Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Out Where the West Begins


Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,
Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
That’s where the West begins;
Out where the sun is a little brighter,
Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, —
That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
Out where friendship’s a little truer,
That’s where the West begins;
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,
Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing,
Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, —
That’s where the West begins;

Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,
That’s where the West begins;
Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there’s more of giving and less of buying,
And a man makes friends without half trying —
That’s where the West begins.

~ Arthur Chapman

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Dance the Boatman


The boatman he can dance and sing 
And he's the lad for any old thing. 
Dance the boatman, dance! 
Dance the boatman, dance! 
He'll dance all night On his toes so light 
And go down to his boat in the morning. 
Hooraw the boatman, ho! 
Spends his money with the gals ashore! 
Hooraw the boatman, ho! 
Rolling down the Ohio!

From Louisville down the Ohio,
He's known wherever them boats do go,
Dance the boatman, dance! 
Dance the boatman, dance! 
He'll drink and dance and kiss them all,
And away in his boat in the morning,
Hooraw the boatman, ho! 
Spends his money with the gals ashore! 
Hooraw the boatman, ho! 
Rolling down the Ohio!

The girls all wait for boatman Bill,
For he's the one they all love still,
Dance the boatman, dance! 
Dance the boatman, dance! 
He'll buy them drinks and swing them high,
And leave in his boat in the morning.
Hooraw the boatman, ho! 
Spends his money with the gals ashore! 
Hooraw the boatman, ho! 
Rolling down the Ohio!

~ Anonymous

Monday, January 29, 2018

The Old Oaken Bucket


How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to view! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 
The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well,— 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 
For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;— 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

~ Samuel Woodworth

Friday, January 26, 2018

The Village Blacksmith


Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thursday, January 25, 2018

Home - Thoughts from Abroad


Oh, to be in England 
Now that April's there, 
And whoever wakes in England 
Sees, some morning, unaware, 
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England—now! 

And after April, when May follows, 
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— 
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 

~ Robert Browning

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

My Heart's in the Highlands


Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valor, the country of worth! 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer, 
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe ---
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

Farewell to the mountains high-covered with snow, 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer, 
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe ---
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

~ Robert Burns


Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Up at a Villa --- Down in the City


(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; 
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! 
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; 
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. 

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! 
—I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. 

But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why? 
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! 
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; 
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; 
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; 
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 
'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: 
You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, 
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. 

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; 
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. 

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! 
In the shade it sings and springs: in the shine such foambows flash 
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash 
Round the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash, 
Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, 
Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. 
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, 
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, 
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. 
Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: 
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: 
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; 
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 
At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot! 
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. 

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! 
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and so, 
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero, 
"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, 
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." 
Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart 
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! 
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 

But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still—ah, the pity, the pity! 
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, 
And the penitents dressed in white shirts a-holding the yellow candles; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles. 
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: 
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; 
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

~ Robert Browning

Monday, January 22, 2018

Waltz Me Around Again, Willie


Willie Fitzgibbons, who used to sell ribbons,
And stood up all day on his feet,
Grew very spoony on Madeline Mooney,
Who’d rather be dancing than eat.
Each evening she’d tag him, to some dance hall drag him,
And when the band started to play,
She’d up like a silly and grab tired Willie,
Steer him on the floor and she’d say:

CHORUS:
“Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around,
The music is dreamy, it’s peaches and creamy,
Oh! don’t let my feet touch the ground.
I feel like a ship on an ocean of joy,
I just want to holler out loud, ‘Ship Ahoy!’
Waltz me around again, Willie, around, around, around!”

Willie DeVere was a dry goods cashier,
At his desk he would sit all the day,
Till his doctor advised him to start exercising,
Or else you will soon fade away.
One night this poor looney met Madeline Mooney,
Fitzgibbons, then shouted with joy,
“She’s a good health-regainer, you’ve got a great trainer,"
Just wait till she hollers, my boy. 

[Repeat chorus]

~ Will D. Cobb

Friday, January 19, 2018

Hometown Piece for Messrs. Alston and Reese


To the tune: 
"Li'l baby, don't say a word: Mama goin' to buy you a mocking-bird. 
Bird don't sing: Mama goin' to sell it and buy a brass ring."

"Millennium," yes; "pandemonium"! 
Roy Campanella leaps high. Dodgerdom

crowned, had Johnny Podres on the mound. 
Buzzie Bavasi and the Press gave ground;

the team slapped, mauled, and asked the Yankees' match, 
"How did you feel when Sandy Amoros made the catch?"

"I said to myself"—pitcher for all innings— 
"as I walked back to the mound I said, 'Everything's

getting better and better.' " (Zest, they've zest. 
" 'Hope springs eternal in the Brooklyn breast.' "

And would the Dodger Band in 8, row 1, relax 
if they saw the collector of income tax?

Ready with a tune if that should occur: 
"Why Not Take All of Me—All of Me, Sir?")

Another series. Round-tripper Duke at bat, 
"Four hundred feet from home-plate"; more like that.

A neat bunt, please; a cloud-breaker, a drive 
like Jim Gilliam's great big one. Hope's alive.

Homered, flied out, fouled? Our "stylish stout" 
so nimble Campanella will have him out.

A-squat in double-headers four hundred times a day, 
he says that in a measure the pleasure is the pay:

catcher to pitcher, a nice easy throw 
almost as if he'd just told it to go.

Willy Mays should be a Dodger. He should— 
a lad for Roger Craig and Clem Labine to elude;

but you have an omen, pennant-winning Peewee, 
on which we are looking superstitiously.

Ralph Branca has Preacher Roe's number; recall? 
and there's Don Bessent; he can really fire the ball.

as for Gil Hodges, in custody of first— 
"He'll do it by himself." Now a specialist versed

in an extension reach far into the box seats— 
he lengthens up, he leans, and gloving the ball defeats

expectation by a whisker. The modest star, 
irked by one misplay, is no hero by a hair;

in a strikeout slaughter when what could matter more, 
he lines a homer to the signboard and has changed the score.

Then for his nineteenth season, a home run— 
with four of six runs batted in—Carl Furillo's the big gun;

almost dehorned the foe—has fans dancing in delight. 
Jake Pitler and his Playground "get a Night"—

Jake, that hearty man, made heartier by a harrier 
who can bat as well as field—Don Demeter.

Shutting them out for nine innings—a hitter too— 
Carl Erskine leaves Cimoli nothing to do.

Take off the goat-horns, Dodgers, that egret 
which two very fine base-stealers can offset.

You've got plenty: Jackie Robinson 
and Campy and big Newk, and Dodgerdom again 
watching everything you do. You won last year. Come on.

~ Marianne Moore

Thursday, January 18, 2018

A Poem on Table Manners, Used by a Shaker Community in 1868


We find of those bounties
Which Heaven does give,
That some live to eat,
And that some eat to live—
That some think of nothing
But pleasing the taste,
And care very little
How much they do waste.

Tho' Heaven has bless'd us
With plenty of food:
Bread, butter, and honey,
And all that is good;
We loathe to see mixtures
Where gentle folks dine,
Which scarcely look fit
For the poultry or swine.

We often find left,
On the same china dish,
Meat, apple-sauce, pickle,
Brown bread and minc'd fish;
Another's replenish'd
With butter and cheese;
With pie, cake, and toast,
Perhaps, added to these.

~ Anonymous

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Bill Bailey, Won't You Please Come Home?


On one summer's day Sun was shining fine,
The lady love of old Bill Bailey was hanging clothes on de line
In her back yard, and weeping hard;
She married a B. and O. brakeman, Dat took and throw'd her down,
Bellering like a prune-fed calf, wid a big gang hanging 'round;
And to dat crowd, She yelled out loud:

Won't you come home, Bill Bailey, won't you come home?
She moans de whole day long;
I'll do de cooking, darling, I'll pay de rent;
I knows I've done you wrong;
'Member dat rainy eve dat I drove you out,
Wid nothing but a fine tooth comb?
I knows I'se to blame; well, ain't dat a shame?
Bill Bailey, won't you please come home?

Bill drove by dat door, In an automobile,
A great big diamond, coach and footman, hear dat big wench squeal:
"He's all alone," I heard her groan;
She hollered thro' that door, "Bill Bailey, is you sore?
Stop a minute; won't you listen to me? Won't I see you no more?"
Bill winked his eye, As he heard her cry: [Repeat refrain]

~ Hughie Cannon

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Casey at the Bat


The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

~ Ernest Lawrence Thayer

Monday, January 15, 2018

The Big Rock Candy Mountains



One evening as the sun went down 
And the jungle fires was burning, 
Down the track came a hobo hiking. 
And he said, "Boys, I'm not turning, 
I'm headed for a land that's far away, 
Besides the crystal fountains, 
So come with me, we'll go and see 
The Big Rock Candy Mountains.” 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, 
There's a land that's fair and bright, 
Where the handouts grow on bushes, 
And you sleep out every night. 
Where the boxcars all are empty, 
And the sun shines every day 
On the birds and the bees, 
And the cigarette trees, 
And the lemonade springs 
Where the Bluebird sings 
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains. 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains 
All the cops have wooden legs, 
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth, 
And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs. 
There the farmers' trees are full of fruit, 
And the barns are full of hay, 
Oh I'm bound to go 
Where there ain't no snow, 
And the rain don't fall, 
And the winds don't blow 
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains. 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains 
You never change your socks, 
And the little streams of alcohol 
Come a-trickling down the rocks. 
There ain’t no short handled shovels, 
No access, spades, or picks, 
And I’m bound to stay 
Where they sleep all day, 
Where they hung the Turk 
That invented work 
In The Bog Rock Candy Mountains. 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, 
All the jails are made of tin, 
And you can walk right out again 
As soon as you are in. 
Where the brakemen have to tip their hats, 
And the railroad bulls are blind, 
There’s a lake of stew, 
And a gin lake, too, 
You can paddle all around ‘em 
In a big canoe 
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

~ Anonymous

Friday, January 12, 2018

Sweet Betsey from Pike


Oh don't you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,
Who crossed the wide prairie with her lover Ike,
With two yoke of oxen, a big yellow dog,
A tall Shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog?

CHORUS:
Singing, goodbye, Pike County, farewell for awhile,
We’ll come back again when we’ve panned out our pile,
Singing tooral lal, looral lal, looral lal lay,
Singing tooral lal, looral lal, looral lal lay,

One evening quite early they camped on the Platte.
'Twas near by the road on a green shady flat.
Where Betsy, sore-footed, lay down to repose --
With wonder Ike gazed on that Pike County rose.

Their wagon broke down with a terrible crash
And out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash
A few little baby clothes, done up with care
'Twas rather suspicious, though all on the square.

The Shanghai ran off, and their cattle all died;
That morning the last piece of bacon was fried;
Poor Ike was discouraged and Betsy got mad,
The dog drooped his tail and looked wondrously sad.

They stopped at Salt Lake to inquire of the way,
Where Brigham declared that sweet Betsy should stay;
But Betsy got frightened and ran like a deer
While Brigham stood pawing the ground like a steer.

They soon reached the desert where Betsy gave out,
And down in the sand she lay rolling about;
While Ike, half distracted, looked on with surprise,
Saying, "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."

Sweet Betsy got up in a great deal of pain,
Declared she'd go back to Pike County again;
But Ike gave a sigh and they fondly embraced,
And they traveled along with his arm round her waist.

They suddenly stopped on a very high hill,
With wonder looked down upon old Placerville;
Ike sighed when he said, and he cast his eyes down,
"Sweet Betsy, my darling, we've got to Hangtown."

