Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 9

"And," says I, "All my life I've been fightin'

Through oceans of nothin' but fog; And never no harbor a-sightin'-- Jest driftin' around like a log; No matter how sharp I'm a-spyin', I never see nothin' ahead: I'm sick and disgusted with tryin'-- I jest wish ter G.o.d I was dead."

It wa'n't more'n a minute, I'm certain, The words was jest out er my mouth, When up went the fog, like a curtain, And "puff" came the breeze from the south; And 'bout a mile off, by rough guessin', I see my own shanty on sh.o.r.e, And Mary, my wife and my blessin', G.o.d keep her, she stood in the door.

And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin'; A chap with a woman like that, To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin', As sour as a sulky young brat-- I'd better jest keep my helm steady, And not mind the fog that's adrift, For when the Lord gits good and ready, I reckon it's certain ter lift."

THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-s.h.i.+P

My dream-s.h.i.+p's decks are of beaten gold, And her fluttering banners are brave of hue, And her s.h.i.+ning sails are of satin fold, And her tall sides gleam where the warm waves woo: While the flung spray leaps in a diamond dew From her bright bow, dipping its dance of glee; For the skies are fair and the soft winds coo, Where my dream-s.h.i.+p sails o'er the silver sea.

My dream-s.h.i.+p's journeys are long and bold, And the ports she visits are far and few; They lie by the rosy sh.o.r.es of old, 'Mid the dear lost scenes my boyhood knew; Or, deep in the future's misty blue, By the purple islands of Arcady,-- And Spain's fair turrets s.h.i.+ne full in view, Where my dream-s.h.i.+p sails o'er the silver sea.

My dream-s.h.i.+p's cargo is wealth untold, Rare blooms that the old home gardens grew, Sweet pictured faces, and loved songs trolled By lips long laid 'neath the churchyard yew; Or wondrous wishes not yet come true, And fame and glory that is to be;-- Hope holds the wheel all the lone watch through, Where my dream-s.h.i.+p sails o'er the silver sea.

ENVOY

Heart's dearest, what though the storms may brew, And earth's ways darken for you and me?

The breeze is fair--let us voyage anew, Where my dream-s.h.i.+p sails o'er the silver sea.

LIFE'S PATHS

It's A wonderful world we're in, my dear, A wonderful world, they say, And blest they be who may wander free Wherever a wish may stray; Who spread their sails to the arctic gales, Or bask in the tropic's bowers, While we must keep to the foot-path steep In this workaday life of ours.

For smooth is the road for the few, my dear, And wide are the ways they roam: Our feet are led where the millions tread, In the worn, old lanes of home.

And the years may flow for weal or woe, And the frost may follow the flowers, Our steps are bound to the self-same round In this workaday life of ours.

But narrow our path may be, my dear, And simple the scenes we view, A heart like thine, and a love like mine, Will carry us bravely through.

With a happy song we'll trudge along, And smile in the s.h.i.+ne or showers, And we'll ease the pack on a brother's back By this workaday life of ours.

THE MAYFLOWER

In the gleam and gloom of the April weather, When the snows have flown in the brooklet's flood, And the Showers and Suns.h.i.+ne sport together, And the proud Bough boasts of the baby Bud; On the hillside brown, where the dead leaves linger In crackling layers, all crimped and curled, She parts their folds with a timid finger, And shyly peeps at the waking world.

The roystering West Wind flies to greet her, And bids her haste, with a gleeful shout: The quickening Saplings bend to meet her, And the first green Gra.s.s-blades call, "Come out!"

So, venturing forth with a dainty neatness, In gown of pink or in white arrayed, She comes once more in her fresh completeness, A modest, fair little Pilgrim Maid.

Her fragrant petals, their beauties showing, Creep out to sprinkle the hill and dell, Like showers of Stars in the shadows glowing, Or Snowflakes blossoming where they fell; And the charmed Wood leaps into joyous blooming, As though't were touched by a Fairy's ring, And the glad Earth scents, in the rare perfuming, The first sweet breath of the new-born Spring.

MAY MEMORIES

To my office window, gray, Come the sunbeams in their play, Come the dancing, glancing sunbeams, airy fairies of the May; Like a breath of summer-time, Setting Memory's bells a-chime, Till their jingle seems to mingle with the measure of my rhyme.

And above the tramp of feet, And the clamor of the street, I can hear the thrush's singing, ringing high and clear and sweet,-- Hear the murmur of the breeze Through the bloom-starred apple trees, And the ripples softly splas.h.i.+ng and the das.h.i.+ng of the seas;

See the shadow and the s.h.i.+ne Where the glossy branches twine, And the ocean's sleepy tuning mocks the crooning in the pine; Hear the catbird whistle shrill In the bushes by the rill, Where the violets toss and twinkle as they sprinkle vale and hill;

Feel the tangled meadow-gra.s.s On my bare feet as I pa.s.s; See the clover bending over in a dew-bespangled ma.s.s; See the cottage by the sh.o.r.e, With the pansy beds before, And the old familiar places and the faces at the door.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Oh, the skies of blissful blue, Oh, the woodland's verdant hue,-- Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the world was fair and new!

Still to me your tale is told In the summer's sunbeam's gold, And my truant fancy straying, goes a-Maying as of old.

BIRDS'-NESTING TIME

The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust Through the dingy school-house pane, A s.h.i.+ning scimitar, free from rust, That cuts the cloud of the drifting dust, And scatters a golden rain; And the boy at the battered desk within Is dreaming a dream sublime, For study's a wrong, and school a sin, When the joys of woods and fields begin, And it's just birds'-nesting time.

He dreams of a nook by the world unguessed, Where the thrush's song is sung, And the dainty yellowbird's fairy nest, Lined with the fluff from the cattail's crest, 'Mid the juniper boughs is hung; And further on, by the elder hedge, Where the turtles come out to sleep, The marsh-hen builds, by the brooklet's edge, Her warm, wet home in the swampy sedge, 'Mid the shadows so dark and deep.

He knows of the spot by the old stone wall, Where the sunlight dapples the glade, And the sweet wild-cherry blooms softly fall, And hid in the meadow-gra.s.s rank and tall, The "Bob-white's" eggs are laid.

He knows, where the sea-breeze sobs and sings, And the sand-hills meet the brine, The clamorous crows, with their whirring wings, Tell of their treasure that sways and swings In the top of the ta.s.selled pine.

And so he dreamed, with a happy face, Till the noontide recess came, And when't was over, ah, sad disgrace, The teacher, seeing an empty place, Marked "truant" against his name; While he, forgetful of book or rule, Sought only a tree to climb: For where is the boy who remembers school When the cowslip blows by the marshy And it's just birds'-nesting time?

THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL

Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming Through the window, sets its gleaming, With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall, With its ta.s.sel torn and tattered, And its blade, deep-bruised and battered, Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall.

None can tell its stirring story, None can sing its deeds of glory, None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell; On the battle-field they found it, Where the dead lay thick around it-- Friend and foe--a gory tangle--tossed and torn by shot and sh.e.l.l.

Who, I wonder, was its wearer, Was its stricken soldier bearer?

Was he some proud Southern stripling, tall and straight and brave and true?

Dusky locks and lashes had he?

Or was he some Northern laddie, Fresh and fair, with cheeks of roses, and with eyes and coat of blue?

From New England's fields of daisies, Or from Dixie's bowered mazes, Rode he proudly forth to conflict? What, I wonder, was his name?

Did some sister, wife, or mother, Mourn a husband, son, or brother?

Did some sweetheart look with longing for a love who never came?

Fruitless question! Fate forever Keeps its secret, answering never.

But the grim old blade shall blossom on this mild Memorial Day; I will wreathe its hilt with roses For the soldier who reposes Somewhere 'neath the Southern gra.s.ses in his garb of blue or gray.

May the flowers be fair above him, May the bright buds bend and love him, May his sleep be deep and dreamless till the last great bugle-call; And may North and South be nearer To each other's heart, and dearer, For the memory of their heroes and the old swords on the wall.