Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 42

I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake.

O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at's got a name to make!

It ain't no wonder boys is bad, an' balky as a mule; Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.

I'd like to be regarded as "The Terror of the Plains"!

I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison chains!

I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool, An' wipe 'em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.

What good is 'rithmetic an' things, exceptin' jest for girls, Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in pretty curls?

An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll Remember 'at it's all because I got to go to school.

_Nixon Waterman._

With Little Boy Blue

(_Written after the death of Eugene Field._)

Silent he watched them--the soldiers and dog-- Tin toys on the little armchair, Keeping their tryst through the slow going years For the hand that had stationed them there; And he said that perchance the dust and the rust Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew, And his heart watched with them all the dark years, Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.

Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue, Three ere the cold winds had begun; Now two are left watching--the soldier and dog; But for him the vigil is done.

For him too, the angel has chanted a song A song that is lulling and true.

He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest, Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.

G.o.d sent not the Angel of Death for his soul-- Not the Reaper who cometh for all-- But out of the shadows that curtained the day He heard his lost little one call, Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast, Pa.s.sed on to the far-away strand; And he walks the streets of the City of Peace, With Little Boy Blue by the hand.

_Sarah Beaumont Kennedy._

The Charge of Pickett's Brigade

In Gettysburg at break of day The hosts of war are held in leash To gird them for the coming fray, E'er brazen-throated monsters flame, Mad hounds of death that tear and maim.

Ho, boys in blue, And gray so true, Fate calls to-day the roll of fame.

On Cemetery Hill was done The clangor of four hundred guns; Through drifting smoke the morning sun Shone down a line of battled gray Where Pickett's waiting soldiers lay.

Virginians all, Heed glory's call, You die at Gettysburg to-day,

'Twas Pickett's veteran brigade, Great Lee had named; he knew them well; Oft had their steel the battle stayed.

O warriors of the eagle plume, Fate points for you the hour of doom.

Ring rebel yell, War cry and knell!

The stars, to-night, will set in gloom.

O Pickett's men, ye sons of fate, Awe-stricken nations bide your deeds.

For you the centuries did wait, While wrong had writ her lengthening scroll And G.o.d had set the judgment roll.

A thousand years Shall wait in tears, And one swift hour bring to goal.

The charge is done, a cause is lost; But Pickett's men heed not the din Of ragged columns battle tost; For fame enshrouds them on the field, And pierced, Virginia, is thy s.h.i.+eld.

But stars and bars Shall drape thy scars; No cause is lost till honor yield.

Hullo

W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo" and "How d'ye do?

How's the world a-usin' you?"

Slap the fellow on the back; Bring your hand down with a whack; Walk right up, and don't go slow; Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"

Is he clothed in rags? Oh! sho; Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"

Rags is but a cotton roll Jest for wrappin' up a soul; An' a soul is worth a true Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?"

Don't wait for the crowd to go, Walk right up and say "Hullo!"

When big vessels meet, they say They saloot an' sail away.

Jest the same are you an' me Lonesome s.h.i.+ps upon a sea; Each one sailin' his own log, For a port behind the fog; Let your speakin' trumpet blow; Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"

Other folks are good as you.

W'en you leave your house of clay Wanderin' in the far away, W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."

_Sam Walter Foss._

The Women of Mumbles Head

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!

And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.

It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, Of the terrible storm and s.h.i.+pwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!

Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.

When in the world did the c.o.xswain s.h.i.+rk? a brave old salt was he!

Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a s.h.i.+lling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!

Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; Going to death for duty, and trusting to G.o.d above!

Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!

And it snapped the' rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;