The Daughter of the Regiment

We found her wand’rin’ lonely in the midnight cold an’ damp,

An’ picked her up so tenderly an’ brought her into camp;

We tried to keep her hidden from McSweeny an’ the rest,

An’ for a time succeeded, but ‘twas difficult at best.

We nursed her O, so carefully, an’ grew to love her, too,

But it was worse than stealin’, always keepin’ her from view.

We tried to find a name for her – in vain the time was spent,

An’ so we split an’ called her, “Daughter of the Regiment”.

She grew in grace an’ stature ‘cuz she had the best o’ care,

An’ ev’ry private thought her most excutiatin’ fair;

Her hair was smooth an’ glossy an’ her eye was bright as steel,

O’ her capers were mischievous, which we managed to conceal.

We knew we couldn’t keep her yet we didn’t have the sand

To turn her from our keepin’, with no one to hold her hand

An’ watch her little footsteps lest she meet with accident,

An’ so we kept her with us, “Daughter of the Regiment.”

Alas! The dread day found us an’ our happerness was spent;

McSweeny heard her singin’ in the rear o’ Brooks’s tent.

He brought her to the guard house an’ he called us to explain,

Which Pontillo, in his fashion, tried to do, but all in vain:

“Meester Serge’,” said he, salutin’, first with left hand then with right,

“We fin’ da leelta babe een da dark an’ colda night;

We breeng her home just lika so, an’ geer her gooda home;

Bimeby we hava playnta meelk, maybe you lika some?”

McSweeny looked us over with his teeth a-showin’ white;

His face was drawn an’ sober though his eye was wild an’ bright.

We knew that we would lose her, an’ we felt fur from content

When he pointed at the tremblin’ “Daughter of the Regiment.”

“As fine a gang o’ soldiers as you’ll find most any place,

But as for farmers,” says he, “you are worse than a disgrace!”

McSweeny looked her over, then he chuckled down his throat:

“Milk?” says he to Pontillo, “W’y he ain’t that kind o’ goat!”

Jan. 31 1918

‘Bout Children

“What do I know about children?”

     Why, bless ye, nuthin’ much;

You couldn’t reely ‘spect it

     Sence I ain’t none uv such.

I think they’re gifts from Heaven,

     Uv pure an’ priceless stuff;

I don’t know much about ‘em,

     I love ‘em, that’s enough.

Jan. 31, ‘93

Untitled

There is a class of vocal gents,

With harsh-like tones, but good intents,

Who give to me, free of expense,

A concert nightly on my fence.

Not wholly free, tho’, I may say,

For there is quite a big outlay;

The cost of things that come in play

To drive the songsters far away.

    

Jan. 31, ‘91
Pub. in The Leader

The Martins

Full-throated songsters from the south,

     Again your rippling note we hear;

You bring the charm of tropic lands,

     And we forget the winter drear.

Sleek coated martins; wondrous hue

     Glinting beneath the springtime sun;

Accept our hospitality,

     Rest here and ease your northward run.

Your quaint abodes are waiting you,

     At best the summer is not long;

Stand guard before your sacred doors

     And fill the breaking dawn with song.

Jan 31, 1917 

Pick’relin Thro’ The Ice

I know the boys are fishin’ down on Lizzard Crick today,

Jest down round there in the bend right where the pik’rel lay;

The weather’s kinder meller an’ it’s warm behind the hill,

An’ that is when the pick’rel bite, when ev’rything is still.

I know thet Billy Buzzy is a-cuttin’ holes today,

An’ baitin’ hooks with shiners in the good ol’ fashioned way;

An’ when he sees a tilt-up bob he steals up in a trice

An’ flops a yeller pick’rel right out upon the ice.

An’ then the campfire on the shore with logs a-lyin’ round,

A lively blaze of driftwood with it’s sizzlin’, crackin’ sound,

Lends cheer and comfort to the scene, an’ I can picter Bill

With ha’f a dozen other chaps close underneath the hill

A-spinnin’ yarns an’ toastin shins, the smoke a-curlin’ high,

An’ sailin’ off in little clouds to meet the wintry sky;

A jolly set of fisher-folk as ever kept from vice,

Whose hearts are full uv happiness when fishin’ through the ice.

I wish thet I could fish today down on ol’ Lizzard Crick,

Jest down around there in the bend where pick’rel lie thick;

I’d like to set a score of hooks an’ bait ‘em up to kill,

An’ run a race for numbers with my good ol’ schoolmate Bill.

An’ then I’d like to toast my shins beside the ol’ campfire,

An’ prove my reputation ez an’ all-round fishin’ liar.

I know my life would be complete, if I could just entice

A few of them big yeller chaps to come out on the ice.

Jan. 30, 1901

The Funny World

This is the funniest kind of world

     That ever you saw, by far;

For the things that are are not at all,

     And the things that aren’t, are.

You think you are eating ice cream, perhaps,

     And maybe you are, I vow,

But it may be the ice never saw a lake,

     And the cream never saw a cow.

You go to the museum to view’   

     The wonders from foreign lands;

And likely as not they were made at home

     By some of your neighbor’s hands.

The honey you eat never saw its bee,

     Your coffee came not from afar;

For the thing that are are not at all,

     And the things that aren’t, are.

Jan. 29, 1900 

Rhyme An’ Melerdy

Poet I am boun’ ter be,

Full uv rhyme an’ melerdy;

If there’s sech a thing as fame,

I will hitch it to my name.

Let the worl’ do what it will,

My ambitions all to kill,

Let all critics douse me o’er,

Icy water on me pour,

Let ‘em wash me to the sea,

They can’t drown my melerdy.

Rhyme will be my gallant ship,

Melerdy will be her trip.

Thus we’ll haunt thur sea uv life

Harmonizin’ all its strife;

Takin’ here an’ there a prize

Through ther straits ter paradise.

All of Satan’s mighty fleet,

Armored, stanch an’ crew complete,

Kennot silence any time

My rich melerdy an’ rhyme.

For my daily purpose is

Singin’ down perplexities.

But I hev a trouble too,

Thet I kennot quite undo;

An’ it iis thet none but me

See my rhyme an’ melody.

Jan. 30, ‘92
Pub. in Conn. Valley Advertiser

“Beautiful Snow”

A poet by the window sat

And watched the snowflakes as they spat

Against the window pane; and then

He seized his ever ready pen.

     “Snow, snow, beautiful snow;

I love you so, I love you so;

I love to see you dance and float,”

              He wrote.

A boy looked out into the air,

And saw the snowflakes everywhere;

And then he hurried to the shed,

And got his bright new Christmas sled.

     “Snow, snow, beautiful snow;

I love you so, I love you so;

     Oh, come on boys and have a side,”

              He cried.

An old shoemaker sat also,

And watched the thickly falling snow,

He saw the rubber business boom,

And knew that snowstorms meant his doom.

     “Snow, snow, dad g‘ast the snow,

     I hate you so, I hate you so;

     Until you go my work is dead,”

              He said.         

Jan. 29, ‘95

Pub. in Boston Courier

Feb. 10, 1895 

My Father And Lincoln

When I was but a youngster on the farm I recall

The things my father said to me, the good and bad and all;

Especially the good advice, at least he thought ‘twas good,

But as for me, I don’t believe I ever understood.

When I would want to run out nights or hang around the store

He’d look at me above his specs, as he had done before,

And say, “Yew can’t be out o’nights, I pos’tively forbid,

Jest stay at home an’ study, boy, Abe Lincoln allus did.”

Whenever I was hoeing corn or building fences new,

And kind of stood around and dreamed like some folks always do;

Stood thinking o my rabbit traps or kite strings laid away,

My father he would happen round and look at me and say:

“Fur pity’s sake, what’s ailin’ yew? Yeou’ll never git this done;

Let me jist furnish yew a word uv good advice my son.

Stick tew yeour job an’ got it done, all other thoughts furbid;

Don’t think a fence will build itself, Abe Lincoln never did.”

And if I looked down on the crick and wished that I was there

Just where I knew each pickerel lay within his sheltered lair,

My father would appear and say, mayhap with good intent:

“Don’t waste no time a-fishin’ boy, Abe Lincoln never went.”

One day I said to him, said I, my patience well-nigh spent:

“If I should do as Lincoln did would I be president?”

Pa “hemmed and hawed”, and scratched his head, and said, “Waal, I dunno;

But if you want tew fish today I guess you’d better go!”

Jan. 28, ‘09

My Great Possession

She had not rings of golden hair,

     Nor peach-like bloom upon her cheek;

Her eyes shamed not the violet,

     Nor choicest language did she speak.

But she had much of common sense,

     And lived a modest, truthful life;

Her mind was open to advance,

     And I was proud to call her wife.

Jan. 28, ‘93

Pub. in Cambridge Chronicle

March 18, ‘94 

His Last Resort

For years he tried to see her home,

     For years had she declined.

Each time he brought some good excuse,

But she in ways that maidens use,

     Would some quick answer find.

This night he came as usual,

     Without a thought of failing,

And said: “I think it is my privilege

For there’s a man down on the bridge

     A-leaning ‘gainst the railing.”

She listened quite attentively,

     Then spoke in accents rare:

“O thank you, John, for telling me,

     He said he’d meet me there.”

Jan. 28, 1892

Pub. in Boston Courier

May 14, ‘93 

A Good Claimer

“I claim,” said William Henry Jones,

     (Bill Jones the grocer man)

“That I am jest ez much account

     As any other man.

I claim I know my biz niz here,”

     Said he, in risin’ tones,

“Ez well ez Carnegie knows his,”

     Said William Henry Jones.

“I claim that we are equals all,

     Each in a diffrunt line;

An’ Roosevelt an’ his career

     Ain’t much ahead uv mine.

Fur all I ain’t no college man,

     I don’t make any bones

Uv tellin’ people what I claim,

     Said William Henry Jones.

Then William claimed a good deal more,

     An’ claimed it good an’ strong;

An’ emphasized it with a look

     Of scorn upon the throng.

Then someone nudged Jed Martin who

     Said calm as ever wuz:

“I’ve allus noticed claimin’ is

     The best thing William does.”

Jan. 28, ‘10

The Lines that Failed

“Why don’t you write some touching verse?”

     My boss once said to me;

“Don’t always aim for mirth, but write

     Some touching verse,” quoth he.

And so I took my pen in hand,

     And scratched my waning hair,

And tried to write some touching verse,

     Till I was in despair.

I sat and burned the midnight oil,

     The hours they came and went;

At length I got the verse in shape,

     And this is what I sent:

“Dear sir: My needs are many fold,

     A friend in need is meet;

Could you please loan me twenty-five,

     Till I get on my feet?”

Alas! They never saw the light,

     He later wrote me thus:

“Your lines have failed to touch me, sir,

     Indeed, they’re humorous.”

Jan. 28, ‘10