School Day Rhymes - or - Youthood’s Undeveloped Fancies

 

School Day Rhymes

-       or -

Youthood’s Undeveloped Fancies

 

 

 

On Imagination.

 

O thou accursed imagination!

     Would that I sometimes could,

Instead of always evil

     Imagine something good.

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A Loss.

 

All those who live a life

     Devoid of sentiment,

Lose half of this life’s zest

     And all of sweet content

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Nature.

 

I love nature, ‘tis so wondrously fair,

  To sit by it and watch it in open air.

I love the valets, mountains and hills,

  The picturesque lakes and murmuring rills.

I love the white clouds that float gracefully by,

  Far, far up above in the beautiful sky.

I love the tall trees, so stately and bold,

  As handsome as ever, tho’ scores of years old.

 

     [Written at 12 years of age, in the old school house in Haddam Neck, Conn.]

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My Boat On The Shore.

 

My boat is on the shore,

Ready to take a passenger o’er

              The stream of life.

The stream of life is broad, they say

To cross would take many a day,

              To reach the other side.

 

The stream of life is a lonely one

If one must cross it all alone,

              What think you, passenger?

My boat is ready and light as a feather

To bear us over the stream together,

              The stream of life.

 

O passenger fair! there’s room for you;

We two would make a goodly crew

              To man this boat.

The stream is calm, let’s now depart,

Once on this stream we ne’er shall part,

              The stream of life.

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        The Redman              

 

In days of old, when warriors bold,

     Through forest glades and tangled wood,

With stealthy steps and crouching forms

     The wild deer and moose pursued.

Then lo, up around the turn is seen

     A brave quickly sweeping into view;

In straightness he rivals the poplar tree,

     As he stands in his birch-bark canoe.

If perchance in his flight the deer should take

     To the river and make for the opposite shore,

The skillful canoeman would intercept

     His flight forever, evermore.

The red man loves his dusky tribe,

     He worships his wild uncultured home;

The hills and glens are sacred to him

     Where e’er he may chance to roam.

His rough and red hued countenance

     In camp is dignified and stern,

As round the council fire he sits,

     Silently smoking and waiting his turn

To relate his bloody victories

     He won in the hard day’s fight before,

And tell how “pale-face fight, much, heap,

     But pale-face fight no more.”

Then loudly the war cry belches forth

     And round the pole with all their might

They shout and sing their death cry song

     Till late into the night.

 

                           Written in Saybrook about 1886.

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Lie still! dead hopes – ‘tis past and gone;

     What, would you thus recall to life

That one sweet hour, that burning flame

     That faded and smoldered in the strife?

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A Woodland Stroll.

 

I took a walk once through the wood

     Which bordered round my childhood home,

And oh! how fair all nature seemed!

     As on I wandered all alone.

Some years had passed since I’d been there,

     But, as I roamed through dale and dell,

I smiled upon each tree and stone

     Which I remembered oh! so well.

I followed up the old cart path

     Which I had travelled day by day

To the old red school-house by the road

     With a school-boy’s heart so light and gay.

At length I sat upon a stone

     And looked back o’er the scenes again;

While a cow bell tinkled musically

     Far down below me in the glen.

I loved those scenes when but a child,

     And the while I was resting there,

The joy that stole upon me

     Skewed greater than I could bear.

I raised my face in praise to Him,

     Who gave me power to see once more

The rippling waves on childhoods lake

     That kissed the sands on manhoods shore.

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Fancies.

 

Behold! in mem’ry’s fair vision I can see

Through a misty veil of faded years

One dancing beam of earthly light,

One pair of eyes that sparkled bright,

A fairy face, a queenly head,

A dainty form a graceful tread,

A tender heart which oftimes bled;

And now I’m smiling through my tears.

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My Ideal Face

 

A golden braid is neatly laid

     Upon he head so stately;

And fancy bangs of gold o’erhangs

     Her brow so fair and shapely.

Her clear blue eyes like summer skies

     Are full of warmth and splendor;

In grief or glee they seem to me

     A thousand times more tender.

A roman nose in graceful pose

     Is one more handsome feature,

And tinted cheeks, soft, round and sleek

     Adorn this ideal creature.

The pearly teeth lie just beneath

     Twixt rosebud lips a peeking,

I’ve sought this face in every place

     And yet I’m still a seeking.

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To A Thunder Storm.

 

Ye lightning streaks, ye play mad freaks

     In yonder gray lined sky;

Ye dance about and then go out

     But who’s afraid? not I.

Ye thunders roll from pole to pole

     And jar the haunts of men;

Ye snap and clash and clap and dash

     Like lions in a den.

