NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT.
THE mill goes toiling slowly around
With steady and solemn creak,
And my little one hears in the kindly sound
The voice of the old mill speak;
While round and round those big white wings
Grimly and ghostlike creep,
My little one hears that the old mill sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And over his pot of beer
The fisher, against the morrow's dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer;
He mocks at the winds that caper along
From the far-off, clamorous deep,
But we—we love their lullaby-song
Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound,
Groans of the stony mart;
To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around,
Hitched to our new milk-cart!
And you shall help me blanket the kine,
And fold the gentle sheep,
And set the herring a-soak in brine,—
But now, little tulip, sleep!
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes
That wearily droop and blink,
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies,
And scolds at the stars that wink;
Over your face the misty wings
Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep,
And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings,
"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"
THE ONION TART.
OF tarts there be a thousand kinds,
So versatile the art,
And, as we all have different minds,
Each has his favorite tart;
But those which most delight the rest
Methinks should suit me not:
The onion tart doth please me best,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Where but in Deutschland can be found
This boon of which I sing?
Who but a Teuton could compound
This sui generis thing?
None with the German frau can vie
In arts cuisine, I wot,
Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh,
"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"
You slice the fruit upon the dough,
And season to the taste,
Then in an oven (not too slow)
The viand should be placed;
And when 'tis done, upon a plate
You serve it piping hot.
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
It sweeps upon the sight and smell
In overwhelming tide,
And then the sense of taste as well
Betimes is gratified:
Three noble senses drowned in bliss!
I prithee tell me, what
Is there beside compares with this?
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
For if the fruit be proper young,
And if the crust be good,
How shall they melt upon the tongue
Into a savory flood!
How seek the Mecca down below,
And linger round that spot,
Entailing weeks and months of woe,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
If Nature gives men appetites
For things that won't digest,
Why, let them eat whatso delights,
And let her stand the rest;
And though the sin involve the cost
Of Carlsbad, like as not
'Tis better to have loved and lost,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
Beyond the vast, the billowy tide,
Where my compatriots dwell,
All kinds of victuals have I tried,
All kinds of drinks, as well;
But nothing known to Yankee art
Appears to reach the spot
Like this Teutonic onion tart,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!
So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide
As full as I can hold,
And for complete reform inside
Plank down my horde of gold,
Remorse shall not consume my heart,
Nor sorrow vex my lot,
For I have eaten onion tart,—
Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!