Second Book of Verse Part 16

WHEN I was a boy at college, Filling up with cla.s.sic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bentley Used to praise so eloquently "Opera Horatii."

Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning powers got stronger, As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Ma.s.sic-loving poet fellow, Horace, knew a thing or two.

Yes, we soph.o.m.ores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia d.i.c.k!

For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender, Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms.

Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair,-- These things baffle my description: I should have a fit conniption If I tried; so I forbear.

Maybe Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters Took that charmer as his pick.

Glad--yes, glad I am to know it!

I, a _fin de siecle_ poet, Sympathize with Lydia d.i.c.k!

Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady, And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered,--for all we sages Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way.

Otherwise some folks might wonder, With good reason, why in thunder Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him.

Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia d.i.c.k.

Still Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing By the dark, deserted grot.

Still Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not.

LIZZIE.

I WONDER ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an' concerts where Is things the papers talk about.

Do other wimmin fret an' stew Like they wuz bein' crucified,-- Frettin' a show or concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried?

Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there To see that everything is right; Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite.

Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' asks me every now an' then, "I wonder ef the baby cried"?

Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An' so she's sorry that she come.

An' though she allus tries to hide The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried.

Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; There never wuz a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best.

And nex' to bein' what I be-- The husband uv my gentle bride-- I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.

LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE.

AFTER dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest: 'Twas a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date.

On its quaint and battered face Was the picture of a cart Drawn with all that awkward grace Which betokens childish art.

But what meant this legend, pray: "Homer drew this yesterday"?

Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hide: She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died.

Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead.

This one secret through those years Grandma kept from all apart, Hallowed by her lonely tears And the breaking of her heart; While each year that sped away Seemed to her but yesterday.

So the homely little slate Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it years ago.

ALWAYS RIGHT.

DON'T take on so, Hiram, But do what you're told to do; It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows A heap sight more than you.

I'll allow that sometimes _her_ way Don't seem the wisest, quite; But the _easiest_ way, When she's had her say, Is to reckon yer mother is right.

Courted her ten long winters, Saw her to singin'-school; When she went down one spell to town, I cried like a durned ol' fool; Got mad at the boys for callin'

When I sparked her Sunday night: But she said she knew A thing or two,-- An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right.

I courted till I wuz aging, And she wuz past her prime,-- I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes When I popped f'r the hundredth time.

Said she'd never have took me If I hadn't stuck so tight; Opined that we Could never agree,-- And I reckon yer mother wuz right!

"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!"

WHERE my true love abideth I make my way to-night; Lo! waiting, she Espieth me, And calleth in delight: "I see his steed anear Come trotting with my dear,-- Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, Trot thou my lover here!"

Aloose I cast the bridle, And ply the whip and spur; And gayly I Speed this reply, While faring on to her: "Oh, true love, fear thou not!

I seek our trysting spot; And double feed be yours, my steed, If you more swiftly trot."

I vault from out the saddle, And make my good steed fast; Then to my breast My love is pressed,-- At last, true heart, at last!

The garden drowsing lies, The stars fold down their eyes,-- In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, Nor stamp in restless wise!

O pa.s.sing sweet communion Of young hearts, warm and true!

To thee belongs The old, old songs Love finds forever new.

We sing those songs, and then Cometh the moment when It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,-- Trot, trot me home again!"

PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG.

WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago, Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor,-- A mighty effort, by the G.o.ds! and after I had read The ma.n.u.script to Daly, that dramatic censor said: "The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog."