Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

John Thompson's Daughter

(A Parody on "Lord Ullin's Daughter")

 
A fellow near Kentucky's clime
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver dime
To row us o'er the ferry."
 
 
"Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh, I am this young lady's beau,
And she John Thompson's daughter.
 
 
"We've fled before her father's spite
With great precipitation,
And should he find us here to-night,
I'd lose my reputation.
 
 
"They've missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me.
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?"
 
 
Out spoke the boatman then in time,
"You shall not fail, don't fear it;
I'll go not for your silver dime,
But—for your manly spirit.
 
 
"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
 
 
By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing,
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.
 
 
But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.
 
 
"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"It's anything but funny;
I'll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money!"
 
 
And still they hurried in the race
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing-place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.
 
 
For by the lightning's angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!
 
 
"Come back, come back," he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;
"But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, oh, my daughter!"
 
 
'Twas vain; they reached the other shore,
(Such dooms the Fates assign us),
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there, minus.
 

Phoebe Cary.

Grandfather's Clock

 
My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride,
But it stopped short ne'er to go again
When the old man died.
 
 
In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy,
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride,
But it stopped short never to go again
When the old man died.
 
 
My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found,
For it wasted no time and had but one desire,
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped short never to go again
When the old man died.
 

Henry C. Work.

A Cradle Hymn

 
Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.
 
 
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment:
All thy wants are well supplied.
 
 
How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended
And became a child like thee!
 
 
Soft and easy is thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When His birthplace was a stable
And His softest bed was hay.
 
 
Blessed babe! what glorious features—
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must He dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?
 
 
Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront their Lord?
 
 
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arm shall be thy guard.
 
 
See the kinder shepherds round Him,
Telling wonders from the sky!
Where they sought Him, there they found Him,
With His Virgin mother by.
 
 
See the lovely babe a-dressing;
Lovely infant, how He smiled!
When He wept, His mother's blessing
Soothed and hush'd the holy Child,
 
 
Lo, He slumbers in a manger,
Where the hornèd oxen fed:—
Peace, my darling, here's no danger;
There's no ox anear thy bed.
 
 
May'st thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;
Then go dwell forever near Him,
See His face, and sing His praise!
 

Isaac Watts.

If All the Skies

 
If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling splash of rain.
 
 
If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.
 
 
If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.
 

Henry van Dyke.

The Petrified Fern

 
In a valley, centuries ago,
Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibers tender,
Waving when the wind crept down so low;
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it;
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it;
Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it;
But no foot of man e'er came that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.
 
 
Monster fishes swam the silent main;
Stately forests waved their giant branches;
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches;
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain,
Nature reveled in grand mysteries.
But the little fern was not like these,
Did not number with the hills and trees,
Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way;
No one came to note it day by day.
 
 
Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,
Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the strong, dread currents of the ocean;
Moved the hills and shook the haughty wood;
Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,
Covered it, and hid it safe away.
Oh, the long, long centuries since that day;
Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost,
Since the little useless fern was lost!
 
 
Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man
Searching Nature's secrets far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep
He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran
Fairy pencilings, a quaint design,
Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine,
And the fern's life lay in every line.
So, I think, God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day.
 

Mary L. Bolles Branch.

Cleon and I

 
Cleon hath ten thousand acres,
Ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace,
In a cottage, I;
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,
Not a penny, I,
Yet the poorer of the twain is
Cleon, and not I.
 
 
Cleon, true, possesseth acres,
But the landscape, I;
Half the charms to me it yieldeth
Money cannot buy;
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness,
Freshening vigor, I;
He in velvet, I in fustian—
Richer man am I.
 
 
Cleon is a slave to grandeur,
Free as thought am I;
Cleon fees a score of doctors,
Need of none have I;
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,
Cleon fears to die;
Death may come—he'll find me ready,
Happier man am I.
 
 
Cleon sees no charms in nature,
In a daisy, I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing
'Twixt the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever,
Earnest listener, I;
State for state, with all attendants—
Who would change?—Not I.
 

