I.
I
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wonder if you’ve ever heard of ol’ “Molasses
Bill,”
Who used to live in Gungawamp, just
south o’ “Miller’s Hill”?
He
was as queer a popinjay as ever crooked his arm,
An’
though he never did much good, ’twas said he did no harm.
He
had peculiar notions did this ol’ “Molasses Bill”;
For
years he’d ’lowed molasses was a cure for ev’ry ill.
For
toothache or consumption Bill would always recommend
A
dose of black molasses to his enemy or friend.
B
|
II.
ILL
never used to labor, ’cuz he said life was too short
To waste his precious moments with a
job of any sort,
An’
how he got a livin’ was a sort of mystery
To
which the native Gungyites could never find the key.
Each
day he come along the road about a certain time,
Bound
for the village gin saloon, with all its liquors prime,
Oft
stoppin’ on the way along, if anyone was sick,
To
leave a sample of his cure, molasses black an’ thick.
I
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III.
tell you,” said “Molasses Bill,” “don’t matter
what you’ve got,
Molasses is a sartain cure, an’ cures
you on the spot;
I
had an uncle, once,” said he, “was shipwrecked on an isle
Down
round West Injys, so he said, an’ lived there quite a while
Afore
a vessel took him off, an’ all the cure they had,
Them
natives there, for all their ills, an’ some wuz pretty bad,
Wuz
just molasses ev’rytime; molasses for a chill,
Molasses
for the yaller jack,” said ol’ “Molasses Bill.”
IV.
T
|
HE
fellers round the gin saloon got tired of Bill’s ol’ game,
Got tired of treatin’ him each round, an
ev’ry day the same;
Says
one: “If that will cure disease the way Bill says it will,
Why
won’t it cure the gin complaint that’s got a-holt of Bill?”
An’
so they conjured up a scheme, an’ next he come down town
They’d
fill him up with all the stuff that he could swaller down,
An’
they would give him such a dose of his molasses cure
That
he would never drink ag’in they figured, pretty sure.
A
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V.
n’
sure enough; when Bill came down they filled him to the brim,
An’
took him to a barn close by an’ stripped him arm an’ limb,
An’
bathed him in molasses there, the blackest they could buy,
Until
he was the sweetest thing that ever met the eye!
They
rubbed his ears an’ whiskers full, his eyebrows an’ his hair,
Then
left him on the hay to sleep, an’ wake in his despair.
An’
wake he did the coming morn, but words can ne’er portray
The
tortures nor the hours of wrath that Bill went through that day.
VI.
H
|
E
come, half-clad in hay an’ clothes, up through the village street,
A-tryin’
hard to dodge each man or woman he would meet;
He
raved an’ swore he’d spend his life in runnin’ down the crew
Who
gave him that molasses bath, the gist of which is true.
An’
Bill was cured of drinking gin, an’ cured forever more
Of
tellin’ of his wondrous cure in ginmill, street an’ store;
An’
though he lived to good ol’ age, an’ stayed neath “Miller’s Hill,”
He
never lost the sobriquet of “Ol’ Molasses Bill!”
Mar. 20, ‘10
Originally “Ballad of ‘Molasses Bill’.”
“D
|
O, re, mi, fa,
sol, la, ti, do,”
That’s how we worried up the scale,
Each
country lad an’ lass;
“Do,
ti, la, sol, fa, mi, re, do,”
That’s
how we came back down again
In Mylo Bates’ class.
I.
N
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OW,
Mylo Bates was somethin’ more than leader of the choir;
To eddicate the
hull blamed world in song wad his desire.
He said he’d
ruther sing than eat, though folks would allus say
He
had an awful appetite, an’ had it ev’ry day.
They
said he liked right well to sing, but they had noticed My’
Would
allus stop to eat a meal pervidin’ there was pie;
But
all the same, there warn’t a bass in Gungy’s wondrous shire,
Could
rip a solo out like My’, or lead a village choir.
II.
