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THE
Old Hanging Fork
and
Other Poems.
BY
GEORGE W. DONEGHY.
FRANKLIN, OHIO:
The Editor Publishing Co.
1897.
Copyright, 1897,
By
George W. Doneghy.
CONTENTS.
page The Old Hanging Fork, 9 Sweet September Days, 11 Yer Old Cob Pipe, 13 Tim Bluster's Dream, 15 Apple Blossoms, 18 Chickamauga, 20 Gen. John B. Gordon, 22 Up And Down Old Clark's Run, 23 Robert Burns (A Paraphrase) 25 Wishing—Fishing, 27 Poe, 28 A Barren "Idealty," 29 A Cherished Relic, 31 "Restland," 33 My Valentine, 35 A Smoke, 36 Perryville, 37 Longings, 39 Down About Old Shakertown, 40 Memoria in Æterna, 41 A Mother's Grave, 43 A Freckle-Faced Boy, 44 The Dam Below the Mill, 46 The Serenade, 47 "Is It Hot Enough Fer You?" 49 The Token, 50 To Scenes I Used to Know, 52 Bereft, 54 The "Bull Spring,"
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tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">56 Familiar Haunts, 58 A Faded Letter, 60 The Hermit, 61 The "Medical Spring," 63 An "Idyl" of the Ball, 64 Dreams, 65 A Twist of "Natural Leaf," 66 George W. Childs, 68 The Old Spring-House, 69 Camping on the Cumberland, 71 An Easter Flower, 73 The Stage Coach, 74 Dick's River, 76 To a Little Boy, 78 When the Coal House's Full, 79 December, 81 Solace, 82 Frank L. Stanton, 84 The Old Church Bell, 85 A Summer Evening, 87 Father Ryan, 88 The Meadow Path, 89 The Fox Hunters, 91 The Charming Girl of Somerset, 93 In July, 94 To J. R. M., 95 Twilight, 96 Out uv "Politicks," 98 Jones' Mare, 100 That Old Straw Hat of Mine, 103 Tom Barbee's Pond, 105 Where? 107
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class="smcap">The Hills of Lincoln, 109 Loved and Lost, 111 A True Story, 112
The
Old Hanging Fork
and
Other Poems.
THE OLD HANGING FORK.
I.
O don't you remember those days so divine,
Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,
When with sapling pole and a painted cork
We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork—
From the railroad bridge, with its single span,
Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam—
From early morn till the shades of night,
And it made no difference if fish didn't bite?
Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,
When with sapling pole and a painted cork
We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork—
From the railroad bridge, with its single span,
Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam—
From early morn till the shades of night,
And it made no difference if fish didn't bite?
II.
What pleasure it gives to think and to dream
Of those long, happy days, and the old winding stream,
When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee,
And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree,
And were most scared to death when out from the root
The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot,
And you lost your line, your hook and your cork,
And I slipped and fell in the old Hanging Fork!
Of those long, happy days, and the old winding stream,
When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee,
And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree,
And were most scared to death when out from the root
The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot,
And you lost your line, your hook and your cork,
And I slipped and fell in the old Hanging Fork!
III.
The years they have come, and the years they have fled,
And frosted with silver the hairs of the head,
But still in fond memory there lingers the joy
Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy
I wandered away to the clear rippling stream—
No cankering care to trouble life's dream;—
And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk,
As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork!
And frosted with silver the hairs of the head,
But still in fond memory there lingers the joy
Of scenes such as these, when a bare-footed boy
I wandered away to the clear rippling stream—
No cankering care to trouble life's dream;—
And we spit on our bait and in whispers we'd talk,
As we threw out our lines in the old Hanging Fork!
IV.
We sat there and fished with the sun beaming down
On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown,
And when I got a bite or you caught a perch
We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch,
And land him high up on the bank in the weeds,
Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds!
O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk,
Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork?
On the tops of our heads through hats minus crown,
And when I got a bite or you caught a perch
We'd just give our lines a thundering lurch,
And land him high up on the bank in the weeds,
Then string him along with the pumpkin seeds!
O don't you remember the hot, dusky walk,
Along the white pike to the old Hanging Fork?
SWEET SEPTEMBER DAYS.
I.
There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days,
That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze;
And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way,
Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-time array.
That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze;
And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way,
Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-time array.
II.
There's a yellowish tinge a-creeping over Nature's emerald sheen,
And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the stream
Where the glassy pool is shaded by the overhanging limb,
And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery minnows swim.
And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the stream
Where the glassy pool is shaded by the overhanging limb,
And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery minnows swim.
III.
