Part 12 (1/2)
Four long years I fought and suffered, ”Dixie” was my battle cry; ”Dixie” always and forever, Down in ”Dixie” let me die.
And to-night I'm down in ”Dixie,”
”Dixie” still so grand and true; But to-night I am appareled In a uniform of blue.
And to-night the band is playing; 'Tis not ”Dixie's” strains I hear, But the strains of ”Yankee Doodle”
Ring out strong and clear.
Long I listen to the music; By my side a comrade stands; He's a ”Yank” and I'm a ”Rebel,”
But we grasp each other's hands.
Here together we united 'Way down South in ”Dixie” stand, And my comrade whispers softly, ”There's no land like 'Dixie's land.'”
But my eyes are filled with teardrops, Tears that make my heart feel glad; And I whisper to my comrade: ”'Yankee Doodle' ain't so bad.”
LAWRENCE PORCHER HEXT.
A game of marbles We were having one day, When Baby chanced to come along that way.
Too little he was to join our game, But he pocketed our marbles just the same.
THE BAREFOOT BOY.
Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan; With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the suns.h.i.+ne on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace!
From my heart I give thee joy; I was once a barefoot boy.
Prince thou art--the grown-up man Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye: Outward suns.h.i.+ne, inward joy.
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O! for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools: Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl, and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his sh.e.l.l,
How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood grape's cl.u.s.ters s.h.i.+ne; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks Part and parcel of her joy.
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for!
I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day and through the night; Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!
Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too, All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fas.h.i.+oned for a barefoot boy!
O! for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent: Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While, for music, came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.