Parodies of American Poetry.
MAUD MÜLLER.
Maud Müller, on a summer’s day
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree,
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—
A wish, that she had hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple trees to greet the maid,
And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadows across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup;
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
“Thanks! said the judge, a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
Of the singing birds, and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Müller looked and sighed—“Ah me!
That I the judge’s bride might be!
“He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
“My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door.
The judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Müller standing still.
“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
“And her modest answer and graceful air,
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
“Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay.
“No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
And weary lawyers with endless tongues,
“But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health of quiet and loving words.”
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the judge rode on,
And Maude was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;
And sweet Maud Müller’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on the garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover blooms.
And the proud man sighed with a secret pain;
“Ah, that I were free again!
“Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring-brook fall
Over the roadside through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein;
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnit turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug.
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty, and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again
Saying only “It might have been!”
Alas! for maiden, alas! for judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall,
For of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these “It might have been!”
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And in the hereafter angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Mr. Whittier’s statement of the origin of his poem of “Maud Müller” is thus given. He was driving with his sister through York, U.S.A., and stopped at a harvest field to inquire the way. A young girl raking hay near the stone-wall stopped to answer their inquiries. Whittier noticed as she talked that she bashfully raked the hay around and over her bare feet, and she was fresh and fair. The little incident left its impression, and he wrote out the poem that very evening. “But if I had had any idea,” he said, “that the plaguey little thing would have been so liked, I should have taken more pains with it.” To the inquiry as to the title, Maud Müller, he said it was suggested to him, and was not a selection. It came as the poem came. But he gives it the short German pronunciation, as Meuler, not the broad Yankee, Muller.
Mrs. Judge Jenkins.
[Being the only genuine sequel to “Maud Müller.”]
Maud Müller, all that summer day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay;
Yet, looking down the distant lane,
She hoped the judge would come again.
But when he came, with smile and bow,
Maud only blushed, and stammered, “Ha-ow?”
And spoke of her “pa,” and wondered whether
He’d give consent they should wed together.
Old Müller burst in tears, and then
Begged that the judge would lend him “ten;”
For trade was dull and wages low,
And the “craps,” this year, were somewhat slow.
And ere the languid summer died,
Sweet Maud became the Judge’s bride.
But, on the day that they were mated,
Maud’s brother Bob was intoxicated;
And Maud’s relations, twelve in all,
Were very drunk at the judge’s hall.
And when the summer came again,
The young bride bore him babies twain.
And the judge was blest, but thought it strange
That bearing children made such a change:
For Maud grew broad and red and stout:
And the waist that his arm once clasped about
Was more than he now could span. And he
Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,
How that which in Maud was native grace
In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;
And thought of the twins, and wished that they
Looked less like the man who raked the hay
On Müller’s farm, and dreamed with pain
Of the day he wandered down the lane.
And, looking down that dreary track,
He half regretted that he came back.
For, had he waited, he might have wed
Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;
For there be women fair as she,
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.
Alas for maiden! alas for judge!
And the sentimental,—that’s one-half “fudge;”
For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,
With all his learning and all his lore.
And the judge would have bartered Maud’s fair face
For more refinement and social grace.
If, of all words of tongue and pen,
The saddest are, “It might have been,”
More sad are these we daily see:
“It is, but hadn’t ought to be.”
Bret Harte.
Kate Ketchem.
Kate Ketchem on a winter’s night
Went to a party dressed in white.
Her chignon in a net of gold
Was about as large as they ever sold.
Gayly she went because her “pap”
Was supposed to be a rich old chap.
But when by chance her glances fell
On a friend who had lately married well,
Her spirits sunk and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast.
A wish she would’nt have made known
To have an establishment of her own.
Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng
With chestnut hair worn pretty long.
He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd
And knowing her slightly stopped, and bowed.
Then asked her to give him a single flower
Saying he’d think it a priceless dower.
Out from those with which she was decked
She took the poorest she could select.
And, blushed as she gave it, looking down
To call attention to her gown.
“Thanks,” said Fudge, and he thought how dear
Flowers must be at that time of year.
Then several charming remarks he made
Asked if she sang, or danced, or played.
And being exhausted, inquired whether
She thought it was going to be pleasant weather.