Long Ike and Sweet Betsy attended a dance;
Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants;
Sweet Betsy was dressed up in ribbons and rings;
Says Ike, "You're an angel, but where are your wings?"

A miner said, "Betsy, will you dance with me?"
"I will, you old hoss, if you don't make too free.
But don't dance me hard, do you want to know why?
Doggone ye, I'm chock full of strong alkali."

This Pike County couple got married, of course
But Ike became jealous, obtained a divorce
And Betsey, well satisfied, said with a shout
"Goodbye, you big lummox, I'm glad you backed out."

~ Anonymous
 

Thursday, January 11, 2018

The Cowboy's Lament


As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,
Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay.

"Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
Play the Dead March as you carry me along;
Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy'--
These words he did say as I boldly stepped by.
"Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
I am shot in the breast and I know I must die.

"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,
Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song.
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"My friends and relations they live in the Nation,
They know not where their boy has gone.
I first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman.
Oh I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,
It was once in the saddle I used to go gay
First to the dram-house and then to the card-house,
Got shot in the breast and I am dying to-day.

"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall.
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Put roses to deaden the sods as they fall.

"Then swing your ropes lowly and rattle your spurs lowly,
And give a wild whoop as you carry me along,
And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"Oh bury beside me my knife and six-shooter,
My spurs on my heel, as you sing me a song,
And over my coffin put a bottle of brandy
That the cowboys may drink as they carry me along.

"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water
To cool my parched lips,' the cowboy then said;
Before I returned his soul had departed,
And gone to the round-up, the cowboy was dead.

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,
And bitterly wept as we bore him along;
For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome,
We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.

Where men lived wrong, in the desert's maw,
And hell was nothing to shun;
Where they burien 'em neat, without preacher or sheet,
And writ on their foreheads, crude but sweet,
"This Jasper was slow with a gun."

~ Anonymous

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Dixie


[THE ORIGINAL VERSION]

I wish I was in land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten,
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
In Dixie Land whar' I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin',
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

CHORUS:
Den I wish I was in Dixie, Hoo-ray! Hoo-ray!
In Dixie land, I'll take my stand to lib and die in Dixie;
Away, away, away down south in Dixie,
Away, away, away down south in Dixie.

Old Missus marry Will-de-weaber,
Willium was a gay deceaber; Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
But when he put his arms around 'er
He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder,
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber,
But dat did not seem to greab 'er;
Will run away, missus took a decline, O,
Her face was the color of bacon rhine, O.

While missus libbed, she libbed in clover,
When she died, she died all over; 
How could she act de foolish part,
 An' marry a man to break her heart?

Buckwheat cakes an' stony batter 
Makes you fat or a little fatter ; 
Here's a health to de next old missus,
An' all de galls dat want to kiss us.

Now if you want to drive way sorrow, 
Come and hear dis song tomorrow ; 
Den hoe it down an' scratch your grabble, 
To Dixie's land I'm bound to trabble.

~ Daniel Decatur Emmett

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

The Man on the Flying Trapeze



Oh, the girl that I loved she was handsome,
I tried all I knew her to please.
But I couldn't please her a quarter as well
As the man on the flying trapeze.

CHORUS:
Oh, he flies through the air with the greatest of ease,
This daring young man on the flying trapeze.
His figure is handsome, all girls he can please,
And my love he purloined her away.

Last night as usual I went to her home.
There sat her old father and mother alone.
I asked for my love and they soon made it known
That she-e had flown away.

She packed up her box and eloped in the night,
To go-o with him at this ease.
He lowered her down from a four-story flight,
By means of his flying trapeze.

He took her to town and he dressed her in tights,
That he-e might live at his ease.
He ordered her up to the tent's awful height,
To appear on the flying trapeze.

Now she flies through the air with the greatest of ease,
This daring young girl on the flying trapeze.
Her figure is handsome, all men she can please,
And my love is purloined away.

Once I was happy, but now I'm forlorn,
Like an old coat that is tattered and torn,
Left to this wide world to fret and to mourn,
Betrayed by a maid in her teens.

