Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“They are varmints for money,” old Denis said,
As he took off his hat and scratched his head,
Where he stood in the field with his foot on his spade,—
“Money they never in honesty made.”
“And where do they get it?” “Steal it, to be sure;
For a weasel will rob both rich and poor;
Steal from the cabin, the church or the hall,
Without any conscience for helpless or old,
And not for a hap'orth of use at all,
But just for the love of the silver and gold.
Wherever the miser may bury his store,—
In the garden three feet deep or more,
In a hole of the wall or under the floor,
Or behind the cross-beam over the door,
Hidden, however securely or dim,
It's known to the weasel as well as to him.—
Sometimes it lives in the miser's house,
In the crannied walls, like rat or mouse;
But rats and mice leave their cozy homes
When the bold little cunning weasel comes.
Or it worms its way through the mouldy thatch,
And up in the rafters keeps secret watch

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O'er the movements and doings of folks below,
To see where their money is hidden, you know.—
When the careful housewife counts her gear,
Half dead for fear of anyone near,
Stretch'd on a joist it leans its ear,
For the clink, clink, clink, and chink, chink, chink,
Is the sweetest music a weasel can hear.
Its little black diamonds gleam at the sight,
And its pretty white waistcoat heaves with delight:
And aye, as the housewife clink, clink, clinks,
That silver and gold shall be mine, it thinks.
Or perhaps, it lies crouch'd inside of the wall,
And peeps thro' a crevice so round and small,
That anyone catching the glance of its eye,
Takes it for the sheen of a blue-bottle fly.
Then the miser, thinking all safe and sound,
Creeps to his hoard, looking round and round,
Pausing and list'ning in horrible fear
At the thought of a footstep coming near,
Falls down, and worships his god in the pose;
But he little knows, he little knows
That the blue-bottle fly is the weasel's eye
Peering at him wherever he goes.”
“But, when does the weasel help itself,
And where keeps it all this ill-gotten pelf?—”
“Why, just at the gray of the morning, sir,
That sound sleeping hour when no one's astir.
Ay, then may the weasel be seen on the hearth,
A perfect wonder of playful mirth,

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Dancing around and dancing around
A bright gold coin it has stolen or found.
But, ere the red streaks light up the gray,
It nips up its guinea and scampers away,
Without e'en the faintest patter or noise,
And up through the walls to the place of its choice;
Or down through the floor to its crannied store,
Somewhere about the foundation-stone,
And drops its guinea among many more,
To lie unknown, long, long unknown,
Till all the folks are dead or away
To the Irishman's home in Amerikay;
When the poor old cabin is pull'd to the ground,
And the long hidden wealth of the weasel found,
As much as had kept them here at home
For generations and years to come.
You don't believe it, sir! By the lord,
It's truth I tell ye, every word,
And none knows the truth of it better than I;
Just listen a minute and I'll tell you why.
This very ground on which we stand—
Twenty acres of arable land,
Ten of old pasture, and ten of bog,
And five of gnarly woody scrog—
Five and forty acres all told
My grandfather bought with a weasel's gold.—

It's an old, old story, and it would not have done
In his day to tell it to everyone,
For fear of the treasure-trove, you know.

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But all are dead, both women and men,
And in their graves an age ago.
In this very field, he rented it then—
On a sweet summer day as ever shone,
He was digging potatoes here alone;
And, raising his body to ease his bones,
He look'd across at yon cairn of stones,
The gathering of many a bygone day,
With moss and mould all green and gray,
And there he spied a weasel at play,
Out and in through cranny and seam,
And down the cairn like a jaggëd gleam
Of lightning in a leaden sky,
Or, leaving the cairn, it would scamper by,
And down the potato furrows pass,
Like a sunny brook through the meadow grass,
Now leaping, now lost to the watcher's eye;
Yet, ever and aye 'twould again return,
To one little hole in the stony cairn,
Where it hid for a while, then came peeping out,
Looking up and down and round about.
But once when it left, cried he, ‘By my soul,
I'll see what there is in the weasel's hole.’
So he ran to the spot, and with nimble stroke
Into its little castle broke,
Picked out the stones, and the mossy mould,
Deeper and deeper let in the light,
Till he reached the last chamber, and lord, what a sight
Of shining silver and gleaming gold!
He could do nothing but stand and gaze,

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And his very heart stood still with amaze!
He gazed till he felt himself gazing blind;
But he heard the brush of the weasel behind,
And then, oh dear, oh dear what a sound
Of piteous misery and dismay
Pierced through that quiet summer day
When the weasel saw that its treasure was found!
It sprang with one leap to its golden heap,
Bewail'd and wrung its little fore-paws,
And then with one of its sharpest claws—
Would you believe it? it's past all belief!—
Ript up its belly from tail to throat,
Put off its skin like a cast-off coat,
Lay down in its flesh, and died with grief!

It's beyond belief, but true for all that—
When he counted the money into his hat,
There were spade-ace guineas three hundred and five,
And ten pounds in silver, as I'm alive!

So he laid the weasel and its skin
Into the place where the money had lain,
Built the cairn all up again,
And pray'd for the honour'd dead within.
And unto this day man, woman and bairn
Give it the name of the ‘Weasel's Cairn.’”