Ye torrents pour down with a roar,

     Ye think to wash us to the sea

But pour away, He, rules the day,

     So who’s afraid? Not me.

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An Easter Sonnet

 

A poet was far away from home

And, as his wife was all alone

     He sent to her an Easter sonnet.

The wife received the sonnet gem,

But much more welcome would it have been

     Had he sent an Easter bonnet.

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The Tramp’s Story

 

Drive me not from your door step, sir,

     I beg of you to let me stay;

If only for a few moments sir,

     For I’ve been on the tramp all day.

What! do you refuse me sir?

     Ah, me; I suppose ‘tis the way with man;

But if you only knew the story sir

     That brought e to where I am.

Once I was young and happy sir,

     With not a car to my life;

Except, a charming young daughter

     And a tender loving wife.

I was a prosperous young farmer sir,

     With lands that stretched far away;

And cattle and sheep and a thousand or two

     Laid by for a rainy day.

The pride of our hearts our Mary was,

     So delicate, refined and sweet;

Ah, such a gal in a country place

     You’d seldom ever meet.

Of lovers, (curse ‘em) she had a score

     As you’ll always find in such a case;

But “she would not wed,” she often said,

     For she couldn’t leave papa and the dear old place.

So on we lived day after day,

     Never fearing there would any harm

Be coming to any one of us,

     We were so happy on the dear old farm.

Till one bright midsummer morning

     There came into the place

A city chap, so they called him,

     All wreathed in smiles and grace.

He hovered around our Mary’s path,

     With a voice like a cooing dove;

And soon within her soul had grown

     An everlasting love.

We tried to quench the burning love

     That had stricken our darling blind,

But closer and closer that devil drew

     And about her his net entwined.

‘Tis the same sad old story sir,

     We woke up one early morn

And found a short, sad letter,

     But Mary – our little Mary – was gone.

With shaking hands we read the lines:

     “I know you will, you must forgive;

And, soon, papa and dear mama

     We’ll both come home with you to live.”

Time went on, and one winter’s night

     Mid driving sleet and snow

A form came tottering through the door,

     Too frail and weak to go.

“We were not married,” was on her lips,

     “For a scoundrel as vile as he

Performed the deed, so he has said,

     And then he deserted me.”

Brain fever set in at once, sir,

     And ere long at break of day

Our sweet and only Mary

     Had quietly passed away.

The mother, too weak to stand the strain,

     Grew frenzied, sick and wild,

And ere another moon had shone,

     Had gone to join her child.

I sold my farm, sir, and took my all

     And went forth into the world

To find that devil of a man

     Who had such deeds unfurled.

 

I sold the farm and with what I had,

     I started out into the world

To find that devil of a man,

     Who had such misery unfurled.

                   18.

With one thought in mind I shadowed him

     To foreign lands and back,

And now before the sun goes down

     I’ll be close upon his track.

                   19.

Yes, I’m a dirty ragged tramp sir

     My money was all spent years ago;

And I’ve got but one mission to fulfill

     On this here earth below.

                   20.

So I must be up and off sir

That that scoundrel I may spy,

Then I’ll join sweet wife and Mary,

     In that holier land on high.

 

                   Joe A. Cone. June 26  89

                      E. Cambridge, Mass.

 

(The last for stanzas are from a separate page, different sized writing and ink. As the remainder of the first portion is blank, it appears they reflect the completion on the stated date?)

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Bound Out.

 

I heard a knock on my chamber door

One early summer morn,

And a gruff voice said: “Get up you brat

     An’ go ter hoein’ corn.”

Much tired was I and sleepy too,

     But sprang up in alarm;

‘Twas for the best I knew, for I

     Was bound upon a farm.

An orphan boy and very small,

     When I were taken there.

The cuffs and kicks were numerous

     And more than I could bear.

The farmer’s wife had passed away

     Which left us all alone;

And day by day I longed to have

     A different choice of home.

I’d heard my mother speak of prayer,

     So I knelt down to pray;

“O God,” I said, in simple tones,

     “Please take me far away.”

Then to my work I went but oh!

     The sight that met my view.

The bull had tired of kicks and blows

     And gored the farmer through.

It seems my prayer was answered, and

     It makes me shudder still,

When I see the mangled farmer

     Lying dead upon the hill.

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Poet and Tree.

 

A poet loved a tree which stood

In the depth of tangled wood;

And in his rhymes, with crazy glee

Was always barking up that tree.

 

If that same bard with axe and saw

Had cut it at his mother’s door,

And let his rhyming stuff alone

She might have had some wood to burn.

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The Portrait on the Wall.