~ Anonymous

Monday, January 8, 2018

Oh! Susanna


I come from Alabama,
Wid my banjo on my knee,
I'm g'wan to Louisiana,
My true love for to see;
It rain'd all night the day I left,
The weather it was dry,
The sun so hot I froze to death,
Susanna, don't you cry.

CHORUS
Oh! Susanna, 
Don't you cry for me,
I've come from Alabama
Wid my banjo on my knee.

I jumped aboard de telegraph,
And trabbeled down de ribber,
De lectric fluid magnified,
And killed five hundred nigger.

De bullgine bust, de horse run off,
I really thought I'd die;
I shut my eyes to hold my breath,
Susanna, don't you cry.

I had a dream de udder night
When eb'ryting was still,
I thought I saw Susanna
A coming down de hill;
De buckwheat-cake was in her mouth,
De tear was in her eye;
Says I, I'm coming from de South,
Susanna, don't you cry.

I soon will be in New Orleans,
And den I'll look all round,
And when I find Susanna,
I'll fall upon the ground.
But if I do not find her,
Dis darkey'l surely die,
And when I'm dead and buried,
Susanna, don't you cry.

~ Stephen Foster

Friday, January 5, 2018

Shiloh


A Requiem (April 1862)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still, 
The swallows fly low 
Over the field in clouded days, 
The forest-field of Shiloh— 
Over the field where April rain 
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain 
Through the pause of night 
That followed the Sunday fight 
Around the church of Shiloh— 
The church so lone, the log-built one, 
That echoed to many a parting groan 
And natural prayer 
Of dying foemen mingled there— 
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve— 
Fame or country least their care: 
(What like a bullet can undeceive!) 
But now they lie low, 
While over them the swallows skim, 
And all is hushed at Shiloh.

~ Herman Melville

Thursday, January 4, 2018

Battle Hymn of the Republic


Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; 
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. 
His Day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: 
“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, 
Since God is marching on.” 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: 
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on.

~ Julia Ward Howe

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Paul Revere's Ride


Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, “If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch 
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,-- 
One if by land, and two if by sea; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” 

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war: 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon, like a prison-bar, 
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” 
A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay, -- 
A line of black, that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse’s side, 
Now gazed on the landscape far and near, 
Then impetuous stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, 
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: 
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer’s dog, 
And felt the damp of the river-fog, 
That rises when the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 
When he galloped into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 
When be came to the bridge in Concord town. 
He heard the bleating of the flock, 
And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 
And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere; 
And so through the night went his cry of alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm,-- 
A cry of defiance, and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
And a word that shall echo forevermore! 
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 
In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Concord Hymn


[SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF 
THE BATTLE MONUMENT, 
APRIL 19, 1837]

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set today a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Monday, January 1, 2018

Tribute to America


There is a people mighty in its youth,
A land beyond the oceans of the west,
Where, though with rudest rites, Freedom and Truth
Are worshipt. From a glorious mother's breast,
Who, since high Athens fell, among the rest
Sate like the Queen of Nations, but in woe,
By inbred monsters outraged and opprest,
Turns to her chainless child for succor now,
It draws the milk of Power in Wisdom's fullest flow
That land is like an eagle, whose young gaze
Feeds on the noontide beam, whose golden plume
Floats moveless on the storm, and on the blaze
Of sunrise gleams when Earth is wrapt in gloom;
An epitaph of glory for thy tomb
Of murdered Europe may thy fame be made,
Great People! As the sands shalt thou become;
Thy growth is swift as morn when night must fade;
The multitudinous Earth shall sleep beneath thy shade.
Yes, in the desert, there is built a home
For Freedom! Genius is made strong to rear
The monuments of man beneath the dome
Of a new Heaven; myriads assemble there
Whom the proud lords of man, in rage or fear,
Drive from their wasted homes. The boon I pray
Is this--that Cythna shall be convoyed there,--
Nay, start not at the name--America!

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley