Farm ballads / by Will Carleton [electronic text]

OTHER POEMS.

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN.

THEY'VE got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do, And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine, In every body's sight. They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in' my voice and vote; For it was never my desire, To praise the Lord by note!

I've been a sister good an' true For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led! And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, "I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies." I al'ays liked that blessed hymn— I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right; When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know, They play a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a lusty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown—I could but look— She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off!

An' Deacon Tubbs—he all broke down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And never more come back; And when the folks gets up to sing— Whene'er that time shall be— I do not want no patent thing A-squealin' over me!

THE EDITOR'S GUESTS.

THE Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread: There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals topped, And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped; There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and zephyrs, And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers; There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two, And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it, or who? There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous school, And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool; There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by, Canonizing some harmless old brother who had done nothing worse than to die; There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents to sting and to smite him; There were gift enterprises to sell him, and bitters attempting to bite him; There were long staring "ads" from the city, and money with never a one, Which added, "Please give this insertion, and send in your bill when you're done;" There were letters from organizations—their meetings, their wants, and their laws— Which said, "Can you print this announcement for the good of our glorious cause?" There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows, Wrapped in notes with "Please give us a notice" demurely slipped in at the close;

In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink-spattered trash, There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting perhaps it was cash.

The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous things. On different lines of action, and the pulling of different strings; Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal duns; On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt-paying ones; On friends who subscribed "just to help him," and wordy encouragement lent, And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid him a cent; On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every hour, Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered that "printers are sour:" On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so without stint That they kept an eye out on his business, and told him just what he should print; On men who had rendered him favors, and never pushed forward their claims, So long as the paper was crowded with "locals" containing their names; On various other small matters, sufficient his temper to roil, And finely contrived to be making the blood of an editor boil; And so one may see that his feelings could hardly be said to be smooth, And he needed some pleasant occurrence his ruffled emotions to soothe: He had it; for lo! on the threshold, a slow and reliable tread, And a farmer invaded the sanctum, and these are the words that he said:

"Good-mornin', sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body to-day? I'm glad you're to home; for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away. Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one week before: But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be whoopin' it up to 'em more. That feller that's printin' The Smasher is goin' for you perty smart; And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they thought he was gettin' the start. But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word for you; I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you knew; And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas it is so, That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him for what he don't know.

But, layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my little boy Jim; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen of him.

"My family stock is increasin', while other folks' seems to run short. I've got a right smart of a family—it's one of the old-fashioned sort: There's Ichabod, Isaac, and Israel, a-workin' away on the farm— They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things go off like a charm. There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a couple of eels; But they're tol'able steady in one thing—they al'ays git round to their meals. There's Peter is busy inventin' (though what he invents I can't see), And Joseph is studyin' medicine—and both of 'em boardin' with me. There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my farm for myself, And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid on the shelf. The rest of the boys are all growin', 'cept this little runt, which is Jim, And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin' an editor outen o' him.

"He ain't no great shakes for to labor, though I've labored with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to feel; But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig. I keep him a-carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a-helpin' the women indoors; There's churnin' and washin' of dishes, and other descriptions of chores; But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm afraid, So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade. His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim, But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!

"It ain't much to get up a paper—it wouldn't take him long for to learn; He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to turn. And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right through.

I used for to wonder at readin' and where it was got up, and how;But 'tis most of it made by machinery—I can see it all plain enough now. And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper to see to the length of the lines; And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker than grease, And a-rentin' her heaven-born productions at a couple of dollars apiece; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen of Jim!"

The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made his reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek? Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and browbeat an impudent dunce? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half a dozen at once? Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows how to not know too much? Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros' hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage, and vim? If so, we perhaps can be makin an editor 'outen of him.'"

The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread; And he said, "Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head."

But lo! on the rickety stair-case, another reliable tread, And entered another old farmer, and these are the words that he said:

"Good-morning, sir, Mr. Editor, how is the folks to-day? I owe you for next year's paper; I thought I'd come in and pay. And Jones is agoin' to take it, and this is his money here; I shut down on lendin' it to him, and coaxed him to try it a year.

And here is a few little items that happened last week in our town: I thought they'd look good for the paper, and so I just jotted 'em down. And here is a basket of cherries my wife picked expressly for you; And a small bunch of flowers from Jennie—she thought she must send somethin' too. You're doin' the politics bully, as all of our family agree; Just keep your old goose-quill a-floppin', and give 'em a good one for me. And now you are chuck full of business, and I won't be takin' your time; I've things of my own I must 'tend to—good-day, sir, I b'lieve I will climb."

The Editor sat in his sanctum and brought down his fist with a thump: "God bless that old farmer," he muttered, "he's a regular Editor's trump."

And 'tis thus with our noble profession, and thus it will ever be, still; There are some who appreciate its labors, and some who perhaps never will. But in the great time that is coming, when loudly the trumpet shall sound, And they who have labored and rested shall come from the quivering ground; When they who have striven and suffered to teach and ennoble the race, Shall march at the front of the column, each one in his God-given place, As they pass through the gates of The City with proud and victorious tread, The editor, printer, and "devil," will travel not far from the head.

THE HOUSE WHERE WE WERE WED.

I'VE been to the old farm-house, good-wife, Where you and I were wed; Where the love was born to our two hearts That now lies cold and dead. Where a long-kept secret to you I told, In the yellow beams of the moon, And we forged our vows out of love's own gold, To be broken so soon, so soon!

I passed through all the old rooms, good-wife; I wandered on and on; I followed the steps of a flitting ghost, The ghost of a love that is gone. And he led me out to the arbor, wife, Where with myrtles I twined your hair; And he seated me down on the old stone step, And left me musing there.

The sun went down as it used to do, And sunk in the sea of night; The two bright stars that we called ours Came slowly unto my sight; But the one that was mine went under a cloud— Went under a cloud, alone; And a tear that I wouldn't have shed for the world, Fell down on the old gray stone.

But there be words can ne'er be unsaid, And deeds can ne'er be undone,

Except perhaps in another world, Where life's once more begun. And maybe some time in the time to come, When a few more years are sped, We'll love again as we used to love, In the house where we were wed.

OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD.

BY the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar, And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore, On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid, On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed, Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await, Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State, With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head, Is a band of noble heroes—is our Army of the Dead.

On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine, On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green, By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast, On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the wierd Pacific coast, In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines, On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines, Over all our happy country—over all our Nation spread, Is a band of noble heroes—is our Army of the Dead.

Not with musket, and with saber, and with glad heart beating fast; Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody war was past; Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note; Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float; Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp, Come they grandly marching to us—for the boys are all in camp. With forgetfulness upon it—each within his earthy bed, Waiting for his marching orders—is our Army of the Dead.

Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and narrow tents, And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence; And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish of the wife, Can not with their magic presence call the soldier back to life;

And the brother's manly sorrow, and the father's mournful pride, Can not give back to his country him who for his country died. They who for the trembling Nation in its hour of trial bled, Lie, in these its years of triumph, with our Army of the Dead.

When the years of Earth are over, and the cares of Earth are done, When the reign of Time is ended, and Eternity begun, When the thunders of Omniscience on our wakened senses roll, And the sky above shall wither, and be gathered like a scroll; When, among the lofty mountains, and across the mighty sea, The sublime celestial bugler shall ring out the reveille, Then shall march with brightest laurels, and with proud, victorious tread, To their station up in heaven, our Grand Army of the Dead!

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

UNDERNEATH an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover. Round them danced the sunbeams bright, Green the grass-lawn stretched before them; While the apple-blossoms white Hung in rich profusion o'er them.

Naught within her eyes he read That would tell her mind unto him; Though their light, he after said, Quivered swiftly through and through him; Till at last his heart burst free From the prayer with which 'twas laden, And he said, "When wilt thou be Mine for evermore, fair maiden?"

"When," said she, "the breeze of May With white flakes our heads shall cover, I will be thy brideling gay— Thou shall be my husband-lover." "How," said he, in sorrow bowed, "Can I hope such hopeful weather? Breeze of May and Winter's cloud Do not often fly together."

Quickly as the words he said, From the west a wind came sighing,

And on each uncovered head Sent the apple-blossoms flying; "'Flakes of white!' thou'rt mine," said he, "Sooner than thy wish or knowing!" "Nay, I heard the breeze," quoth she, "When in yonder forest blowing."

APPLES GROWING.

UNDERNEATH an apple-tree Sat a dame of comely seeming, With her work upon her knee, And her great eyes idly dreaming. O'er the harvest-acres bright, Came her husband's din of reaping; Near to her, an infant wight Through the tangled grass was creeping.

On the branches long and high, And the great green apples growing, Rested she her wandering eye, With a retrospective knowing. "This," she said, "the shelter is, Where, when gay and raven-headed, I consented to be his, And our willing hearts were wedded.

"Laughing words and peals of mirth, Long are changed to grave endeavor; Sorrow's winds have swept to earth Many a blossomed hope forever. Thunder-heads have hovered o'er— Storms my path have chilled and shaded; Of the bloom my gay youth bore, Some has fruited—more has faded."

Quickly, and amid her sighs, Through the grass her baby wrestled,

Smiled on her its father's eyes, And unto her bosom nestled. And with sudden, joyous glee, Half the wife's and half the mother's, "Still the best is left," said she: "I have learned to live for others."

ONE AND TWO.

I.

IF you to me be cold, Or I be false to you, The world will go on, I think, Just as it used to do; The clouds will flirt with the moon, The sun will kiss the sea, The wind to the trees will whisper, And laugh at you and me; But the sun will not shine so bright, The clouds will not seem so white, To one, as they will to two; So I think you had better be kind, And I had best be true, And let the old love go on, Just as it used to do.

II.

If the whole of a page be read, If a book be finished through, Still the world may read on, I think, Just as it used to do; For other lovers will con The pages that we have passed, And the treacherous gold of the binding Will glitter unto the last. But lids have a lonely look, And one may not read the book— It opens only to two;

So I think you had better be kind, And I had best be true, And let the reading go on, Just as it used to do.

III.

If we who have sailed together Flit out of each other's view, The world will sail on, I think, Just as it used to do; And we may reckon by stars That flash from different skies, And another of love's pirates May capture my lost prize; But ships long time together Can better the tempest weather Than any other two; So I think you had better be kind, And I had best be true, That we together may sail, Just as we used to do.

THE FADING FLOWER.

THERE is a chillness in the air— A coldness in the smile of day; And e'en the sunbeam's crimson glare Seems shaded with a tinge of gray.

Weary of journeys to and fro, The sun low creeps adown the sky; And on the shivering earth below, The long, cold shadows grimly lie.

But there will fall a deeper shade, More chilling than the Autumn's breath: There is a flower that yet must fade, And yield its sweetness up to death.

She sits upon the window-seat, Musing in mournful silence there, While on her brow the sunbeams meet, And dally with her golden hair.

She gazes on the sea of light That overflows the western skies, Till her great soul seems plumed for flight From out the window of her eyes.

Hopes unfulfilled have vexed her breast, Sad smiles have checked the rising sigh; Until her weary heart confessed, Reluctantly, that she must die.

And she has thought of all the ties—The golden ties—that bind her here; Of all that she has learned to prize, Of all that she has counted dear;

The joys of body, heart, and mind, The pleasures that she loves so well; The grasp of friendship, warm and kind, And love's delicious, hallowed spell.

And she has wept, that she must lie Beneath the snow-wreaths, drifted deep, With no fond mother standing nigh, To watch her in her silent sleep.

And she has prayed, if it might be Within the reach of human skill, And not averse to Heaven, that she Might live a little longer still.

But earthly hope is gone; and now Comes in its place a brighter beam, Leaving upon her snowy brow The impress of a heavenly dream:

That she, when her frail body yields, And fades away to mortal eyes, Shall burst through Heaven's eternal fields, And bloom again—in Paradise.

AUTUMN DAYS.

YELLOW, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease Of the southward-flying swallow. Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden, Autumn days!

Shivering, quivering, tearful days, Fretfully and sadly weeping; Dreading still, with anxious gaze, Icy fetters round thee creeping; O'er the cheerless, withered plain, Woefully and hoarsely calling; Pelting hail and drenching rain On thy scanty vestments falling. Sad and mournful are thy ways, Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!

DEATH-DOOMED.

THEY'RE taking me to the gallows, mother—they mean to hang me high; They're going to gather round me there, and watch me till I die; All earthly joy has vanished now, and gone each mortal hope,— They'll draw a cap across my eyes, and round my neck a rope; The crazy mob will shout and groan—the priest will read a prayer, The drop will fall beneath my feet and leave me in the air. They think I murdered Allen Bayne; for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!

The grass that grows in yonder meadow, the lambs that skip and play, The pebbled brook behind the orchard, that laughs upon its way, The flowers that bloom in the dear old garden, the birds that sing and fly, Are clear and pure of human blood, and, mother, so am I! By father's grave on yonder hill—his name without a stain— I ne'er had malice in my heart, or murdered Allen Bayne! But twelve good men have found me guilty, for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!

The air is fresh and bracing, mother; the sun shines bright and high; It is a pleasant day to live—a gloomy one to die! It is a bright and glorious day the joys of earth to grasp— It is a sad and wretched one to strangle, choke, and gasp! But let them damp my lofty spirit, or cow me if they can! They send me like a rogue to death—I'll meet it like a man; For I never murdered Allen Bayne! but so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!

Poor little sister 'Bell will weep, and kiss me as I lie; But kiss her twice and thrice for me, and tell her not to cry; Tell her to weave a bright, gay garland, and crown me as of yore, Then plant a lily upon my grave, and think of me no more.

And tell that maiden whose love I sought, that I was faithful yet; But I must lie in a felon's grave, and she had best forget. My memory is stained forever; for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!

Lay me not down by my father's side; for once, I mind, he said No child that stained his spotless name should share his mortal bed. Old friends would look beyond his grave, to my dishonored one, And hide the virtues of the sire behind the recreant son. And I can fancy, if there my corse its fettered limbs should lay, His frowning skull and crumbling bones would shrink from me away; But I swear to God I'm innocent, and never blood have shed! And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!

Lay me in my coffin, mother, as you've sometimes seen me rest: One of my arms beneath my head, the other on my breast. Place my Bible upon my heart—nay, mother, do not weep— And kiss me as in happier days you kissed me when asleep. And for the rest—for form or rite—but little do I reck; But cover up that curséd stain—the black mark on my neck! And pray to God for his great mercy on my devoted head; For they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!

* * * * * * *

But hark! I hear a mighty murmur among the jostling crowd! A cry!—a shout!—a roar of voices!—it echoes long and loud! There dashes a horseman with foaming steed and tightly-gathered rein! He sits erect!—he waves his hand!—good Heaven! 'tis Allen Bayne! The lost is found, the dead alive, my safety is achieved! For he waves his hand again, and shouts, "The prisoner is reprieved!" Now, mother, praise the God you love, and raise your drooping head; For the murderous gallows, black and grim, is cheated of its dead!

UP THE LINE.

THROUGH blinding storm and clouds of night, We swiftly pushed our restless flight; With thundering hoof and warning neigh, We urged our steed upon his way Up the line.

Afar the lofty head-light gleamed; Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed; And glistening bright, and rising high, Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky, Up the line.

Adown the long, complaining track, Our wheels a message hurried back; And quivering through the rails ahead, Went news of our resistless tread, Up the line.

The trees gave back our din and shout, And flung their shadow arms about; And shivering in their coats of gray, They heard us roaring far away, Up the line.

The wailing storm came on apace, And dashed its tears into our fade; But steadily still we pierced it through, And cut the sweeping wind in two, Up the line.

A rattling rush across the ridge, A thunder-peal beneath the bridge;

And valley and hill and sober plain Re-echoed our triumphant strain, Up the line.

And when the Eastern streaks of gray Bespoke the dawn of coming day, We halted our steed, his journey o'er, And urged his giant form no more, Up the line.

HOW WE KEPT THE DAY.

I.

THE great procession came up the street, With clatter of hoofs and tramp of feet; There was General Jones to guide the van, And Corporal Jinks, his right-hand man; And each was riding his high horse, And each had epaulettes, of course; And each had a sash of the bloodiest red, And each had a shako on his head; And each had a sword by his left side, And each had his mustache newly dyed; And that was the way We kept the day, The great, the grand, the glorious day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With a battle or two, the histories say,) Our National Independence!

II.

