The Old Hanging Fork and Other Poems Part 6

V.

Enraptured by the magic spell, I lingering stood, and listening, It seemed to me that I could tell What love to her was whispering.

VI.

I looked above and chanced to see The man in the moon was scowling, For they had struck up "Sweet Marie,"

And the old watch-dog was howling!

"IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew, And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through, If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew, Who greets you with the chestnut phrase-- "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top-- The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carca.s.s drop-- I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too, If it wasn't for the cuss who says-- "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

III.

The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten bra.s.s-- The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the gra.s.s-- The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew-- If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"

THE TOKEN.

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, Tied with a ribbon blue, Laid by the hand of a mother there-- Cherished with love so true!

II.

Only a soft and silken curl, Bound with a knotted bow; Worn on the head of a little girl Lost in the long-ago.

III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept From the grave's decay and mold, Over which her eyes have wept With anguish all untold!

IV.

Only a link in the golden chain, By Death's cold hand unbroken, Which leads to where she'll meet again The wearer of this token.

V.

Only a relic undefiled, Enshrined in a broken heart-- Rent in twain when a darling child And a loving mother part!

VI.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, Tied with a ribbon blue, Clipped from the head of an angel fair, Whose hands are beckoning you!

TO SCENES I USED TO KNOW.

I can see the back-log blazing and the sparkles take their flight Up the cavernous old chimney on a merry Christmas night; I can see the old folks smiling and the children's cheeks aglow, And a saucy maiden standing there beneath the mistletoe; I can hear the laughter mingle with the strains of music sweet As we tripped the light fantastic with the "many-twinkling feet;"

I can see the moonlight gleaming through the trees upon the snow, When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know.

I can see the candles burning bright upon the Christmas tree; I can see the presents handed round, and hear the shouts of glee, And from the buried years there comes a-stealing on the heart A something indefinable which bids the tear-drop start; I can see the blue smoke curling, through the little strip of wood Between the winding turnpike road and where the farmhouse stood; I can see the colts a-playing, I can hear the cattle low-- When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know.

I can see it all when fancy weaves its magic with a dream, And I hear the tones from voices like the murmur of a stream; And oh, the heart seems young again and from its anguish free When I gaze upon these pictures that are ever dear to me; Then I see the darkies dancing, I can hear the fiddle ring As they gathered in the cabin and they cut the pigeon-wing; I can smell the 'possum roasting, I can see the cider flow, When memory takes me back again to scenes I used to know.

BEREFT.

I.

No more to feel the pressure warm Of dimpled arms around your neck-- No more to clasp the little form That Nature did with beauty deck.

II.

No more to hear the music sweet Of merry laugh and prattling talk-- No more to see the busy feet Come toddling down the shaded walk.

III.

No more the glint of flaxen hair That nestled 'round the lilied brow-- No more the rose's bloom will wear The cheek so cold and pallid now.