And Kate displayed her “jewelry”
And dropped her lashes becomingly.
And listened with no attempt to disguise
The admiration in her eyes.
At last like one who has nothing to say
He turned around, and walked away.
Kate Ketchem smiled, and said “you bet
I’ll catch that Fudge, and his money yet.
“He’s rich enough to keep me in clothes
And I think I could manage him as I chose.
“He could aid my father as well as not,
And buy my brother a splendid yacht.
“My mother for money should never fret
And all it cried for the baby should get.
“And after that with what he could spare
I’d make a show at a charity fair.”
Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill
And saw Kate Ketchem standing still.
“A girl more suited to my mind
It isn’t an easy thing to find;
“And everything she has to wear
Proves her as rich as she is fair.
“Would she were mine, and I to day
Had the old man’s cash my debts to pay.
“No creditors with a long account
No tradesmen wanting ‘that little amount.’
“But all my scores paid up when due
By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew.”
But he thought of her brother not worth a straw
And her mother, that would be his, in law.
So undecided he walked along
And Kate was left alone in the throng.
But a lawyer smiled when he sought by stealth
To ascertain old Ketchem’s wealth.
And as for Kate she schemed and planned
Till one of the dancers claimed her hand.
He married her for her father’s cash,
She married him to cut a dash.
But as to paying his debts do you know
The father couldn’t see it so;
And at hints for help Kate’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
And when Tom thought of the way he had wed
He longed for a single life instead.
And closed his eyes in a sulky mood
Regretting the days of his bachelorhood.
And said in a sort of reckless vein,
“I’d like to see her catch me again.
“If I were free as on that night
When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white.”
She wedded him to be rich and gay
But husband and children did’nt pay.
He wasn’t the prize she hoped to draw
And would’nt live with his mother-in-law.
And oft when she had to coax and pout
In order to get him to take her out,
She thought how very attentive and bright
He seemed at the party that winter’s night.
Of his laugh as soft as a breeze of the south
(’Twas now on the other side of his mouth);
How he praised her dress, and gems, in his talk
As he took a careful account of stock.
Sometimes she hated the very walls—
Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls.
Till her weak affection to hatred turned
Like a dying tallow candle burned.
And for him who sat there her peace to mar,
Smoking his everlasting cigar.
He wasn’nt the man she thought she saw
And grief was duty, and hate was law.
So she took up her burden with a groan
Saying only “I might have known.”
Alas for Kate, and alas for Fudge,
Though I do not owe them any grudge.
And, alas, for any who find to their shame
That two can play at their little game.
For of all hard things to bear and grin
The hardest is knowing you’re taken in.
Ah! well as a general thing we fret
About the one we didn’t get.
But I think we need’nt make a fuss
If the one we don’t want did’nt get us.
Phœbe Carey.
Maud Müller in Dutch.
Maud Müller, von summer afternoon
Vas dending bar in her fadder’s saloon,
She solt dot bier, and singed “Shoo Fly,”
Und vinked at der men mit her lefd eye.
Bud ven she looked oud on der shdreed.
Und saw dem gals all dressed so shweed,
Her song gifed out on a ubber note,
Cause she had such a hoss in her troat;
Und she vished she had shdamps to shbend,
So she might git such a Grecian Bend.
Hans Brinker valked shlowly down her shdreed,
Shmilin at all der gals he’d meed;
Old Hans vas rich—as I’ve been dold,—
Had houses und lots, and a barrel of gold.
He shdopped by der door, und pooty soon
He valked righd indo dot bier saloon.
Und he vinked at Maud, und said, “My dear,
Gif me, of you pblease, a glass of bier.”
She vend to der pblace vere der bier keg shtood,
Und pringed him a glass dot vas fresh und goot,
“Dot’s goot,” said Hans, “dot’s a better drink
As effer I had in mine life, I dink.”
He dalked for a vhile, den said, “Goot day,”
Und up der shdreet he dook his vay.
Maud hofed a sigh, and said, “Oh, how
I’d likd to been dot olt man’s frow,
Such shplendid close I den vood vear,
Dot all the gals around vood shdare.
In dot Union Park I’d drive all tay,
Und efery evenin go to der blay.
Hans Brinker, doo, felt almighty gweer,
(But dat mit peen von trinkin beer.)
Und he says to himself, as he valked along,
Hummin der tune of a olt lofe song,
“Dot’s der finest gal I efer did see,
Und I vish dot she my wife cood be.”
But here his solillogwy came to an end,
As he dinked of der gold dot she might shbend;
Und he maked up his mind dot as for him,
He’d marry a girl mit lots of “din.”
So he vent righd off dot fery day,
Und married a vooman olt und gray.
He vishes now, but all in vain,
Dot he vas free to marry again;
Free as he vas dot afternoon,
Ven he med Maud Müller in der bier saloon.
Maud married a man without some “soap”—
He vas lazy doo—but she did hope
Dot he’d get bedder when shildren came;
But vhen dey had, he vas yoost der same.
Und ofden now dem dears vill come
As she sits alone ven her day’s vork’s done,
Und dinks of der day Hans called her “my dear,”
Und asked her for a glass of bier;
But she don’d comblain, nor efer has,
Und only says, “Dot coodn’t vas.”
Anonymous.
The Maud Muller.
(Improved.)
Maud Muller, on a summer’s day,
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay—
But when she glanced to Huntsville town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died—and Fleming’s Improved
With a nameless longing her breast moved.
A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
“Uncle Pete” rode slowly for her sake,
Showing his “Improved Riding Rake.”
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple trees, to greet the maid.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown.
And merrily sparkled her hazel eyes
As “Uncle Pete” described his prize.
Maud Muller looked, and sighed “Law sake!
That’s MY idea of a perfect Rake.”
American Advertisement.
Miss Müller in Urbe.
Miss Müller so the gossips say,
Flirted in quite a shameless way,
But Maud with a laugh pronounced it fudge—
Yet we caught her wink at the ratty judge,
And the judge—but we mention this sub rose—
Blushed up to the roots of his bulbous nose;
Still he crained his neck, and in passing by,
Gave a sinister wink with his dexter eye.
Quoth Maud to herself as on she passed,
“I’ve his royal nibs in tow at last;
My mother shall wear a seal skin sack—
My pa swing on his broadcloth black;
My brother shall sip his whiskey-skins,
And my sister revel in gay breast pins!”
Quoth the judge as he sauntered listless on,
“She’s a rattling girl! you bet I’m gone!
No doubt my last wife’s ma will kick
And my heirs cut up the very nick;
And though I’ve known her a short short spell,
You bet I’ll have her in spite of”—well
No matter his word it was short and stout
And the name of a place that’s now played out
According to Bucher. Alack for all
The maid and judge ne’er wedded at all;
For he passed in his checks from too much gin
And the maid grew long, and lank, and thin.
And she as her charms glimmered away
She ceased for to flirt, and began for to pray.
God pity the maid, and pity the judge,
And these days of twaddle, and bosh, and fudge,
For of all sad words from a heart bereft
The saddest are these, “You bet I’m left.”
Anonymous.
The Modern Maud Müller.
Maud Müller worked at making hay
And cleared her forty cents a day.
Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine,
And so she worked in the sweet sunshine—
Singing as glad as a bird in May
“Barbary Allen” the livelong day.
She often glanced at the far off town
And wondered if eggs were up, or down.
And the sweet song died of a strange disease
Leaving a phantom-taste of cheese,
And an appetite and a nameless ache
For soda-water, and ginger cake.
The Judge rode slowly into view—
Stopped his horse in the shade, and threw
His fine cut out, while the blushing Maud
Marvelled much at the kind he “chawed.”
He was “dry as a fish” he said with a wink
And kind o’ thought that a good square drink
Would brace him up. So the cup was filled
With the crystal wine that the old spring spilled;
And she gave it him with a sun browned hand,
“Thanks” said the Judge, in accents bland;
“A thousand thanks for a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand—” but there he laughed,
And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day
And raked the Judge instead of the hay.
Cincinnati Commercial.
Maud Müller, and the Judge.
Maud Müller on an August day
Took the Fever of the Hay,
Sneezing she went and her shrill Ah-chee
The mock-bird echoed from the tree.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane
Smoothing his chestnut horse’s mane,
And drew his bridle in the shade
With a stimulation to greet the maid.
