dome.
And early in the morning, sweet Polly stole away.
And though the town went crazy, she is his wife today.