The tasseled corn is nodding, and the crow on drowsy wing
Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples swing,
And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky,
And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly wafted by.
Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples swing,
And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky,
And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly wafted by.
IV.
The cantaloupes are ripening in their yellow golden rinds;
And the melons, round and juicy, are a-clinging to the vines;
And the merry, laughing children, in their happy hour of play,
Are a-romping in the meadow and a-sliding down the hay.
And the melons, round and juicy, are a-clinging to the vines;
And the merry, laughing children, in their happy hour of play,
Are a-romping in the meadow and a-sliding down the hay.
V.
The busy bees are buzzing where the grapes with purple blush,
And the hanging bunches tempting with their weight the arbor crush,
And the blue jays are a-wrangling in the wood across the road,
Where the hickory boughs are bending 'neath an extra heavy load.
And the hanging bunches tempting with their weight the arbor crush,
And the blue jays are a-wrangling in the wood across the road,
Where the hickory boughs are bending 'neath an extra heavy load.
VI.
Let your poets keep a-singing about the Springtime gay,
And the blossoms and the flowers in the merry month of May—
But the early Autumn splendor, with its sweet September days,
Eclipses boasted Springtime in a thousand kind of ways!
And the blossoms and the flowers in the merry month of May—
But the early Autumn splendor, with its sweet September days,
Eclipses boasted Springtime in a thousand kind of ways!
YER OLD COB PIPE.
I.
When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door,
And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,
And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,
And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
II.
When the fire is blazing brightly and the room is snug and warm,
And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm,
And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm,
And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
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class="stanza">
III.
When the old split-bottom rocker is far better than a throne,
And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known,
And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known,
And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
IV.
When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by a king,
And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing,
And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing,
And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
V.
When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head,
And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed,
And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white,
Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed,
And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white,
Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer
Old
Cob
Pipe!
TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM.
'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood,
And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood;
And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare
That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.
And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood;
And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare
That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.
They said the house was "hanted," and that not a man alive,
In all the country round about, could own the place and thrive;
That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera took—
And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look.
In all the country round about, could own the place and thrive;
That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera took—
And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look.
But they put it up at auction, and Tim Bluster bid the most,
Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of ghost
That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night
Could make his nerves unsteady, or could fill him with affright!"
Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of ghost
That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night
Could make his nerves unsteady, or could fill him with affright!"
So Tim got full possession, and he moved out to his home,
And the first night, as he sat there, within his room alone,
The door was softly opened, and a cat came walking in,
With eyes like balls of fire and a coat as black as sin.
And the first night, as he sat there, within his room alone,
The door was softly opened, and a cat came walking in,
With eyes like balls of fire and a coat as black as sin.
Then squatting on its haunches, it said, in tones polite,
"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim muttered in a trembling voice, as for the door he run,
"Perhaps you think there will be two, but darn me, there's but one!"
"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim muttered in a trembling voice, as for the door he run,
"Perhaps you think there will be two, but darn me, there's but one!"
Tim staid away the blessed night, but when the daylight came,
It brought him back his courage, and it filled him full of shame;
And then he said, unto himself, "There wasn't any cat
Could make him leave that room again—he'd bet his life on that!"
It brought him back his courage, and it filled him full of shame;
And then he said, unto himself, "There wasn't any cat
Could make him leave that room again—he'd bet his life on that!"
So when the shades of evening fell, Tim double-barred the door,
And took precautions that, perhaps, he hadn't night before,
And felt quite sure that nothing now could gain admittance there,
And peacefully he dozed and slept, a-sitting in his chair.
And took precautions that, perhaps, he hadn't night before,
And felt quite sure that nothing now could gain admittance there,
And peacefully he dozed and slept, a-sitting in his chair.
Then, all at once, he roused himself, and opening wide his eyes,
Beheld a figure standing there that made his hair arise
Like quills upon a porcupine, and froze his heart with fear,
And headless though it was, it spoke, and said in accents clear,
Beheld a figure standing there that made his hair arise
Like quills upon a porcupine, and froze his heart with fear,
And headless though it was, it spoke, and said in accents clear,
"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim made a bound, and took with him the sash and every light,
And then he jumped a nine-rail fence, and down the road he spun,
And said, "Perhaps he thinks there's two, but darn me, there's but one!"
Tim made a bound, and took with him the sash and every light,
And then he jumped a nine-rail fence, and down the road he spun,
And said, "Perhaps he thinks there's two, but darn me, there's but one!"
'Twas seven miles before he stopped and sat down on a log
To catch his breath and rest awhile from his nocturnal jog
And then he turned his head around, and right before his face
The figure stood, and said to him, "I think we've had a race!"