He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
The pollen from which makes sufferers sneeze,
And Maudie forgot her swollen nose
And even her graceful bare brown toes,
And listened while a pleased surprise
Looked from her watering hazel eyes.
At last with a wild “Ah-chee! Ah-cha!
Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” he rode away.
Maud Müller looked and sneezed “Ah-chee!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!
He would dress me with silks and diamond rings
And take me up to the ‘White Mountings,’
And I’d use the finest cambric mouchoir
And never have the Hay Fever more.”
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill
And heard her sternutations shrill.
“Would she were mide, and I to-day
Rid of this dab Fever of the Hay.”
But he thought of her sisters and clearly saw
Her mother would be his mother-in-law.
The baby would smear his broadcloth coat
And her brother borrow a five dollar note;
So closing his heart the Judge rode on
And Maudie was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon
When they heard him lustily a-choo-in.
And the young girl sneezed beside the well
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower
With an aquiline beak of ten Roman power,
And oft when the wine in his nose was red
And he knew the old woman was safe in bed,
The proud man sighed with a furnace force
“Ah could I only get a divorce
And marry the girl I saw that day
When I had the Fever of the Hay.”
She wedded a man unlearned and poor
And they had twins every twelve month—sure;
And oft when the summer sun shone hot
She wished she could drown the pesky lot.
Again in the shade of the apple trees
She saw a rider draw rein, and sneeze,
As she looked down because she knew
Her nose was big enough for two.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls
And for him with a pipe in his ugly mug—
Oh, if she had him by the lug!
A manly form at her side she saw
And there was no estival catarrh.
Then she took up her burden of life anew
Sighing only “Ah-chee! Ah-choo!”
Alas! for maiden; for Judge alas!
For household drudger, and gray haired ass.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are “Hay fever time again.”
Ah! well for us that a region lies
Where the infusoria never rise;
And in the hereafter Angels may
Find a cure for the Fever of the Hay.
New York World.
Maud Müller on the Ice.
Maud Müller on a winter’s day
Went out upon the ice to play.
Beneath her Derby gleamed her locks
Of her red banged hair, and her crimson socks.
She straddled about from ten to two
And then a hole in the ice fell through.
On the bottom of the pond she sat
As wet and mad as a half drowned rat.
A man with a hicking pole went there
And fished her out by her auburn hair.
And her mother is said to have thumped her well—
Though just how hard Miss Maud can’t tell—
And hung her over the stove to dry
With a thumb in her mouth, and a fist in her eye.
Alas for the maiden! alas for the hole!
And ’rah for the man with the hicking pole!
For the truest words of tongue or pen
Are “A skating girl’s like a headless hen.”
Brooklyn Eagle.
Miss Muller.
[“Miss Muller’s furniture, which was distrained for the payment of Queen’s taxes, refused by her on the ground that women are not allowed to vote for Parliamentary representatives, has been bought back by some of her friends, without her knowledge, and restored to her without her having paid the taxes.”—Daily paper.]
Miss Muller, on a summer day,
Refused her taxes just to pay.
“I won’t stump up at all,” quoth she,
“Until to vote they make me free.”
So sordid man began his tricks,
And seized the dauntless maiden’s “sticks.”
He seized her table, and her chair,
While she stood by with martyr air.
She saw her dear belongings go,
And spoke of giving “blow for blow.”
About her thronged a female clan,
Who’d sworn to trounce despotic man.
And these, to cause the tyrant pain,
Bought back their leader’s “sticks” again.
That table and that chair so dear
They wrested from the auctioneer.
They brought them home, they set them down,
Then shrieked their triumph through the town.
Miss Muller smiled, and said, “You bet
I haven’t paid my taxes yet.”
If, of all words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are, “It might have been.”
Well-nigh as sad are man’s when he
Wails, “Muller, you have worsted me.”
Funny Folks. July 19, 1884.
——:o:——
BARBARA FRITCHIE.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord,
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.
On that pleasant morn of the early fall,
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Forty flags with their silver stars
Flapped in the morning wind, the sun
Of noon looked down and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town;
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead;
Under his slouched hat, left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!” The dust brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!” out blazed the rifle blast.
It shivered the window pane and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out of the window sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot if you must, this old grey head.
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life, at that woman’s deed and word.
“Who touches a hair on yon grey head,
Dies like a dog. March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;
All day long the free flag tossed
Over the heads of the rebel host;
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds, that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Fritchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier!
Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace, and order, and beauty, draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below, in Frederick town!
J. G. Whittier.
Barbara Fritchie was 96 years old at the time of the occurrence, which took place literally as described in the poem.
A Parody.
Drough der streets of Frederickdown,
Wid der red hot sun shining down,
Past der saloons filled mit beer,
Dem repel fellers valked on der ear.
All day drough Frederickdown so fasd,
Hosses foot and sodgers past,
Und der repel flag skimming ond so pright,
You vould dink py jiminy id had a ridght.
Off der mony flags dot flapped in der morning vind
Nary a vone could enybody find,
Ub shumbed old Miss Frietchie den,
Who vos pent down py nine score years und den.
She took der flag der men hauled down,
Und stuck id fasd on her nighd-gown,
Un pud id in der vindow vere all could see
Dot dere vas vone who did lofe dot goot old flag so free.
Yust den ub come Stonewall Jack,
Riden on his hosses’ pack,
Under his prows he squinted his eyes,
By golly de olt flag make him much surprise.
“Halt!” vell efery man stood him sdill,
“Fire!” vas echoed from hill to hill;
Id broke her strings of dot nighd-gown,
Put olt Babra she vas round.
She freezed on dot olt flag right quick,
Und oud of der vindow her head did stick:
“Scoot, of you must, dis old cray head,
Put spare dot country’s flag!” she said.
A look of shameness soon came o’er
Der face of Jack, und der tears did pour;
“Who pulls ond a hair of dot pald head,
Dies like a monkey!—skip along,” he said.
All dot day und all dot night,
Undil efery repel vas knocked oud of sight,
Und vay pehind from Frederickdown,
Dot flag stuck fasd to dot olt nighd-gown.
Babra Frietchie’s vork vas done,
She don’d eny more kin hafe some fun;
Pully for her! und drop a dear
For dot olt gal midoud some fear.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
Hiram Hover.
(A Ballad of New England life.)
Where the Moosatockmaguntic
Pours its waters in the Skuntic,
Met, along the forest-side,
Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.
She, a maiden fair and dapper,
He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,
Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk,
In the woodlands of Squeedunk.
She, Pentucket’s pensive daughter,
Walked beside the Skuntic water,
Gathering, in her apron wet,
Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.
“Why,” he murmured, loth to leave her,
“Gather yarbs for chills and fever,
When a lovyer, bold and true,
Only waits to gather you?”
“Go,” she answered, “I’m not hasty;
I prefer a man more tasty:
Leastways, one to please me well
Should not have a beasty smell.”
“Haughty Huldah!” Hiram answered;
“Mind and heart alike are cancered:
Jest look here! these peltries give
Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.
“I, you think, am but a vagrant,
Trapping beasts by no means fragrant:
Yet—I’m sure it’s worth a thank—
I’ve a handsome sum in bank.”
Turned and vanished Hiram Hover;
And, before the year was over,
Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,
Bought a cape, against the cold.
Black and thick the furry cape was;
Of a stylish cut the shape was;
And the girls, in all the town,
Envied Huldah up and down.
Then, at last, one winter morning,
Hiram came, without a warning:
“Either,” said he, “you are blind,
Huldah, or you’ve changed your mind.
“Me you snub for trapping varmints,
Yet you take the skins for garments:
Since you wear the skunk and mink,
There’s no harm in me, I think.”
“Well,” said she, “we will not quarrel,
“Hiram: I accept the moral.
Now the fashion’s so, I guess
I can’t hardly do no less.”
Thus the trouble all was over
Of the love of Hiram Hover;
Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde
Huldah Hover as his bride.
Love employs, with equal favour,
Things of good and evil savour;
That, which first appeared to part,
Warmed, at last, the maiden’s heart.
Under one impartial banner,
Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner,
Draw, from every beast they snare,
Comfort for a wedded pair!
From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.
This is an imitation of the style of some of Whittier’s delightful ballads, only substituting a comical for an earnest motive. Change that motive, and a few expressions, and it would become a serious poem.
