Farm Ballads Part 9

Poor little sister 'Bell will weep, and kiss me as I lie; But kiss her twice and thrice for me, and tell her not to cry; Tell her to weave a bright, gay garland, and crown me as of yore, Then plant a lily upon my grave, and think of me no more.

And tell that maiden whose love I sought, that I was faithful yet; But I must lie in a felon's grave, and she had best forget.

My memory is stained forever; for so the Judge has said, And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother--hang me till I'm dead!

Lay me not down by my father's side; for once, I mind, he said No child that stained his spotless name should share his mortal bed.

Old friends would look beyond his grave, to my dishonored one, And hide the virtues of the sire behind the recreant son.

And I can fancy, if there my corse its fettered limbs should lay, His frowning skull and crumbling bones would shrink from me away; But I swear to G.o.d I'm innocent, and never blood have shed!

And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother--hang me till I'm dead!

Lay me in my coffin, mother, as you've sometimes seen me rest: One of my arms beneath my head, the other on my breast.

Place my Bible upon my heart--nay, mother, do not weep-- And kiss me as in happier days you kissed me when asleep.

And for the rest--for form or rite--but little do I reck; But cover up that cursed stain--_the black mark on my neck!_ And pray to G.o.d for his great mercy on my devoted head; For they'll hang me to the gallows, mother--hang me till I'm dead!

But hark! I hear a mighty murmur among the jostling crowd!

A cry!--a shout!--a roar of voices!--it echoes long and loud!

There dashes a horseman with foaming steed and tightly-gathered rein!

He sits erect!--he waves his hand!--good Heaven! 'tis Allen Bayne!

The lost is found, the dead alive, my safety is achieved!

For he waves his hand again, and shouts, "The prisoner is reprieved!"

Now, mother, praise the G.o.d you love, and raise your drooping head; For the murderous gallows, black and grim, is cheated of its dead!

UP THE LINE.

Through blinding storm and clouds of night, We swiftly pushed our restless flight; With thundering hoof and warning neigh, We urged our steed upon his way Up the line.

Afar the lofty head-light gleamed; Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed; And glistening bright, and rising high, Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky, Up the line.

Adown the long, complaining track, Our wheels a message hurried back; And quivering through the rails ahead, Went news of our resistless tread, Up the line.

The trees gave back our din and shout, And flung their shadow arms about; And s.h.i.+vering in their coats of gray, They heard us roaring far away, Up the line.

The wailing storm came on apace, And dashed its tears into our fade; But steadily still we pierced it through, And cut the sweeping wind in two, Up the line.

A rattling rush across the ridge, A thunder-peal beneath the bridge; And valley and hill and sober plain Re-echoed our triumphant strain, Up the line.

And when the Eastern streaks of gray Bespoke the dawn of coming day, We halted our steed, his journey o'er, And urged his giant form no more, Up the line.

HOW WE KEPT THE DAY.

I.

The great procession came up the street, With clatter of hoofs and tramp of feet; There was General Jones to guide the van, And Corporal Jinks, his right-hand man; And each was riding his high horse, And each had epaulettes, of course; And each had a sash of the bloodiest red, And each had a shako on his head; And each had a sword by his left side, And each had his mustache newly dyed; And that was the way We kept the day, The great, the grand, the glorious day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With a battle or two, the histories say,) Our National Independence!

II.

The great procession came up the street, With loud da capo, and brazen repeat; There was Hans, the leader, a Teuton born, A sharp who worried the E flat horn; And Baritone Jake, and Alto Mike, Who never played any thing twice alike; And Tenor Tom, of conservative mind, Who always came out a note behind; And d.i.c.k, whose tuba was seldom dumb, And Bob, who punished the big ba.s.s drum.

And when they stopped a minute to rest, The martial band discoursed its best; The ponderous drum and the pointed fife Proceeded to roll and shriek for life; And Bonaparte Crossed the Rhine, anon, And The Girl I Left Behind Me came on; And that was the way The bands did play On the loud, high-toned, harmonious day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With some music of bullets, our sires would say,) Our glorious Independence!

III.

The great procession came up the street, With a wagon of virgins, sour and sweet; Each bearing the bloom of recent date, Each misrepresenting a single State.

There was California, pious and prim, And Louisiana, humming a hymn; The Texas la.s.s was the smallest one-- Rhode Island weighed the tenth of a ton; The Empire State was pure as a pearl, And Ma.s.sachusetts a modest girl; Vermont was red as the blush of a rose-- And the G.o.ddess sported a turn-up nose; And looked, free sylph, where she painfully sat, The worlds she would give to be out of that.

And in this way The maidens gay Flashed up the street on the beautiful day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With some sacrifices, our mothers would say,) Our glorious Independence!

IV.

The great procession came up the street, With firemen uniformed flas.h.i.+ly neat; There was Tubbs, the foreman, with voice like five, The happiest, proudest man alive; With a trumpet half as long as a gun, Which he used for the glory of "Number 1;"

There was Nubbs, who had climbed a ladder high, And saved a dog that was left to die; There was Cubbs, who had dressed in black and blue The eye of the foreman of Number 2.

And each marched on with steady stride, And each had a look of fiery pride; And each glanced slyly round, with a whim That all of the girls were looking at him; And that was the way, With grand display, They marched through the blaze of the glowing day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With some hot fighting, our fathers would say,) Our glorious Independence!

V.

The eager orator took the stand, In the cause of our great and happy land; He aired his own political views, He told us all of the latest news: How the Boston folks one night took tea-- Their grounds for steeping it in the sea; What a heap of Britons our fathers did kill, At the little skirmish of Bunker Hill; He put us all in anxious doubt As to how that matter was coming out; And when at last he had fought us through To the bloodless year of '82, 'Twas the fervent hope of every one That he, as well as the war, was done.

But he continued to painfully soar For something less than a century more; Until at last he had fairly begun The wars of eighteen-sixty-one; And never rested till 'neath the tree That shadowed the glory of Robert Lee.

And then he inquired, with martial frown, "Americans, must we go down?"

And as an answer from Heaven were sent, The stand gave way, and down he went.

A singer or two beneath him did drop-- A big fat alderman fell atop; And that was the way Our orator lay, Till we fished him out, on the eloquent day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With a clash of arms, Pat. Henry would say,) Our wordy Independence!

VI.

The marshal his hungry compatriots led, Where Freedom's viands were thickly spread, With all that man or woman could eat, From crisp to sticky--from sour to sweet.

There were chickens that scarce had learned to crow, And veteran roosters of long ago; There was one old turkey, huge and fierce, That was hatched in the days of President Pierce; Of which, at last, with an ominous groan, The parson essayed to swallow a bone; And it took three sinners, plucky and stout, To grapple the evil and bring it out.

And still the dinner went merrily on, And James and Lucy and Hannah and John Kept winking their eyes and smacking their lips, And pa.s.sing the eatables into eclipse.

And that was the way The grand array Of victuals vanished on that day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With some starvation, the records say,) Our well-fed Independence!

VII.

The people went home through the sultry night, In a murky mood and a pitiful plight; Not more had the rockets' sticks gone down, Than the spirits of them who had "been to town;"

Not more did the fire-balloon collapse, Than the pride of them who had known mishaps.

There were feathers ruffled, and tempers roiled, And several brand-new dresses spoiled; There were hearts that ached from envy's thorns, And feet that twinged with trampled corns; There were joys proved empty, through and through, And several purses empty, too; And some reeled homeward, muddled and late, Who hadn't taken their glory straight; And some were fated to lodge, that night, In the city lock-up, snug and tight; And that was the way The deuce was to pay, As it always is, at the close of the day, That gave us-- _Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!_ (With some restrictions, the fault-finders say,) That which, please G.o.d, we will keep for aye-- Our National Independence!