To catch his breath and rest awhile from his nocturnal jog
And then he turned his head around, and right before his face
The figure stood, and said to him, "I think we've had a race!"
Tim tried to speak, and not a word he found to utter then,
But as he jumped from off his seat and broke away again,
He spluttered out, "I know we have, but think it's not quite done,
For you can bet right now's the time we'll have another one!"
But as he jumped from off his seat and broke away again,
He spluttered out, "I know we have, but think it's not quite done,
For you can bet right now's the time we'll have another one!"
Away Tim flew—he left the road, and through the woods and fields
The pace he set was wonderful, the ghost right at his heels!
And that old house is tenantless, and slowly rotting down,
Since that dread night Tim had his dream, and moved right back to town!
The pace he set was wonderful, the ghost right at his heels!
And that old house is tenantless, and slowly rotting down,
Since that dread night Tim had his dream, and moved right back to town!
APPLE BLOSSOMS.
I.
There's the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink,
And many rare flowers which others may think
Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow,
With delicious perfume, and colors that glow—
But go to the orchard and sniff the delight
Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white,
And let the soul float away in a swoon
On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom!
And many rare flowers which others may think
Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow,
With delicious perfume, and colors that glow—
But go to the orchard and sniff the delight
Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white,
And let the soul float away in a swoon
On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom!
II.
There's the cowslip, narcissus, and sweet mignonette,
The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet,
As much as I love them in Summer array,
It's the white and the pink I dream of to-day,
And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace
And shower their blossoms right down in my face
When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume
Is wafted along where the apple trees bloom!
The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet,
As much as I love them in Summer array,
It's the white and the pink I dream of to-day,
And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace
And shower their blossoms right down in my face
When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume
Is wafted along where the apple trees bloom!
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III.
With glad voices the birds as they flit to and fro
Are singing their songs where the pink and the snow
Of the orchard, bedecked in its garments so rare,
Is diffusing and sending its breath on the air;
And the rays of the sun sift through on the grass,
And the dew-drops that sparkle no jewels surpass!
In Springtime at evening, at morning, at noon,
How sweet is the scent of the apple trees' bloom!
Are singing their songs where the pink and the snow
Of the orchard, bedecked in its garments so rare,
Is diffusing and sending its breath on the air;
And the rays of the sun sift through on the grass,
And the dew-drops that sparkle no jewels surpass!
In Springtime at evening, at morning, at noon,
How sweet is the scent of the apple trees' bloom!
IV.
And when Summer is gone, and Autumn has shed
It's soft, dreamy haze through the trees overhead,
On each spreading branch where blossoms now cling
The red and the gold to the fruit it will bring,
And stripe with a skill and give it that blush
Only Nature can paint with her delicate brush!
O when life ebbs away, then make me a tomb
Right out in the orchard, where the apple trees bloom!
It's soft, dreamy haze through the trees overhead,
On each spreading branch where blossoms now cling
The red and the gold to the fruit it will bring,
And stripe with a skill and give it that blush
Only Nature can paint with her delicate brush!
O when life ebbs away, then make me a tomb
Right out in the orchard, where the apple trees bloom!
CHICKAMAUGA.
To Chattanooga's vale, where flows the winding Tennessee,
And rugged Lookout sentinels heroic dust of sixty-three—
Where Chickamauga's gory field re-echoed to the cannon's roar,
And shot and shell through serried ranks a bloody pathway tore,
And mountain slope and wood and field were lumined with the blaze
Of musketry from Blue and Gray in those September days—
They come again, the gallant few, survivors of the fray,
Their breasts with hallowed memories filled, but passion passed away!
And rugged Lookout sentinels heroic dust of sixty-three—
Where Chickamauga's gory field re-echoed to the cannon's roar,
And shot and shell through serried ranks a bloody pathway tore,
And mountain slope and wood and field were lumined with the blaze
Of musketry from Blue and Gray in those September days—
They come again, the gallant few, survivors of the fray,
Their breasts with hallowed memories filled, but passion passed away!
The fleeting years have silvered o'er the locks of those who live,
And turned to dust the sleeping ones who to their flag did give
The last drop of the crimson tide from ghastly wounds poured out
Amid the conflict's awful din and wild resounding shout;
And yet it seems but yesterday, or like a passing dream,
When marshaled on the mountain's side they saw the bayonets gleam,
As for a moment from the vale the battle's smoke was lifted,
And circling o'er the Blue and Gray in lurid clouds it drifted!
And turned to dust the sleeping ones who to their flag did give
The last drop of the crimson tide from ghastly wounds poured out
Amid the conflict's awful din and wild resounding shout;
And yet it seems but yesterday, or like a passing dream,
When marshaled on the mountain's side they saw the bayonets gleam,
As for a moment from the vale the battle's smoke was lifted,
And circling o'er the Blue and Gray in lurid clouds it drifted!
And now upon the blood-soaked ground once more they stand,
Where the unyielding "Rock of Chickamauga" held command,
And strewed the field with heaps of the assaulting Gray
Who dauntless rushed where lines of Blue refused to give the way;
And bloody scenes crowd thick and fast upon the memory here
To fill the heart with grief and dim the eye with misty tear;
And spanning Time's chasm with the imagination's bridge,
They hear the thunder of the guns from Missionary Ridge!
Where the unyielding "Rock of Chickamauga" held command,
And strewed the field with heaps of the assaulting Gray
Who dauntless rushed where lines of Blue refused to give the way;
And bloody scenes crowd thick and fast upon the memory here
To fill the heart with grief and dim the eye with misty tear;
And spanning Time's chasm with the imagination's bridge,
They hear the thunder of the guns from Missionary Ridge!
And there the pyramid of balls is reared to tell
And mark the hallowed spot where tuneful genius fell;
The vagrant winds around it now seem sighing
The requiem sad of "I am dying, Egypt, dying!"
Prophetic words by gallant Lytle penned—
A laurel wreath with immortelles to blend!
A halo hovers round about this gifted son,
Whose deathless name with pen and sword was nobly won!
And mark the hallowed spot where tuneful genius fell;
The vagrant winds around it now seem sighing
The requiem sad of "I am dying, Egypt, dying!"
Prophetic words by gallant Lytle penned—
A laurel wreath with immortelles to blend!
A halo hovers round about this gifted son,
Whose deathless name with pen and sword was nobly won!
They come to mark with tokens of their love and pride
Each consecrated spot where bleeding heroes fell and died,
And gaze with reverence on some gently swelling mound
Which hides the dust of comrade in his sleep profound;
To picture to the mind—with melancholy pleasure trace
The unforgotten outlines of a dear, remembered face,
Which passed from loved ones and from life away,
A victim on the bloody field of fratricidal fray!
Each consecrated spot where bleeding heroes fell and died,
And gaze with reverence on some gently swelling mound
Which hides the dust of comrade in his sleep profound;
To picture to the mind—with melancholy pleasure trace
The unforgotten outlines of a dear, remembered face,
Which passed from loved ones and from life away,
A victim on the bloody field of fratricidal fray!
GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON.
Facile Princeps.
I.
O gifted one of the Sunny South, with lips so eloquent,
In whose great heart no malice e'er was found!
And now thou art a messenger of Peace, by heaven sent
On mission of fraternity, to heal the cankering wound!
In whose great heart no malice e'er was found!
And now thou art a messenger of Peace, by heaven sent
On mission of fraternity, to heal the cankering wound!
II.
In that dread day when fratricidal strife
Convulsed with passion—crimsoned with its blood—
No nobler son than thou who staked his life
With veterans Gray withstood the overwhelming flood!
Convulsed with passion—crimsoned with its blood—
No nobler son than thou who staked his life
With veterans Gray withstood the overwhelming flood!
III.
No sweeter tribute could be paid by mortal tongue—
No nobler sentiment the human heart could fill—
In grander strains no poet's praises e'er were sung
Of private soldier—than thy words that burn and thrill!
No nobler sentiment the human heart could fill—
In grander strains no poet's praises e'er were sung
Of private soldier—than thy words that burn and thrill!
IV.
No treasured wrong within thy noble soul
Has tainted with its slimy trail of hate—
No broader love of country could embrace the whole,
Or bow more gracefully to iron hand of fate!
Has tainted with its slimy trail of hate—
No broader love of country could embrace the whole,
Or bow more gracefully to iron hand of fate!
V.
Speak on! And scatter broadcast healing seed
That shall a harvest of good feeling yield—
And Peace, no less than War, shall lend her meed
And crown anew this hero of the bloody field!
That shall a harvest of good feeling yield—
And Peace, no less than War, shall lend her meed
And crown anew this hero of the bloody field!
UP AND DOWN OLD CLARK'S RUN.
Bright visions of childhood! How dear to the heart
Are the scenes which from memory can never depart!
Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears
Which have shadowed the pathway of life's later years,
They come like the rainbow which follows the storm—
On
Are the scenes which from memory can never depart!
Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears
Which have shadowed the pathway of life's later years,
They come like the rainbow which follows the storm—
On
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remembrance reflected with colors as warm—
And in dreams of delight they picture the fun
That we had long ago when we fished in Clark's Run!
And in dreams of delight they picture the fun
That we had long ago when we fished in Clark's Run!
With a can full of worms and a heart full of joy,
Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy,
A truant from school, my footsteps would stray
To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play,
As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones,
Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones!
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun
What pleasures we've had when we fished in Clark's Run!
Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy,
A truant from school, my footsteps would stray
To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play,
As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones,
Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones!
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun
What pleasures we've had when we fished in Clark's Run!
Equipped with a pole, a hook and a line,
And stowed in some pocket a long piece of twine
On which you could string, if you seined for a week,
Every fish that was found up and down the old creek—
With one "gallus" to pants that were rolled to the knee,
And holes in our hats through which you could see
Where the sunbeams had turned the light hair to dun—
We hied us away to the banks of Clark's Run!
And stowed in some pocket a long piece of twine
On which you could string, if you seined for a week,
Every fish that was found up and down the old creek—
With one "gallus" to pants that were rolled to the knee,
And holes in our hats through which you could see
Where the sunbeams had turned the light hair to dun—
We hied us away to the banks of Clark's Run!
There we baited the hook and threw out the line,
And watched the cork disappear with a rapture divine!
And felt just as proud as a prince or a king
When we landed high up, with a jerk and a swing,
A fish that would measure two inches or more,
Then anchored him fast with the string to the shore!
But unnumbered now are the silver strands spun
With the hair of the head since we fished in Clark's Run!
And watched the cork disappear with a rapture divine!
And felt just as proud as a prince or a king
When we landed high up, with a jerk and a swing,
A fish that would measure two inches or more,
Then anchored him fast with the string to the shore!
But unnumbered now are the silver strands spun
With the hair of the head since we fished in Clark's Run!
O who can there be with a heart in his breast
Would forget the dear scenes which so lovingly rest
In the bosom when life has grown old and cold,
And feel no delight when such pictures unfold,
And would blot out forever from memory's page
The records of childhood which solace old age?
'Till time ends for me and with life I have done,
I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run!
Would forget the dear scenes which so lovingly rest
In the bosom when life has grown old and cold,
And feel no delight when such pictures unfold,
And would blot out forever from memory's page
The records of childhood which solace old age?
'Till time ends for me and with life I have done,
I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run!
ROBERT BURNS.
(A PARAPHRASE.)
I.
Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray
Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?
Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?
II.
That sacred day can we forget,
Can we forget the hallowed spot
Where by the winding Ayr was set
The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?
Eternity will not efface
The record dear of time that's past;
Thy memory sweet we still embrace,
And will as long as life shall last!
Can we forget the hallowed spot
Where by the winding Ayr was set
The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?
Eternity will not efface
The record dear of time that's past;
Thy memory sweet we still embrace,
And will as long as life shall last!
III.
Ayr, congealèd to its pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green;
The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar
Were planted round the wintry scene;
No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed—
No birds sang love on every spray—
But brightest yet o'er all the rest
Will ever shine thy natal day!
O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green;
The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar
Were planted round the wintry scene;
No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed—
No birds sang love on every spray—
But brightest yet o'er all the rest
Will ever shine thy natal day!
IV.
Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes,
And memory broods with miser care!
Time but their music sweeter makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?
And memory broods with miser care!
Time but their music sweeter makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?
WISHING—FISHING.
I.
Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought
The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart,
And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught,
Has naught but transitory solace to impart;
And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought
A joy there is that never can depart—
(As long as we are capable of feeling—wishing)—
And that's to leave dull care behind, and—go a-fishing!
The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart,
And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught,
Has naught but transitory solace to impart;
And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought
A joy there is that never can depart—
(As long as we are capable of feeling—wishing)—
And that's to leave dull care behind, and—go a-fishing!
II.
Some dream of wealth—of place—of fame—
And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue;
And some have sighed to win a deathless name
Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew,
And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame;
But these are dizzy heights attained by few;
So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing,
I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to—go a-fishing!
And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue;
And some have sighed to win a deathless name
Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew,
And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame;
But these are dizzy heights attained by few;
So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing,
I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to—go a-fishing!
III.
Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream,
Or music with a tone that's more entrancing,
Than just to wander where some mountain stream
Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing?
And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween,
Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing,
You see the happy consummation of your wishing,
And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!
Or music with a tone that's more entrancing,
Than just to wander where some mountain stream
Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing?
And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween,
Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing,
You see the happy consummation of your wishing,
And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!