MARY AND THE LAMB
MARY,—what melodies mingle
To murmur her musical name!
It makes all one's finger-tips tingle
Like fagots, the food of the flame;
About her an ancient tradition
A romance delightfully deep
Has woven in juxtaposition
With one little sheep,—
One dear little lamb that would follow
Her footsteps, unwearily fain.
Down dale, over hill, over hollow,
To school and to hamlet again;
A gentle companion, whose beauty
Consisted in snow-driven fleece,
And whose most imperative duty
Was keeping the peace.
His eyes were as beads made of glassware,
His lips were coquettishly curled,
His capers made many a lass swear
His caper-sauce baffled the world;
His tail had a wag when it relished
A sip of the milk in the pail,—
And this fact has largely embellished
One calm summer day when the sun was
A great golden globe in the sky,
One mild summer morn when the fun was
Unspeakably clear in his eye,
He tagged after exquisite Mary,
And over the threshold of school
He tripped in a temper contrary,
And splintered the rule.
A great consternation was kindled
Among all the scholars, and some
Confessed their affection had dwindled
For lamby, and looked rather glum;
But Mary's schoolmistress quick beckoned
The children away from the jam,
And said, sotto voce, she reckoned
That Mame loved the lamb.
Then all up the spine of the rafter
There ran a most risible shock,
And sorrow was sweetened with laughter
At this little lamb of the flock;
And out spoke the schoolmistress Yankee,
With rather a New Hampshire whine,
“Dear pupils, sing Moody and Sankey,
Hymn 'Ninety and Nine.'"
Now after this music had finished,
And silence again was restored,
The ardor of lamby diminished,
His quips for a moment were floored
Then cried he, “Bah-ed children, you blundered
When singing that psalmistry, quite.
I'm labelled by Mary, 'Old Hundred,'
And I'm labelled right."
Then vanished the lambkin in glory,
A halo of books round his head:
What furthermore happened the story,
Alackaday! cannot be said.
And Mary, the musical maid, is
To-day but a shadow in time;
Her epitaph, too, I'm afraid is
Writ only in rhyme.
She's sung by the cook at her ladle
That stirs up the capering sauce;
She's sung by the nurse at the cradle
When ba-ba is restless and cross;
And lamby, whose virtues were legion,
Dwells ever in songs that we sing,
He makes a nice dish in this region
To eat in the spring!
Frank Dempster Sherman.