| Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way— |
| I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray— |
| I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, |
| As many another woman that's only half as old. |
| |
| Over the hill to the poor-house—I can't quite make it clear! |
| Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer! |
| Many a step I've taken a-toiling to and fro, |
| But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. |
| |
| What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? |
| Am I lazy or crazy? Am I blind or lame? |
| True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; |
| But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. |
| |
| I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day |
| To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; |
| For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, |
| If anybody only is willin' to have me round. |
| |
| Once I was young an' han'some—I was upon my soul— |
| Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; |
| And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, |
| For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. |
| |
| 'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over-free, |
| But many a house an' home was open then to me; |
| Many a han'some offer I had from likely men, |
| And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. |
| |
| And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, |
| But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; |
| For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, |
| And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. |
| |
| And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, |
| With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; |
| Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, |
| An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. |
| |
| So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one, |
| Worked for 'em summer and winter just as we ought to've done; |
| Only, perhaps, we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn— |
| But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them. |
| |
| Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones! |
| I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; |
| And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, |
| I've noticed it sometimes, somehow, fails to work the other way. |
| |
| Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, |
| And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; |
| When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, |
| The Lord of Hosts he come one day, an' took him away from me. |
| |
| Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall— |
| Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; |
| And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, |
| Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. |
| |
| She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile— |
| She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; |
| But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; |
| But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. |
| |
| She had an edication, an' that was good for her; |
| But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; |
| An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), |
| That I never swallowed a grammar, or eat a 'rithmetic. |
| |
| So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done— |
| They was a family of themselves, and I another one; |
| And a very little cottage one family will do, |
| But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two. |
| |
| An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, |
| An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; |
| But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, |
| When Charley turn'd agin me, an' told me I could go. |
| |
| I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, |
| And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; |
| And what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three, |
| 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. |
| |
| An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, |
| For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; |
| But all the childr'n was on me—I couldn't stand their sauce— |
| And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. |
| |
| An' then I wrote Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, |
| And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles, at best; |
| And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, |
| And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. |
| |
| So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about— |
| So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; |
| But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, |
| Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. |
| |
| Over the hill to the poor-house—my childr'n dear, good-by! |
| Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; |
| And God'll judge between us; but I will always pray |
| That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. |
| |
| Will Carleton. |
| When Freedom from her mountain height |
| Unfurled her standard to the air, |
| She tore the azure robe of night, |
| And set the stars of glory there. |
| She mingled with its gorgeous dyes |
| The milky baldric of the skies, |
| And striped its pure celestial white |
| With streakings of the morning light; |
| Then from his mansion in the sun |
| She called her eagle bearer down, |
| And gave into his mighty hand |
| The symbol of her chosen land. |
| |
| Majestic monarch of the cloud, |
| Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, |
| To hear the tempest trumpings loud |
| And see the lightning lances driven, |
| When strive the warriors of the storm, |
| And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, |
| Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given |
| To guard the banner of the free, |
| To hover in the sulphur smoke, |
| To ward away the battle stroke, |
| And bid its blendings shine afar, |
| Like rainbows on the cloud of War, |
| The harbingers of victory! |
| |
| Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, |
| The sign of hope and triumph high, |
| When speaks the signal trumpet tone, |
| And the long line comes gleaming on. |
| Ere yet the lifeblood, warm and wet, |
| Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, |
| Each soldier eye shall brightly turn |
| To where thy sky-born glories burn, |
| And, as his springing steps advance, |
| Catch war and vengeance from the glance. |
| |
| And when the cannon-mouthings loud |
| Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, |
| And gory sabres rise and fall |
| Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, |
| Then shall thy meteor glances glow, |
| And cowering foes shall shrink beneath |
| Each gallant arm that strikes below |
| That lovely messenger of death. |
| |
| Flag of the seas! on ocean wave |
| Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; |
| When death, careering on the gale, |
| Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, |
| And frighted waves rush wildly back |
| Before the broadside's reeling rack, |
| Each dying wanderer of the sea |
| Shall look at once to heaven and thee, |
| And smile to see thy splendors fly |
| In triumph o'er his closing eye. |
| |
| Flag of the free heart's hope and home! |
| By angel hands to valor given; |
| Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, |
| And all thy hues were born in heaven. |
| Forever float that standard sheet! |
| Where breathes the foe but falls before us, |
| With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, |
| And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? |
| |
| Joseph Rodman Drake. |