Individually Published Poems - March & April, 1910









                                                                            I.
I
 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
                                            
                                             
                                                    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
                                              
                                             
                                                    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
       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
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
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
 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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