I
|
N winter time,
twice ev’ry week, they met for practice there
Down in the vestry
of the church, the lads an’ lasses fair;
Some went to learn
to sing, of course, an’ some just went, I fear,
Because
they knew that someone else would be a-sittin’ there.
At
any rate, ’twas allus full, was Mylo’s singin’ school,
An’
turnin’ out good singers warn’t exceptions, but the rule;
An’
if a match or two was made each year ’twixt lad an’ lass,
So
much the more praise orter go to Mylo’s singin’ class!
III.
H
|
OW
Mylo used to stand an’ wave his stick both to an’ fro,
Then up and down,
the way, of course, the music orter go,
Dependin’ on the
time, “Two-four,” or “Four-four,” as might be,
Detectin’
here an’ there a voice fur out of harmony.
Beginin’
at the lowest note, which, as you know, is “do,”
Then
risin’ step by step each beat, up, up the class would go
Until
it reached the higher note, which same was “do” again,
Then
comin’ downward, easy like, the octive’s awful strain:
“D
|
O, re, mi, fa,
sol, la, ti, do,”
That’s how we wandered up the scale,
Each
timid lad an’ lass;
“Do,
ti, la, sol, fa, mi, re, do,”
That’s
how we got back down again
In Mylo Bates’ class.
IV.
I
|
T
warn’t so much the practice nights, though they had many joys
With
all their tinges of romance betwixt the girls an’ boys,
But
what was greatest fun of all, an’ most important, too,
Was
Mylo’s concert musical when singin’ class was through.
That
was the grand event of all, the classiest by fur,
Of
anything in Gungawump, fur music, as it were;
An’
Mylo, he was by the ears, all nervous like an’ pale,
To
have that musical of his the winter’s grand finale.
V.
H
|
E
had quartets an’ choruses, an’ solos an’ duets,
All trained to run them pieces off
like operatic vets;
The
tenors stood way on the end, the s’pranos next in line,
The
altos an’ the basses next, in regular design.
An’
Mylo, he stood up in front to signal here an’ there,
An
hammer out the double “f’s,” or shade the soft an’ fair;
Jest
like a big machine that class, right under his control,
A-rippin’
out them grand ol’ tunes that stir the hardest soul!
VI.
T
|
HE
church was filled upstair an’ down, with folks from fur an’ near,
With folks who’d heard the same ol’
songs of Mylo’s ev’ry year.
But
who gits tired of “Home Again,” or “Bonnie Lassie Jean,”
“Before
Jehovah’s Awful Throne,” an’ “Ol’ Black Joe,” I ween?
Who
ever tires of “Tubal Cain,” “Star of Descending Night,”
“Two
Roses Fair,” an’ “Speed Away,” ol’ songs that bring delight
To
countless thousands ev’ry day? An’ “Swanee River,” too,
An’
“Buy a Broom,” an’ “Bonnie Doon,” sweet melodies an’ true?
VII.
T
|
HEM
songs would melt the coldest heart that ever filled a breast,
An’ bring it back to warmth again an’
give it peace an’ rest;
They’ve
lived for years, will ever live to cheer souls on their way,
An’
bring to mind the joys again of some forgotten day.
’Twas
wuth a 10-mile journey an’ the loss of one night’s sleep
To
hear ol’ Mylo sing “Rocked in the Cradle of Deep.”
There
warn’t no land, or sea beneath, no under-ocean place
That
went so deep, it seemed to me, as Mylo’s deepest bass.
VIII.
T
|
HEN
“Ruben, Ruben,” too, was sung by My’ an’ Cynthy Jones,
Who made the people laugh by their
peculiar ways an’ tones.
Then
Mylo he would end the show in one triumphant din
By
thundrin’ out “America,” the audience j’inin’ in.
The
church would fairly groan with noise, an’ sway to Mylo’s beat,
While
ev’ry voice let loose to sing “My Country,” clear an’ sweet!
O
Gungawamp was mighty proud of ev’ry lad an’ lass
Who
graduated year by year from Mylo’s singin’ class.
“D
|
O, re, mi, fa,
sol, la, ti, do,”
That’s how they started ev’ry year,
Each
country lad an’ lass;
“Do,
ti, la, sol, fa, mi, re, do,”
That’s
how they made a grand success
Of Mylo Bates’ class.
March
27, ’10.
|
“O
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GIT the augur,
William,
An’ bring the
spouts out, John;
An’ fetch the buckets, Thomas,
The tappin’
time is on.
O, Mary, clean the kittles,
To match
your sunny smile;
An’ I will haul the firewood
To start
tomorrow’s bile!”
|
T
|
HE
March winds strike the maple trees an’ swing ‘em to an’ fro,
The snow
is left in patches where the sun can’t send his rays;
But
spring is on the rampage, an’ the sap begins to flow,
An’ sugar camps
are open for the busy b’ilin’ days.
The
boys are in the orchard borin’ holes the hull day long,
An’ driving spouts
to fit ’em an’ a-singin’ as they go;
An’
pails are slid in under, wooden buckets clean an’ strong,
An’ if the
weather’s meller, then the sap begins to flow.
|
“T
|
HEN git the hosses, William,
An’ hitch ‘em to the bob;
It’s early in the mornin’
For you an’
John an’ Rob.
Put on the tank an’ gather
The sap from
all the trees;
I’ll have the kittle ready
For b’ilin’,
if you please.”
|
N
|
OW
comes the team a-draggin’ of the tank from tree to tree,
Where rests the buckets brimmin’ with
the sap both sweet an’ clear;
The
off it goes a-groanin’, off to where the kittles be,
Where now the smoke is risin’ in the
leaden atmosphere.
The
fires are burnin’ brightly ’neath the kittles huge an’ black,
The sap is b’ilin’ slowly while the
vapor fades away;
The
syrup’s sweet an’ tasty like a country maiden’s smack,
An’ warms a feller’s in’ards on a chilly
b’ilin’ day.
|
“D
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ON’T burn the surrup, William,
The cans are
clean an’ bright;
Don’t fall asleep, you Thomas,
It’s your
turn tonight.
Heigho, for home an’ mother,
To git a
decent nap;
It’s early in the mornin’
To gather up
the sap.”
|
T
|
HE b’ilin’ days
are busy days with skimmin’ off the top,
With keepin’ fires a-burnin’ ’neath the
kittles day an’ night;
With dumpin’ of
the buckets, cuz the sap will never stop,
An’ haulin’ of the surplus to the
storage big an’ tight.
Then fillin’ of
the bottles, or the cans, as it may be,
’Cuz city folks are waitin’ for the
syrup pure an’ clear;
Are waitin’ with
impatience, an’ a-blamin’ you an’ me,
’Cuz the syrup ain’t a-comin’ long
before we git it here!
|
“O
|
keep your axe
a-swingin’
The wood is
gittin’ low;
Fill up the kittles, William,
Don’t be so
tarnal slow!
It’s Thomas for the station,
A load for
Boston town;
There’s work for ev’ry finger
When sap is
b’ilin’ down!”
|
T
|
HE sap is runnin’
slower, an’ the young folks growin’ glum;
They’ve got to have some pleasure with
the work from day to day;
Tomorrow we will
“sugar,” an’ they’re feelin’ better some,
An’ word has been extended to the
neighbors on the way.
The
boys have worked like beavers an’ they’ve cleared the big barn floor,
The fiddles have been hired for the
dancin’ through the night;
The gals are all
excited for the happiness in store,
The hearts of all the lovers they are
feelin’ gay an’ light.
|
“O
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SWING your pardners,
fellers!
An’ race ’em
down the line;
They’re sweeter all than sugar –
We’re all
a-feelin’ fine.
Git married? If you wanter,
But don’t
hold up the fun;
The sugar’s off to market,
An’ b’ilin’
days are done!”
April 10, ‘10
(Originally titled ‘Ballad of “B’ilin’
Down” ’)
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