j^lnif '" Ballads lo Pi % /* A '0*3 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT BACHELOR BALLADS ACHELOR BALLADS Being Certain of the Masterpieces of Verse; Wherein is Set Forth the Sentiment of Good-Fellowship : SET TO PICTURES BY BLANCHE McMANUS : : NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY : : NEW YORK COPYRIGHT 1898 BY NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK CO. CONTENTS Music Library (Hi H3i7 Give Me The Old - - 5 The Mahogany Tree - - 11 The Betrothed - - 17 A Seat For Three 25 A Hunting We Will Go - 29 Let The Toast Pass - - 34 To Celia - - - - 37 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse - 41 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea - 49 How Stands the Glass Around - 53 A Bachelor's Dream - - "57 At an Inn at Henley - - 65 Wreathe the Bowl - - - 69 The Fire of Driftwood 75 Fill The Bumper Fair - 81 A Recipe For a Salad - - 87 The Wants of Man - - 91 Contents The Angler's Wish - 97 The Rim of The Bowl - 101 A Farewell to Tobacco - - 107 A Golden Girl - - 115 John Barleycorn - - - 119 In Praise of Angling - 125 The Cane-Bottom'd Chair - 131 Hunting Song - - 137 Drinking Song - 141 Dedication - 147 The Tables Turned - - 153 Auld Lang Syne - - 157 GIVE ME THE OLD GIVE ME THE OLD Old wine to drink, old wood to burn, old books to read, arid old friends to converse with. (~)LD wine to drink! Ay, give me the slippery juice That drippeth from the grape thrown loose Within the tun; Plucked from beneath the cliff Ot sunny-sided Teneriffe, And ripened 'neath the blink Of India's sun! Peat whiskey hot, Tempered with well-boiled water! These make the long night shorter, Forgetting not Good stout old English porter. Give Me the Old. Old wood to burn ! Ay, bring the hill-side beech From where the owlets meet and screech, And ravens croak ; The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, Dug 'neath the fern ; The knotted oak, A faggot too, perhap Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, Shall light us at our drinking ; While the oozing sap Shall make sweet music to our thinking. Old books to read ! Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, Time-honored tomes ! The same my sire scanned before, The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, The same his sire from college bore, The well-earned meed Of Oxford's domes : Old Homer blind, Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ; Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, Give Me the Old. Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! And Gervase Markham's venerie Nor leave behind The Holye Book by which we live and die. Old friends to talk ! Ay, bring those chosen few, The wise, the courtly, and the true, So rarely found ; Him for my wine, him for my stud, Him for my easel, distich, bud In mountain walk ! Bring Walter good : With soulful Fred; and learned Will, And thee, my alter ego y (dearer still For everv word.). Robert Hinckley Messinger THE MAHOGANY TREE THE MAHOGANY TREE pHRISTMAS is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we ; Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahoganv Tree. Once on the houghs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom ; Night-birds are we; \ I ere we carouse, Singing, like them, 1 1 The Mahogany Tree Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit, Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short, When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree. Evenings we knew, Happy as this ; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust ! We sing round the tree. Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate : Let the dog wait ; Happy we'll be ! Drink, every one ; Pile up the coals , The Mahogany Tree. i3 Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree ! Drain we the cup. Friend, art afraid ? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up ; Empty it yet ; Let us forget, Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone ! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite ; Leave us to-night, Round the old tree ! William Makipzacc Thackerai THE BETROTHED. THE BETROTHED. YOU must choose between me and your cigar . /^\P1 ; .N the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, bor things are running crosswavs, and Mag- trie and I are out. We quarreled about Havanas we fought o'er a good cheroot, And 1 know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box let me consider a space ; In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face. Maggie is prettv to look at Maggie's a loving lass. 1 8 The Betrothed. But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o* the talk o' the town ! Maggie, my wife at fifty gray and dour and old With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold ! And the light of the Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket With never a new one to light tho' its charred and black to the- socket. The Betrothed. 19 Open the old cigar-box let me consider a while Here is a mild Manila there is a wifely smile. Which is the better portion bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string ? Counsellors cunning and silent comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close. This will the fitty give me, asking nought in re- turn, With only a Suttee's passion to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they arc spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants in- stead. 20 The Betrothed. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Span- ish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again. I will take no heed for their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envv who read the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love, and the great god Nick o' Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been priest of Partagas a matter of seven year ; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light The Betrothed. 2 1 Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleas- ure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'- the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire ? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire ? Open the old cigar-box let me consider anew Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you ? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke ; And a woman is onlv a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke. Light me another Cuba ; I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Mag- gie tor spouse ! Ri'pvarp Kipling. A SEAT FOR THREE A SEAT FOR THREE Written on the panels of a settle. "y\ SKAT tor three, where host and guest May side-by-side pass toast or jest; And be their number two or three, With elbow-room and liberty, What need to wander east or west ? "A book tor thought, a nook for rest And meet tor tasting or for test, In fair and equal parts to be A seat tor three. i6 A Seat For Three " Then give you pleasant company, For youth or elder shady tree ; A roof for council or sequest, A corner in a homely nest ; Free, equal, and fraternally A seat for three." Walter Crane A HUNTING W E WILL GO A HUNTING W E WILL GO 'THK dusky night rides down the sky. And ushers in the morn : The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms, to make him stay ; " My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; Von cannot hunt to day." Yet a hunting we will go. Away thev flv to 'scape the rout, Their steeds thev soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a hunting we will go. A Hunting We Will Go Sly Reynard, now, like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale ; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting we will go. Fond Echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry ; The woods, the hills, the sound retort, And music fills the sky. When a hunting we do go. At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight ; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. And a drinking we do go. Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare them for the chase ; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace. When a hunting we do go. -Henry Fielding. LET THE TOAST PASS LET THE TOAST PASS J-TKRE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; Here's to the widow of fifty ; Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrittv. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the maid who has none, sir; I lere's to the girl with a pair of blue eves, And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse tor the class. 34 Let the 'Toast Pass Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow; Now to her that's as brown as a berry ; Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; So fill the pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast them together. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. The School for Scandal. ro CELIA TO CELIA From the Greek of Thilostratus Translation of Ben Jonson QRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, 3 To Celia As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon dids't only breathe, And sent'st it back to me ; Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is The New Street of the Little Fields ; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo ; Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 42 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is ; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is as before ; The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able ? I recollect his droll grimace ; He'd come and smile before your table, And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse. We enter ; nothing's changed or older. " How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ? " The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulders ; " Monsieur is dead this many a day." " It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre's run his race ! " The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 43 " What will Monsieur require for dinner ? " " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " " Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " " Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir; The Chambertin with yellow seal." " So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place ; " He's done with feasting and wine drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustomed corner here is The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, Cart luogbi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days, here met to dine ? Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces Mv memory can quick retrace ; 44 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; On James' head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace Since here we sat the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. There's no one now to share my cup. I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memorv of dear old times. T'he Ballad of Bouillabaisse 45 Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! William Makepeace Thackeray A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA \ WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like an eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. " O for a soft and gentle wind ! " I hear a fair one cry ; But give me to the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free, 5 82 Fill the Bumper Fair. And bring down its ray From the starred dominions : So we, sages, sit And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the heaven of wit Draw down all its lightning. Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit ? It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us : The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfered fire in. But oh his joy, when, round The halls of heaven spying Among the stars, he found A bowl of Bacchus lying ! Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, Fill the Bumper Fair. 83 With which the sparks of soul Mixed their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us ; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us. Fill the Bumper Fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the Brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. -Thomas Moore A RECIPE FOR A SALAD A RECIPE FOR A SALAD HpO make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs'* Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give. Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca brown, And twice with vinegar procured from town ; And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 88 A Recipe for a Salad A magic soupcon of anchovy sauce. O, green and glorious ! O herbaceous treat ! 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat : Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl ! Serenely full, the epicure would say, " Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day." Sidney Smith. THE WANTS OF MAN THE WANTS OF MAN 44 "XT AN wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." 'Tis not with me exactly so ; But 'tis so in the song. My wants are many and, if told, Would muster many a score ; And were each wish a mint of gold, I still should long for more, What first I want is daily bread And canvas-backs and wine And all the realms of nature spread Before me, where I dine. Four courses scarcely can provide My appetite to quell ; 92 The Wants of Man With four choice cooks from France beside, To dress my dinner well. What next I want, at princely cost. Is elegant attire : Black sable furs for winter's frost, And silk for summer's fire, And Cashmere shawls, and Brussel's lace My bosom's front to deck, And diamond rings my hands to grace, And rubies for my neck. I want (who does not want ? ) a wife, Affectionate and fair ; To solace all the woes of life, And all its joys to share. Of temper sweet, of yielding will, Of firm, yet placid mind, With all my faults to love me still With sentiment refined. And as Time's car incessant runs, And Fortune fills my store, I want of daughters and of sons From eight to half a score. I want (alas ! can mortal dare Such bliss on earth to crave ?) The Wants of Man 93 That all the girls be chaste and fair, The boys all wise and brave. I want a warm and faithful friend, To cheer the adverse hour ; Who ne'er to flatter will descend, Nor bend the knee to power, A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see ; And that my friendship prove as strong To him as his to me. I want the seals of power and place, The ensigns of command ; Charged by the People's unbought grace To rule my native land. Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask, But from my country's will, Bv day, by night, to ply the task Her cup of bliss to fill. I want the voice of honest praise To follow me behind, And to be thought in future days The friend of human-kind, That after ages, as they rise, Exulting may proclaim 94 The Wants of Man In choral union to the skies Their blessings on my name. These are the Wants of mortal Man,- I cannot want them long, For life itself is but a span, And earthly bliss a song. My last great Want absorbing all Is, when beneath the sod, And summoned to my final call, The Mercy of my God. John Quincy Adams THE ANGLER'S WISH THE ANGLER'S WISH T IN these flowery meads would be: These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love : Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty : please my mind, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers; Here, hear my kenna sing a song : There, see a blackbird feed her young. Or a laverock build her nest : Here, give mv weary spirits rest, 98 The Angler s Wish And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love. Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice; Or with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat ; There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good morning to next day ; There meditate my time away ; And angle on ; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. Izaak Walton THE RIM OF THE BOWL. THE RIM OF THE BOWL SAT 'mid the flickering lights, when all the guests had departed, Alone at the head of the table, and dreamed of the days that were gone ; Neither asleep nor waking, nor sad nor cheery- hearted But passive as a leaf by the mild November blown. I thought if thinking 'twere, when thoughts were dimmer than shadows And toyed the while with the music I drew from the rim of the bowl, Passive, my fingers round, as if my will com- pelled it To answer my shapeless dreams, as soul might answer soul. 102 The Rim of the Bowl Idle I was, and listless ; but melody and fancy Came out of that tremendous dulcimer, as my hand around it strayed ; The rim was a magic circle, and mine was the necromancy That summoned its secrets forth, to take the forms I bade. Secrets ! ay ! buried secrets, forgotten for twenty summers, But living anew in the odors of the roses at the board; Secrets of Truth and Passion, and the days of Life's unreason ; Perhaps not at all atoned for, in the judg- ments of the Lord. Secrets that still shall slumber, for I will not bare my bosom To the gaze of the heartless, prying, incon- scionable crowd, That would like to know, I doubt not, how much I have sinned and suffered, And drag me down to its level because it would humble the proud. Beautiful spirits they were, that danced on the rim at my bidding : Spirits of Joy or Sadness, in their brief sweet summer day ; The Rim of the Bowl 103 Spirits that aye possess me, and keep me if I wander, In the line of the straight, and the flower of the fruitful way. Spirits of women and children spirits of friends departed Spirits of dear companions that have gone to the levelling tomb, Hallowed forever and ever with the sanctity of sorrow, And the aureole of death that crowns them in the gloom. Spirits of Hope and Faith, and one supremely lovely, That sang to me years agone, when I was a little child, And sported at her footstool or lay upon her bosom, And gazed at the love that dazzled me, from her eyes so soft and mild. And that song from the rim of the bowl came sounding and sounding ever As oft it had done before in the toil and moil of life ; A song nor sad nor merry, but low and sweet and plaintive ; 104 The Rim of the Bowl A clarion blast in sorrow ; an anodyne in strife ; A song like a ray of moonlight that gleams athwart a tempest. Sound ever, O Song! sound sweetly, whether I live or die, My guardian, my adviser, my comforter, my comrade, A voice from the sinless regions a message from the sky ! Charles Mackay A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. t */-M. TV/TAY the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, Great Plant ! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate; For I hate, yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, io8 A Farewell to Tobacco And the passion to proceed More for a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women : thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us, While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem ; And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for these allowed features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to free Chimeras, A Farewell to Tobacco 109 Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou mayst raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant : onlv thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume ; no A Farewell to Tobacco Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain : Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys Or for greener damsels meant ; Thou art the only manly scent. Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison ; Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue : Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexed lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike They borrow language - of dislike ; A Farewell to 'Tobacco 1 1 1 And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; Friendly Traitress, loving Foe, Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not. Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee : 112 A Farewell to 'Tobacco For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain ; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces ; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite. Charles Lamb. A GOLDEN GIRL. A GOLDEN GIRL. UCY is a golden girl ; But a man, a man should woo her ! They who seek her shrink aback, When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light ; All her hair is lost in splendor ; But she hath the eyes of night And a heart that's over-tender. Yet the foolish suitors fly (Is 't excess of dread or duty?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty ! n6 A Golden Girl. Men by fifty seasons taught, Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought, Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl ! Toast her in a goblet brimming ! May the man that wins her wear On his heart the Rose of Women ! Barry Cornwall. JOHN BARLEYCORN. JOHN BARLEYCORN. I *HERE was three Kings into the east, Three Kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and ploughed him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall ; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. 120 'John Barleycorn. The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale ; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His color sicken'd more and more, He faded into age : And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee ; Then tied him fast upon a cart Like a rogue for forgery. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore ; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. John Barleycorn. 121 They laid him out upon the floor To work him further woe, And still, as signs of life appeared, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones ; But a miller us'd him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood And drank it round and round ; And still the more and more they drank Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood 'Twill make your courage rise. 'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 'Twill heighten all his joy : 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland. Robert Burns. IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. IN PRAISE OF ANGLINi /QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares, <^w Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldling's sports, Where strained sardonic smiles are glossing still, And grief is forced to laugh against her will, Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be. Fly trom our country pastimes, fly, Sad troops of human misery, Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance on our poverty ; 126 In Praise of Angling. Peace and a secure mind, Which ail men seek, we only find. Abused mortals ! did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow ? You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers, Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may shake, But blustering care could never tempest make ; Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, Saving of fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, But of our kids that frisk and prance ; Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green, Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother; And wounds are never found, Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. Here are no entrapping baits To hasten to too hasty fates ; Unless it be The fond credulity In Praise of Angling. 127 Of silly fish, which (worldling like) still look Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; Nor envy, 'less among The birds, for prize of their sweet song. Go, let the diving negro seek For gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; We all pearls scorn, Save what the dewy morn Congeals upon each little spire of grass, Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; And gold ne'er here appears, Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Blest silent groves, O, may you be Forever mirth's best nursery ! May pure contents Forever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Meet, when we come a-fishing here. Sir Hf.nry Wotton. THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. THE CANE-BOTTOM' D CHAIR. TN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world, and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. ij 2 The Cane-Bottom 'd Chair. Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see ; What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times ; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie, This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There is one that I love and I cherish the best: For the finest of couches that 's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. The Cane-Bottom d Chair . 133 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms ! J look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; I wished myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ; A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there and bloom'd in my cane- bottom'd chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone 134 The Cane-Bottom 'd Chair. I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room ; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. William Makepeace Thackeray. HUNTING SONG. HUNTING SONG, VV^AKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day ; All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily, mingle they : " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain grav, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ; And foresters have busy been, 138 Hunting Song. To track the buck in thickets green ; Now we come to chant our lay : " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the green-wood haste away ; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; We can show the marks he made, When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd : You shall see him brought to bay : " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Louder, louder, chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay ! Tell them youth, and mirth and glee, Run a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk, Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk : Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay. Sir Walter Scott DRINKING SONG. DRINKING SONG. Inscription for an Antique Pitcher. POME, old friend ! sit down and listen From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus ! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs; On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters. Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow supernal 1 42 Drinking Song. As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses. Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. Judged by no o'er zealous rigor, Much this mystic throng expresses ; Bacchus was the type of vigor, And Silenus of excesses. These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken ; Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. Drinking Song. 143 Claudius, though he sang of flagons And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons Never would his own replenish. Even Redi, though he chanted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies. Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables ; Ne'er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus' tables. Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! As it passes thus between us, How its wavelets laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow DEDICATION. DEDICATION. A S one who, walking in the twilight gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they come, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! I hear your voices, softened by the distance, And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends His words of friendship, comfort and assistance. If any thought of mine, or sung or told, Has ever given delight or consolation, Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, By every friendly sign and salutation. 148 Dedication. Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, That teaches me, when seeming most alone, Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which v/e feel the pressure of a hand, One touch of fire, and all the rest is mystery! The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces. Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance ; Therefore to me ye never will grow old, But live forever young in my remembrance. Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away, Your gentle voices will flow on forever, When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, As through a leafless landscape flows a river. Dedication. 14.9 Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; Not interrupting with intrusive talk The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow THE TABLES TURNED. THE TABLES TURNED. Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books ; Or surely you'll grow double : Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks ; Whv all this toil and trouble ? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow, Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music ! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. 154 The Tables Turned. And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up those barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. William Wadswortw AULD LANG SYNE. AULD LANG SYNE. CHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And davs of o' lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang svne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the govvans fine ; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, Sin auld lang syne. 158 Auld Lang Syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup of kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, From mornin' sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gi'es a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. Auld Lang Syne. And surely ye'll be your pint stoup, And surely I'll be mine ; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. 59 Robert Burns UCLA - Music Library PR1175M317b LIBRARY L 006 992 443 9 PR 1175 M317b UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 086 686