 

Could I have been so foolish once

     As to let my self believe

The face, which hangs on yonder wall

     Could ne’er a man deceive?

 

‘Twas years agon, when I was young

     That first I saw the face,

And quickly fell an easy prey

     To all its queenly grace.

 

“But love is blind” – it must have been,

     For, when she cast me by,

I saw the demon lurk within

     Her fair, deceiving eye.

 

So I had the portrait painted

     And hung there on the wall,

To keep her fresh in memory

     And steel my heart to all.

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Before and After.

 

I loved her, she loved me;

I did err, she did see.

Give me slip, said no more;

I got flip, then felt sore.

Tried to patch up again;

Mentioned match – way made plain.

Married now, err again;

But my frow can’t complain.

 

I loved a girl, we had to part;

I’ve got her curl, she’s got my heart.

She’s living on – seems not to care,

While I’m the one full of despair.

Maybe I’ll live, maybe I’ll die,

But if she’d give my heart, I’d try.

You’d like to know what made us part –

Her papa’s toe just broke my heart.

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May-Basket Hight

 

A youth and maid stood neath the pine

Heedless of the flight of time;

Oft had they stood in that same spot,

And time flew by but they cared not.

 

The moon rose slowly into view,

They watched it from neath the tree.

He longed to whisper in her ear:

“Would he could always with her be.”

 

But, as he viewed her by the moon,

(For the moon had risen then)

He sadly thought of coming days,

And forgot it was half-past ten.

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What I Saw and Heard.

 

I saw the sky-light on the roof

     I saw the sun-rays through;

I saw a shoe-nail on the door,

     And a jig saw it too.

I saw a fish scale o’er the fence,

     I saw a crow-bar up the door;

I saw a thumb-screw in a hole,

     And a boat-hook up the shore.

I saw an oc-cart off the road,

     I saw a horse-rake through the grass;

I saw a quart-jug up some wine,

     And a fly-blow on some glass.

I heard a clay-pipe up a tune,

     I heard a cow-bell-low and sweet;

I hear a draw-file on some iron,

     And saw a fire-fly up the street.

I saw a stone-drag on the ground,

     I saw a weather vane and proud;

I saw a wheel-wright out a plan,

     And heard a bass ball loud.

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Love’s Young Dream.

 

‘Twas early one morning in the month of rosy June

     When all nature was fair, below and above;

I grasped my carpet bag tight in my hand

     And made for the home of my beautiful love.

How nervously I waited for the coming of the train!

     While I heaved now and then a impatient sigh;

At last it came, and with hurried word and look

     I bade kind friends and home goodbye.

Then across the green meadows I quickly was whirled

     To the home of my long sought for bride.

What unspeakable joy the leaped to my heart

     When safely I landed kerplunk by her side!

She dwelt in a cottage o’er looking a lake

     Where birds warbled all day by the door;

And ivy clung tightly all over the side

     While flower bordered walks led down by the shore.

Then thinking of my mission what joy I found

     In wandering along on the sandy beach.

I trembled with fear lest she should refuse

     And declined to ask he till well out of reach.

But more scared than hurt was I, for she consented

     To become a sharer in my joy and sorrow,

Tho’ blushingly said she wished that I’d wait

     And postpone it until the morrow.

But I insisted as onward we strolled

     To the house where dwelt the servant of God,

Who conveys two mortals into one

     And brings them their just reward.

Married we were and home we returned

     To prostrate ourselves at her parents’ feet;

But they upbraided in rather loud style

     And bade me to make a hasty retreat.

They swore they’d part us then and there,

     And banish me forever from their sight.

We pled and begged with tearful eyes,

     But all to no purpose, ‘twas never outright.

I was wild – near the lake rose a craggy cliff,

     Out I ran and over it I sprang with a scream;

Down, down I went of the ragged rocks below –

     The cold sweat started – I woke from my dream.

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Fickle Or Not.

 

How can I love so many girls

     Since being wed to one

With peach-blow cheeks and chestnut curls,

     And eyes brim full of fun.

 

Oftimes I meet them on the street,

     And then arises pain;

Recalling days that were so sweet

     I with them o’er again.

 

Is it then a fickle heart

     That lies within their breast?

While they, I love only in part

     I love my good wife best.

 

And tho’ I say I love her best

     I hope she will not see

How much I think of all the rest

     In this bit of poetry.

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Blighted Youth!

 

I see no light in the western sky –

     The sun of my life has set;

I sank below the waning glow,

     And vain, vain is all regret.

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A Rich Man Once.

 

‘Tis cities and towns and valleys I’ve owned,

     And mountains of gold I have crossed;

It makes me excited and piques at myself

     When I think of the chances I’ve lost.

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