The great procession came up the street, With loud da capo, and brazen repeat; There was Hans, the leader, a Teuton born, A sharp who worried the E flat horn; And Baritone Jake, and Alto Mike, Who never played any thing twice alike; And Tenor Tom, of conservative mind, Who always came out a note behind; And Dick, whose tuba was seldom dumb,And Bob, who punished the big bass drum.

And when they stopped a minute to rest, The martial band discoursed its best; The ponderous drum and the pointed fife Proceeded to roll and shriek for life; And Bonaparte Crossed the Rhine, anon, And The Girl I Left Behind Me came on; And that was the way The bands did play On the loud, high-toned, harmonious day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With some music of bullets, our sires would say,) Our glorious Independence!

III.

The great procession came up the street, With a wagon of virgins, sour and sweet; Each bearing the bloom of recent date, Each misrepresenting a single State. There was California, pious and prim, And Louisiana, humming a hymn; The Texas lass was the smallest one— Rhode Island weighed the tenth of a ton; The Empire State was pure as a pearl, And Massachusetts a modest girl; Vermont was red as the blush of a rose— And the goddess sported a turn-up nose; And looked, free sylph, where she painfully sat, The worlds she would give to be out of that. And in this way The maidens gay Flashed up the street on the beautiful day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With some sacrifices, our mothers would say,) Our glorious Independence!

IV.

The great procession came up the street, With firemen uniformed flashily neat; There was Tubbs, the foreman, with voice like five, The happiest, proudest man alive; With a trumpet half as long as a gun, Which he used for the glory of "Number 1;" There was Nubbs, who had climbed a ladder high, And saved a dog that was left to die; There was Cubbs, who had dressed in black and blue The eye of the foreman of Number 2. And each marched on with steady stride, And each had a look of fiery pride; And each glanced slyly round, with a whim That all of the girls were looking at him; And that was the way, With grand display, They marched through the blaze of the glowing day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With some hot fighting, our fathers would say,) Our glorious Independence!

V.

The eager orator took the stand, In the cause of our great and happy land; He aired his own political views, He told us all of the latest news: How the Boston folks one night took tea— Their grounds for steeping it in the sea; What a heap of Britons our fathers did kill, At the little skirmish of Bunker Hill; He put us all in anxious doubt As to how that matter was coming out; And when at last he had fought us through To the bloodless year of '82,

'Twas the fervent hope of every one That he, as well as the war, was done. But he continued to painfully soar For something less than a century more; Until at last he had fairly begun The wars of eighteen-sixty-one; And never rested till 'neath the tree That shadowed the glory of Robert Lee. And then he inquired, with martial frown, "Americans, must we go down?" And as an answer from Heaven were sent, The stand gave way, and down he went. A singer or two beneath him did drop— A big fat alderman fell atop; And that was the way Our orator lay, Till we fished him out, on the eloquent day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With a clash of arms, Pat. Henry would say,) Our wordy Independence!

VI.

The marshal his hungry compatriots led, Where Freedom's viands were thickly spread, With all that man or woman could eat, From crisp to sticky—from sour to sweet. There were chickens that scarce had learned to crow, And veteran roosters of long ago; There was one old turkey, huge and fierce, That was hatched in the days of President Pierce; Of which, at last, with an ominous groan, The parson essayed to swallow a bone; And it took three sinners, plucky and stout, To grapple the evil and bring it out. And still the dinner went merrily on, And James and Lucy and Hannah and John

Kept winking their eyes and smacking their lips, And passing the eatables into eclipse. And that was the way The grand array Of victuals vanished on that day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With some starvation, the records say,) Our well-fed Independence!

VII.

The people went home through the sultry night, In a murky mood and a pitiful plight; Not more had the rockets' sticks gone down, Than the spirits of them who had "been to town;" Not more did the fire-balloon collapse, Than the pride of them who had known mishaps. There were feathers ruffled, and tempers roiled, And several brand-new dresses spoiled; There were hearts that ached from envy's thorns, And feet that twinged with trampled corns; There were joys proved empty, through and through, And several purses empty, too; And some reeled homeward, muddled and late, Who hadn't taken their glory straight; And some were fated to lodge, that night, In the city lock-up, snug and tight; And that was the way The deuce was to pay, As it always is, at the close of the day, That gave us— Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! (With some restrictions, the fault-finders say,) That which, please God, we will keep for aye— Our National Independence!