Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 16

The Minuet

Grandma told me all about it, Told me so I could not doubt it, How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago!

How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirts she spread, How she turned her little toes, Smiling little human rose!

Grandma's hair was bright and shining, Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny!

Bless me, now she wears a cap, My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day; Yet she danced the minuet long ago; Now she sits there rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking-- Every girl was taught to knit long ago-- But her figure is so neat, And her ways so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now, Bending to her partner's bow, long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping, Rushing, whirling, dashing, b.u.mping, Would have shocked the gentle people long ago.

No, they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place, Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again.

Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says, But boys were charming-- Girls and boys I mean, of course--long ago, Sweetly modest, bravely shy!

What if all of us should try just to feel Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago.

With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a pa.s.sion?

All would wear the calm they wore long ago, And if in years to come, perchance, I tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, We did it in some such way, long ago.

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

The Vagabonds

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog--Come here, you scamp!

Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye!

Over the table--look out for the lamp!-- The rogue is growing a little old; Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept outdoors when nights were cold, And ate, and drank--and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, The paw he holds up there has been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This outdoor business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you, Sir, I never drink.

Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

Aren't we, Roger? see him wink.

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too--see him nod his head?

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk; He understands every word that's said, And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.

But he sticks by through thick and thin; And this old coat with its empty pockets And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, To such a miserable, thankless master.

No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin-- By George! it makes my old eyes water-- That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow, but no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing.

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) Shall march a little.--Start, you villain!

Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!

'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes, When he stands up to hear his sentence; Now tell me how many drams it takes To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps--that's five; he's mighty knowing; The night's before us, fill the gla.s.ses;-- Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!-- Some brandy,--thank you;--there,--it pa.s.ses!

Why not reform? That's easily said; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love,--but I took to drink;-- The same old story; you know how it ends.

If you could have seen these cla.s.sic features,-- You needn't laugh, Sir; I was not then Such a burning libel on G.o.d's creatures; I was one of your handsome men--

If you had seen her, so fair, so young, Whose head was happy on this breast; If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd That ever I, Sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a gla.s.s of grog.

She's married since,--a parson's wife, 'Twas better for her that we should part; Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her--once; I was weak and spent On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, But little she dreamed as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped.

You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change!

What do you care for a beggar's story?

Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before--Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another gla.s.s, and strong, to deaden This pain; then Roger and I will start.

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were,-- A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that gla.s.s was warming-- You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street.-- Not a very gay life to lead, you think.

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;-- The sooner, the better for Roger and me.

_J.T. Trowbridge._

The Isle of Long Ago

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers, like buds between; And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time, Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- There are heaps of dust--but we love them so!-- There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that n.o.body sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy sh.o.r.e By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.