The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 31

Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still-- W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill!

And to think I ust to _scold_ him fer his everlastin' noise, When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys!

I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in, And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!-- It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment, 'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!

Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do-- Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two!

And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around, And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground!

And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars, In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars, When the neighbers' boys 'at pa.s.ses never stop, but jes' go on, A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's--sence little Wesley's gone!

And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late, A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait, Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime, And things keeps gittin' stiller--stiller--stiller all the time,-- I've ketched myse'f a-wis.h.i.+n' like--as I dumb on the cheer To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,-- A-wis.h.i.+n' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed, With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!

J.W. RILEY.

Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.

Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar Out of thy wilderness, Till earth grows less and less, Heaven, more and more.

Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing, Till all the earth shall be Vibrant with ecstasy Beneath thy wing.

Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come, That through the pathless air Thou shalt find otherwhere Unerring, home.

Opportunity.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and s.h.i.+elds. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-- That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this Blunt thing!"--he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and s.n.a.t.c.hed it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

E.R. SILL.

Dutch Lullaby.[14]

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew.

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"

The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we,"

Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea.

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeard are we!"

So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,-- Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

E. FIELD.

[14] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]

While May bedecks the naked trees With ta.s.sels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the yellow-throat: A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that s.h.i.+nes and sings "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_."

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try, to call her down this way, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

Tell her to leave her c.o.c.klesh.e.l.ls, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she.

She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

Along the shady road I look-- Who's coming now across the brook?

A woodland maid, all robed in white-- The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery_!"

H. VAN d.y.k.e.

[15] From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The Silence of Love.

Oh, inexpressible as sweet, Love takes my voice away; I cannot tell thee, when we meet, What most I long to say.

But hadst thou hearing in thy heart To know what beats in mine, Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art, In melodies divine.

So warbling birds lift higher notes Than to our ears belong; The music fills their throbbing throats, But silence steals the song.

G.E. WOODBERRY.