Second Book of Verse Part 14

It sweeps upon the sight and smell In overwhelming tide, And then the sense of taste as well Betimes is gratified: Three n.o.ble senses drowned in bliss!

I prithee tell me, what Is there beside compares with this?

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

For if the fruit be proper young, And if the crust be good, How shall they melt upon the tongue Into a savory flood!

How seek the Mecca down below, And linger round that spot, Entailing weeks and months of woe,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

If Nature gives men appet.i.tes For things that won't digest, Why, let _them_ eat whatso delights, And let _her_ stand the rest; And though the sin involve the cost Of Carlsbad, like as not 'Tis better to have loved and lost,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, Where my compatriots dwell, All kinds of victuals have I tried, All kinds of drinks, as well; But nothing known to Yankee art Appears to reach _the spot_ Like this Teutonic onion tart,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide As full as I can hold, And for complete reform inside Plank down my horde of gold, Remorse shall not consume my heart, Nor sorrow vex my lot, For I have eaten onion tart,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE.

IT'S everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha'n't deny: The English dame who's all aflame with divers colors bright, The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle,--all give me keen delight; And yet I'll say, go where I may, I never yet have seen A dress that's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine.

Now, you must know 'twas years ago this quaint but n.o.ble gown Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town.

'Twas Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious thing,-- Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a king,-- And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bombazine.

Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown; For grandma said, "This secret, Ned, must not be breathed in town."

The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous dress: To fit and baste and st.i.tch a waist, with whale-bones in between, Is precious slow, as all folks know who've made a bombazine.

With fort.i.tude dear grandma stood the trial to the end (The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend!); And when 'twas done resolved that none should guess at the surprise, Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes; For grandma knew a thing or two,--by which remark I mean That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine.

I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile.

It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round, That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found.

How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen!

And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine.

But there _were_ those, as you'd suppose, who scorned that perfect gown; For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that New England town: The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It doesn't fit!"

The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split; Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, _she_ turned a bilious green, When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bombazine.

But grandma knew, and I did, too, that gown was wondrous fine,-- The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign.

Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, And, saying this, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a kiss that like to burst that gown; But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, isn't grandpa mean!"

Yet evermore my grandma wore _his_ favorite bombazine.

And when she died that sombre pride pa.s.sed down to heedless heirs,-- Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs!

Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and wing, And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous thing.

'Tis so, forsooth! Time's envious tooth corrodes each human scene; And so, at last, to ruin pa.s.sed my grandma's bombazine.

Yet to this day, I'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part,-- The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my heart.

This gown, my dear, you show me here I'll own is pa.s.sing fair, Though I'll confess it's no such dress as grandma used to wear.

Yet wear it, _do_; perchance when you and I are off the scene, Our boy shall sing _this_ comely thing as _I_ the bombazine.

RARE ROAST BEEF.

WHEN the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair; When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head, Filling _bon vivants_ and epicures with certain nameless dread; When _any_ ill of body or of intellect abounds, Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes,-- In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef.

And even when the body's in the very prime of health, When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth, And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more, And growls because instead of three square meals there are not four,-- Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side, And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied, Still of the many viands there is one that's hailed as chief, And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef.

Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best,-- 'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest; Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more; The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour; Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour, And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf Of that glorious _summum bonum_, rare roast beef.

Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife, How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life!

Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab,-- Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab?

Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam, A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream!

Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief!

Except these teeth wherewith to deal with rare roast beef.

Most every kind and role of modern victuals have I tried, Including roasted, frica.s.seed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried, Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and muttonchops subese, Your patties _a la_ Turkey and your doughnuts _a la_ grease; I've whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls, And in the lowly cottage I've experienced codfish b.a.l.l.s; But I've never found a viand that could so allay all grief And soothe the c.o.c.kles of the heart as rare roast beef.

I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood, Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood; And as for me I'd ask no better friend than this good roast, Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (_feste Burg_) and host; For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath, Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path.

So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef When I soever set me down to rare roast beef.

GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT.

I WAS just a little thing When a fairy came and kissed me; Floating in upon the light Of a haunted summer night, Lo! the fairies came to sing Pretty slumber songs, and bring Certain boons that else had missed me.

From a dream I turned to see What those strangers brought for me, When that fairy up and kissed me,-- Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!

Simmerdew was there, but she Did not like me altogether; Daisybright and Turtledove, Pilfercurds and Honeylove, Thistleblow and Amberglee On that gleaming, ghostly sea Floated from the misty heather, And around my trundle-bed Frisked and looked and whispering said, Solemn-like and all together: "_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!"

Ganderfeather kissed me then,-- Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!

No attenuate sprite was he, But as buxom as could be; Kissed me twice and once again, And the others shouted when On my cheek uprose a berry Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, But the kiss-mark of that chap Ganderfeather, pa.s.sing merry,-- Humorsome but kindly, very!

I was just a tiny thing When the prankish Ganderfeather Brought this curious gift to me With his fairy kisses three; Yet with honest pride I sing That same gift he chose to bring Out of yonder haunted heather; Other charms and friendships fly,-- Constant friends this mole and I, Who have been so long together!

Thank you, little Ganderfeather!

OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE.

THERE are no days like the good old days,-- The days when we were youthful!

When humankind were pure of mind, And speech and deeds were truthful; Before a love for sordid gold Became man's ruling pa.s.sion, And before each dame and maid became Slave to the tyrant fashion!

There are no girls like the good old girls,-- Against the world I'd stake 'em!