Charles Mackay.

Washington

 
Great were the hearts and strong the minds
Of those who framed in high debate
The immortal league of love that binds
Our fair, broad empire, State with State.
 
 
And deep the gladness of the hour
When, as the auspicious task was done,
In solemn trust the sword of power
Was given to Glory's Unspoiled Son.
 
 
That noble race is gone—the suns
Of fifty years have risen and set;—
But the bright links, those chosen ones,
So strongly forged, are brighter yet.
 
 
Wide—as our own free race increase—
Wide shall extend the elastic chain,
And bind in everlasting peace
State after State, a mighty train.
 

W.C. Bryant.

Towser Shall Be Tied To-Night

A Parody on "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight."

 
Slow the Kansas sun was setting,
O'er the wheat fields far away,
Streaking all the air with cobwebs
At the close of one hot day;
And the last rays kissed the forehead
Of a man and maiden fair,
He with whiskers short and frowsy,
She with red and glistening hair,
He with shut jaws stern and silent;
She, with lips all cold and white,
Struggled to keep back the murmur,
"Towser shall be tied to-night."
 
 
"Papa," slowly spoke the daughter,
"I am almost seventeen,
And I have a real lover,
Though he's rather young and green;
But he has a horse and buggy
And a cow and thirty hens,—
Boys that start out poor, dear Papa,
Make the best of honest men,
But if Towser sees and bites him,
Fills his eyes with misty light,
He will never come again, Pa;
Towser must be tied to-night."
 
 
"Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer,
(Every word pierced her young heart
Like a carving knife through chicken
As it hunts the tender part)—
"I've a patch of early melons,
Two of them are ripe to-day;
Towser must be loose to watch them
Or they'll all be stole away.
I have hoed them late and early
In dim morn and evening light;
Now they're grown I must not lose them;
Towser'll not be tied to-night."
 
 
Then the old man ambled forward,
Opened wide the kennel-door,
Towser bounded forth to meet him
As he oft had done before.
And the farmer stooped and loosed him
From the dog-chain short and stout;
To himself he softly chuckled,
"Bessie's feller must look out."
But the maiden at the window
Saw the cruel teeth show white;
In an undertone she murmured,—
"Towser must be tied to-night."
 
 
Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful
And her breath came short and quick,
Till she spied the family clothesline,
And she whispered, "That's the trick."
From the kitchen door she glided
With a plate of meat and bread;
Towser wagged his tail in greeting,
Knowing well he would be fed.
In his well-worn leather collar,
Tied she then the clothesline tight,
All the time her white lips saying:
"Towser shall be tied to-night,"
 
 
"There, old doggie," spoke the maiden,
"You can watch the melon patch,
But the front gate's free and open,
When John Henry lifts the latch.
For the clothesline tight is fastened
To the harvest apple tree,
You can run and watch the melons,
But the front gate you can't see."
Then her glad ears hear a buggy,
And her eyes grow big and bright,
While her young heart says in gladness,
"Towser dog is tied to-night."
 
 
Up the path the young man saunters
With his eye and cheek aglow;
For he loves the red-haired maiden
And he aims to tell her so.
Bessie's roguish little brother,
In a fit of boyish glee,
Had untied the slender clothesline,
From the harvest apple tree.
Then old Towser heard the footsteps,
Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,—
"Bark away," the maiden whispers;
"Towser, you are tied to-night."
 
 
Then old Towser bounded forward,
Passed the open kitchen door;
Bessie screamed and quickly followed,
But John Henry's gone before.
Down the path he speeds most quickly,
For old Towser sets the pace;
And the maiden close behind them
Shows them she is in the race.
Then the clothesline, can she get it?
And her eyes grow big and bright;
And she springs and grasps it firmly:
"Towser shall be tied to-night."
 
 
Oftentimes a little minute
Forms the destiny of men.
You can change the fate of nations
By the stroke of one small pen.
Towser made one last long effort,
Caught John Henry by the pants,
But John Henry kept on running
For he thought that his last chance.
But the maiden held on firmly,
And the rope was drawn up tight.
But old Towser kept the garments,
For he was not tied that night.
 
 
Then the father hears the racket;
With long strides he soon is there,
When John Henry and the maiden,
Crouching, for the worst prepare.
At his feet John tells his story,
Shows his clothing soiled and torn;
And his face so sad and pleading,
Yet so white and scared and worn,
Touched the old man's heart with pity,
Filled his eyes with misty light.
"Take her, boy, and make her happy,—
Towser shall be tied to-night."
 

Law and Liberty

 
O Liberty, thou child of Law,
God's seal is on thy brow!
O Law, her Mother first and last,
God's very self art thou!
Two flowers alike, yet not alike,
On the same stem that grow,
Two friends who cannot live apart,
Yet seem each other's foe.
One, the smooth river's mirrored flow
Which decks the world with green;
And one, the bank of sturdy rock
Which hems the river in.
O Daughter of the timeless Past,
O Hope the Prophets saw,
God give us Law in Liberty
And Liberty in Law!
 

E.J. Cutler.

His Mother's Song

 
Beneath the hot midsummer sun
The men had marched all day,
And now beside a rippling stream
Upon the grass they lay.
Tiring of games and idle jest
As swept the hours along,
They cried to one who mused apart,
"Come, friend, give us a song."
 
 
"I fear I can not please," he said;
"The only songs I know
Are those my mother used to sing
For me long years ago."
"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried.
"There's none but true men here;
To every mother's son of us
A mother's songs are dear."
 
 
Then sweetly rose the singer's voice
Amid unwonted calm:
"Am I a soldier of the Cross,
A follower of the Lamb?
And shall I fear to own His cause?"
The very stream was stilled,
And hearts that never throbbed with fear,
With tender thoughts were filled.
 
 
Ended the song, the singer said,
As to his feet he rose,
"Thanks to you all, my friends; goodnight.
God grant us sweet repose."
"Sing us one more," the captain begged.
The soldier bent his head,
Then, glancing round, with smiling lips,
"You'll join with me?" he said.
 
 
"We'll sing that old familiar air
Sweet as the bugle call,
'All hail the power of Jesus' name!
Let angels prostrate fall.'"
Ah, wondrous was the old tune's spell.
As on the soldiers sang;
Man after man fell into line,
And loud the voices rang.
 
 
The songs are done, the camp is still,
Naught but the stream is heard;
But, ah! the depths of every soul
By those old hymns are stirred,
And up from many a bearded lip,
In whispers soft and low,
Rises the prayer that mother taught
Her boy long years ago.
 

When Father Carves the Duck

 
We all look on with anxious eyes
When Father carves the duck,
And Mother almost always sighs
When Father carves the duck;
Then all of us prepare to rise
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise
When Father carves the duck.
 
 
He braces up and grabs the fork,
Whene'er he carves the duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he carves the duck.
The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.
 
 
The platter's always sure to slip
When Father carves the duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip—
Potatoes fly amuck.
The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face,
And Father mutters Hindoo grace
Whene'er he carves a duck.
 
 
We then have learned to walk around
The dining room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
Our share of Father's duck.
While Father growls and blows and jaws,
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And Mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.
 

E.V. Wright.

Papa's Letter

 
I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters when I heard,
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed.
 
 
"But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do.
Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?
Tan't I wite a letter too?"
 
 
"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty, now."
"No, no, mamma, me wite letter;
Tan if 'ou will show me how."
 
 
I would paint my darling's portrait
As his sweet eyes searched my face—
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish, witching grace.
 
 
But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said, "I'll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead."
 
 
So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted
'Mid its waves of golden light.
 
 
Then I said, "Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news."
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.
 
 
Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee,
"Mamma's witing lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary—see!"
 
 
No one heard the little prattler,
As once more he climbed the stair,
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the entry stair.
 
 
No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.
 
 
Down the street the baby hastened
Till he reached the office door.
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;
Is there room for any more?
 
 
"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,
Papa lives with God, 'ou know,
Mamma sent me for a letter,
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"
 
 
But the clerk in wonder answered,
"Not to-day, my little man."
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
'Cause I must go if I tan."
 
 
Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening—
By the busy crowd swept on.
 
 
Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.
 
 
No one saw the baby figure—
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
 
 
'Twas too late—a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there,
Then the little face lay lifeless,
Covered o'er with golden hair.
 
 
Reverently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead,
Growing now so icy cold.
 
 
Not a mark the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended—
"Papa's letter" was with God.
 

Who Stole the Bird's Nest?

 
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
 
 
"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do;
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away.
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do."
 
 
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
 
 
"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!
I gave the hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I'm not so mean, anyhow."
 
 
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
 
 
"Not I," said the sheep, "oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I gave the wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."
 
 
"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;
"I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day?"
 
 
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
 
 
"It is very cruel, too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"
 
 
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.
 

Lydia Maria Child.

Over the Hill from the Poor-House

 
I, who was always counted, they say,
Rather a bad stick anyway,
Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six";
I, the truant, saucy and bold,
The one black sheep in my father's fold,
"Once on a time," as the stories say,
Went over the hill on a winter's day—
Over the hill to the poor-house.
 
 
Tom could save what twenty could earn;
But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;
Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—
Committed a hundred verses a week;
Never forgot, an' never slipped;
But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped;
So over the hill to the poor-house!
 
 
As for Susan, her heart was kind
An' good—what there was of it, mind;
Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,
Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice
For one she loved; an' that 'ere one
Was herself, when all was said an' done;
An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,
But anyone could pull 'em about;
An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,
Save one poor fellow, an' that was me;
An' when, one dark an' rainy night,
A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,
They hitched on me, as the guilty chap
That carried one end o' the halter-strap.
An' I think, myself, that view of the case
Wasn't altogether out o' place;
My mother denied it, as mothers do,
But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.
Though for me one thing might be said—
That I, as well as the horse, was led;
And the worst of whisky spurred me on,
Or else the deed would have never been done.
But the keenest grief I ever felt
Was when my mother beside me knelt,
An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down,
As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.
I kissed her fondly, then an' there,
An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
I served my sentence—a bitter pill
Some fellows should take who never will;
And then I decided to go "out West,"
Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;
Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,
But Fortune seemed to like me well;
An' somehow every vein I struck
Was always bubbling over with luck.
An', better than that, I was steady an' true,
An' put my good resolutions through.
But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,
"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,
An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,
Than if I had lived the same as before."
 
 
But when this neighbor he wrote to me,
"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,
I had a resurrection straightway,
An' started for her that very day.
And when I arrived where I was grown,
I took good care that I shouldn't be known;
But I bought the old cottage, through and through,
Of someone Charley had sold it to;
And held back neither work nor gold
To fix it up as it was of old.
The same big fire-place, wide and high,
Flung up its cinders toward the sky;
The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—
I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;
An' if everything wasn't just the same,
Neither I nor money was to blame;
Then—over the hill to the poor-house!
 
 
One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,
With a team an' cutter I started away;
My fiery nags was as black as coal;
(They some'at resembled the horse I stole;)
I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—
A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;
She rose to her feet in great surprise,
And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;
I saw the whole of her trouble's trace
In the lines that marred her dear old face;
"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!
You're adopted along o' your horse thief son,
Come over the hill from the poor-house!"
 
 
She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,
An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.
An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,
An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;
An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,
An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,
To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,
An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;
An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,
In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,
Who often said, as I have heard,
That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;
(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,
For all of 'em owe me more or less;)
But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man
In always a-doin' the best he can;
That whether on the big book, a blot
Gets over a fellow's name or not,
Whenever he does a deed that's white,
It's credited to him fair and right.
An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,
An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats,
However they may settle my case,
Wherever they may fix my place,
My good old Christian mother, you'll see,
Will be sure to stand right up for me,
With over the hill from the poor-house!
 

Will Carleton.