The Congo and Other Poems Part 4

A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted by George Mather Richards.

I saw a proud, mysterious cat, I saw a proud, mysterious cat Too proud to catch a mouse or rat-- Mew, mew, mew.

But catnip she would eat, and purr, But catnip she would eat, and purr.

And goldfish she did much prefer-- Mew, mew, mew.

I saw a cat--'twas but a dream, I saw a cat--'twas but a dream Who scorned the slave that brought her cream-- Mew, mew, mew.

Unless the slave were dressed in style, Unless the slave were dressed in style And knelt before her all the while-- Mew, mew, mew.

Did you ever hear of a thing like that?

Did you ever hear of a thing like that?

Did you ever hear of a thing like that?

Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.

Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.

Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.

Mew... mew... mew.

A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten

To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

Here lies a kitten good, who kept A kitten's proper place.

He stole no pantry eatables, Nor scratched the baby's face.

_He let the alley-cats alone_.

He had no yowling vice.

His s.h.i.+rt was always laundried well, He freed the house of mice.

Until his death he had not caused His little mistress tears, He wore his ribbon prettily, _He washed behind his ears_.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

Yankee Doodle

This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fas.h.i.+on. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Was.h.i.+ngton's Birthday.

Dawn this morning burned all red Watching them in wonder.

There I saw our spangled flag Divide the clouds asunder.

Then there followed Was.h.i.+ngton.

Ah, he rode from glory, Cold and mighty as his name And stern as Freedom's story.

Unsubdued by burning dawn Led his continentals.

Vast they were, and strange to see In gray old regimentals:-- Marching still with bleeding feet, Bleeding feet and jesting-- Marching from the judgment throne With energy unresting.

How their merry quickstep played-- Silver, sharp, sonorous, Piercing through with prophecy The demons' rumbling chorus-- Behold the ancient powers of sin And slavery before them!-- Sworn to stop the glorious dawn, The pit-black clouds hung o'er them.

Plagues that rose to blast the day Fiend and tiger faces, Monsters plotting bloodshed for The patient toiling races.

Round the dawn their cannon raged, Hurling bolts of thunder, Yet before our spangled flag Their host was cut asunder.

Like a mist they fled away....

Ended wrath and roaring.

Still our restless soldier-host From East to West went pouring.

High beside the sun of noon They bore our banner splendid.

All its days of stain and shame And heaviness were ended.

Men were swelling now the throng From great and lowly station-- Valiant citizens to-day Of every tribe and nation.

Not till night their rear-guard came, Down the west went marching, And left behind the sunset-rays In beauty overarching.

War-G.o.d banners lead us still, Rob, enslave and harry Let us rather choose to-day The flag the angels carry-- Flag we love, but brighter far-- Soul of it made splendid: Let its days of stain and shame And heaviness be ended.

Let its fifes fill all the sky, Redeemed souls marching after, Hills and mountains shake with song, While seas roll on in laughter.

The Black Hawk War of the Artists

Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois

To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry.

Hawk of the Rocks, Yours is our cause to-day.

Watching your foes Here in our war array, Young men we stand, Wolves of the West at bay.

_Power, power for war Comes from these trees divine; Power from the boughs, Boughs where the dew-beads s.h.i.+ne, Power from the cones-- Yea, from the breath of the pine!_

Power to restore All that the white hand mars.

See the dead east Crushed with the iron cars-- Chimneys black Blinding the sun and stars!

Hawk of the pines, Hawk of the plain-winds fleet, You shall be king There in the iron street, Factory and forge Trodden beneath your feet.

There will proud trees Grow as they grow by streams.

There will proud thoughts Walk as in warrior dreams.

There will proud deeds Bloom as when battle gleams!

Warriors of Art, We will hold council there, Hewing in stone Things to the trapper fair, Painting the gray Veils that the spring moons wear, This our revenge, This one tremendous change: Making new towns, Lit with a star-fire strange, Wild as the dawn Gilding the bison-range.

All the young men Chanting your cause that day, Red-men, new-made Out of the Saxon clay, Strong and redeemed, Bold in your war-array!