Second Book of Verse Part 9

JEWISH LULLABY.

MY harp is on the willow-tree, Else would I sing, O love, to thee A song of long ago,-- Perchance the song that Miriam sung Ere yet Judaea's heart was wrung By centuries of woe.

The shadow of those centuries lies Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes; But, hus.h.!.+ and close them now, And in the dreams that thou shalt dream The light of other days shall seem To glorify thy brow.

I ate my crust in tears to-day, As, scourged, I went upon my way, And yet my darling smiled,-- Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed; My anguish curdled not the draught, 'Twas sweet with love, my child.

Our harp is on the willow-tree: I have no song to sing to thee, As shadows round us roll; But, hus.h.!.+ and sleep, and thou shalt hear Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer Judaea's fainting soul.

AT CHEYENNE.

YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west, With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat, His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet, His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, And he nourished a handful of aces on kings.

The fair Mariana sate watching a star, When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar!

Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!"

Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, And modestly asked if he mightn't step in.

With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, The fair Mariana replied that he might; So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar.

Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same.

THE NAUGHTY DOLL.

MY dolly is a dreadful care,-- Her name is Miss Amandy; I dress her up and curl her hair, And feed her taffy candy.

Yet, heedless of the pleading voice Of her devoted mother, She will not wed her mother's choice, But says she'll wed another.

I'd have her wed the china vase,-- There is no Dresden rarer; You might go searching every place And never find a fairer.

He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- Of that there's no denying; Yet when I speak of him, forsooth!

Amandy falls to crying.

She loves the drum,--that's very plain,-- And scorns the vase so clever, And, weeping, vows she will remain A spinster doll forever!

The protestations of the drum I am convinced are hollow; When once distressing times should come How soon would ruin follow!

Yet all in vain the Dresden boy From yonder mantel woos her; A mania for that vulgar toy, The noisy drum, imbues her.

In vain I wheel her to and fro, And reason with her mildly: Her waxen tears in torrents flow, Her sawdust heart beats wildly.

I'm sure that when I'm big and tall, And wear long trailing dresses, I sha'n't encourage beaux at all Till mamma acquiesces; Our choice will be a suitor then As pretty as this vase is,-- Oh, how we'll hate the noisy men With whiskers on their faces!

THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE.

UPON an average, twice a week, When anguish clouds my brow, My good physician friend I seek To know "what ails me now."

He taps me on the back and chest, And scans my tongue for bile, And lays an ear against my breast And listens there awhile; Then is he ready to admit That all he can observe Is something wrong inside, to wit: My pneumogastric nerve!

Now, when these Latin names within Dyspeptic hulks like mine Go wrong, a fellow should begin To draw what's called the line.

It seems, however, that this same, Which in my hulk abounds, Is not, despite its awful name, So fatal as it sounds; Yet of all torments known to me, I'll say without reserve, There is no torment like to thee, Thou pneumogastric nerve!

This subtle, envious nerve appears To be a patient foe,-- It waited nearly forty years Its chance to lay me low; Then, like some blithering blast of h.e.l.l, It struck this guileless bard, And in that evil hour I fell Prodigious far and hard.

Alas! what things I dearly love-- Pies, puddings, and preserves-- Are sure to rouse the vengeance of All pneumogastric nerves!

Oh that I could remodel man!

I'd end these cruel pains By hitting on a different plan From that which now obtains.

The stomach, greatly amplified, Anon should occupy The all of that domain inside Where heart and lungs now lie.

But, first of all, I should depose That diabolic curve And author of my thousand woes, The pneumogastric nerve!

TEENY-WEENY.

EVERY evening, after tea, Teeny-Weeny comes to me, And, astride my willing knee, Plies his lash and rides away; Though that palfrey, all too spare, Finds his burden hard to bear, Teeny-Weeny doesn't care,-- He commands, and I obey!

First it's trot; and gallop then,-- Now it's back to trot again; Teeny-Weeny likes it when He is riding fierce and fast!

Then his dark eyes brighter grow And his cheeks are all aglow,-- "More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!"

Till the horse breaks down at last!

Oh, the strange and lovely sights Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, As he makes those famous flights On that wondrous horse of his!

Oftentimes, before he knows, Wearylike his eyelids close, And, still smiling, off he goes Where the land of By-low is.

There he sees the folk of fay Hard at ring-a-rosie play, And he hears those fairies say, "Come, let's chase him to and fro!"

But, with a defiant shout, Teeny puts that host to rout,-- Of this tale I make no doubt,-- Every night he tells it so!

So I feel a tender pride In my boy who dares to ride (That fierce horse of his astride) Off into those misty lands; And as on my breast he lies, Dreaming in that wondrous wise, I caress his folded eyes,-- Pat his little dimpled hands.

On a time he went away, Just a little while to stay, And I'm not ashamed to say I was very lonely then; Life without him was so sad, You can fancy I was glad And made merry when I had Teeny-Weeny back again!

So of evenings, after tea, When he toddles up to me And goes tugging at my knee, You should hear his palfrey neigh!

You should see him prance and shy, When, with an exulting cry, Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, Plies his lash and rides away!

TELKA.

THROUGH those golden summer days Our twin flocks were wont to graze On the hillside, which the sun Rested lovingly upon,-- Telka's flock and mine; and we Sung our songs in rapturous glee, Idling in the pleasant shade Which the solemn Yew-tree made, While the Brook anear us played, And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew In the shadow of the Yew.