Second Book of Verse Part 12

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, That gave their gifts, and went their way; And now kneel I in prayer hard by The cradle of the Child to-day; Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring As offering unto Christ, my King.

Yet have I brought a gift the Child May not despise, however small; For here I lay my heart to-day, And it is full of love to all.

Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, My only tribute, Christ, my King!

IPSWICH.

IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, And the voice that comes from the yonder sea Sings to the quaint old mansions there Of "the time, the time that used to be;"

And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, And they seem to say in an undertone, With half a sigh and with half a moan: "It was, but it never again will be."

In Ipswich witches weave at night Their magic, spells with impish glee; They shriek and laugh in their demon flight From the old Main House to the frightened sea.

And ghosts of eld come out to weep Over the town that is fast asleep; And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: "It was, but it never again will be."

In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill Over against the calling sea; And through the nights so deep and chill Watcheth a maiden constantly,-- Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear Over the roar of the waves anear The pitiful cry of a far-off year: "It was, but it never again will be."

In Ipswich once a witch I knew,-- An artless Saxon witch was she; By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, Sweet was the spell she cast on me.

Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, And the heart that is old and battered and chill Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill What was, but never again can be.

Dear Anna, I would not conjure down The ghost that cometh to solace me; I love to think of old Ipswich town, Where somewhat better than friends were we; For with every thought of the dear old place Cometh again the tender grace Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, As it was, and is, and ever shall be.

BILL'S TENOR AND MY Ba.s.s.

BILL was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; Clothes would never seem to set so nice on _me_ as _him_,-- Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,-- But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place When Bill sung tenor and I sung ba.s.s.

Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir,-- Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire!

She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard,-- Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird; Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er, A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she wouldn't lose the place, When Bill sung tenor and I sung ba.s.s.

Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat,-- _She_ sung alto, and wore a pee-wee hat; Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"!

But, sakes alive! she didn't mind a little thing like that; On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' ba.s.s.

Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when We lived in Ma.s.sachusetts in the good old courtin' days, And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise.

Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again!

For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' ba.s.s.

The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me.

Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D!

The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played warn't in the race 'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious ba.s.s.

Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54, And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more; Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell, And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store; And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace Since Bill sung tenor and I sung ba.s.s.

As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me; And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day, I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away.

Couldn't help inquirin' what the trouble might be; "Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, "When Bill sung tenor and you sung ba.s.s."

FIDUCIT.

THREE comrades on the German Rhine, Defying care and weather, Together quaffed the mellow wine, And sung their songs together.

What recked they of the griefs of life, With wine and song to cheer them?

Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, It would not come anear them.

Anon one comrade pa.s.sed away, And presently another, And yet unto the tryst each day Repaired the lonely brother; And still, as gayly as of old, That third one, hero-hearted, Filled to the brim each cup of gold, And called to the departed,--

"O comrades mine! I see ye not, Nor hear your kindly greeting, Yet in this old, familiar spot Be still our loving meeting!

Here have I filled each bouting-cup With juices red and cheery; I pray ye drink the portion up, And as of old make merry!"

And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, All in the haunted gloaming, He saw two ghostly figures rise, And quaff the beakers foaming; He heard two spirit voices call, "Fiducit, jovial brother!"

And so forever from that hall Went they with one another.

THE "ST. JO GAZETTE."

WHEN I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette,"

I was upon familiar terms with every one I met; For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time, Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme,-- Before I found in verses Those soothing, gracious mercies, Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is.

A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat, And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

The labors of the day began at half-past eight A.M., For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them; And many a n.o.ble bit of news I managed to acquire By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire, With my daily commentary On affairs of farm and dairy, The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I'd vary,-- Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due, Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous; Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case, And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I'd s.p.a.ce; Of fevers, fractures, humors, Contusions, fits, and tumors, Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors; From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to get,-- When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place,-- Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race; And when he'd gin up all he had, he'd drop a subtle wink, And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink.

Those drinks at the Pacific, When days were sudorific, Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "magnifique;"

And frequently an invitation to a meal I'd get When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow, To Saxton's bank or Hopkins' store for items would I go.

The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough For local application in lieu of better stuff; And when the ducks were flying, Or the fishing well worth trying-- Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world at lying!

And I--I printed all their yarns, though not without regret, When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

For squibs political I'd go to Col. Waller Young, Or Col. James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver tongue;"

Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I'd call On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all.

Lon Tullar used to pony Up descriptions that were tony Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione; For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett"

When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue; And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,-- The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read, And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed.

Oh, but it takes agility, Combined with versatility, To run a country daily with appropriate ability!

There never were a smarter lot of editors, I'll bet, Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent If so, I don't remember; this only do I know,-- My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo.