And when I look acrost there-- Say it's when the clover's ripe, And I'm settin', in the evenin', On the porch here, with my pipe, And the _other'n_ hollers "Henry!"-- W'y they ain't no sadder thing Than to think of my first womern And her funeral last spring Was a year ago--

AS WE READ BURNS

Who is speaking? Who has spoken?

Whose voice ceasing thus has broken The sweet pathos of our dreams?

Sweetest bard of sweetest themes, Pouring in each poet-heart Some rare essence of your art Till it seems your singing lip Kisses every pencil tip!

Far across the unknown lands-- Reach of heavenly isle and sea-- How we long to touch the hands You outhold so lovingly!

TO JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER ON THE ANATOMY OF THE SONNET

Oho! ye sunny, sonnet-singin' vagrant, Flauntin' your simmer sangs in sic a weather!

Ane maist can straik the bluebells and the heather Keekin' aboon the snaw and bloomin' fragrant!

Whiles you, ye whustlin' brither, sic a lay grant O' a' these janglin', wranglin' sweets thegither, I weel maun perk my ain doon-drappin' feather And pipe a wee: Tho' boisterous and flagrant The winds blow whuzzle-whazzle rhymes that trickle Fra' aff my tongue less limpid than I'd ha'e them, I in their little music hap a mickle O' canty praises, a' asklent to weigh them Agen your pride, and smile to see them tickle The warm nest o' the heart wherein I lay them.

SONG

O I would I had a lover!

A lover! a lover!

O I would I had a lover With a twinkering guitar, To come beneath my cas.e.m.e.nt Singing "There is none above her,"

While I, leaning, seemed to hover In the scent of his cigar!

Then at morn I'd want to meet him-- To meet him! to meet him!

O at morn I'd want to meet him, When the mist was in the sky, And the dew along the path I went To casually greet him, And to cavalierly treat him, And regret it by and by.

And I'd want to meet his brother-- His brother! his brother!

O I'd want to meet his brother At the german or the play, To pin a rose on his lapel And lightly press the other, And love him like a mother-- While he thought the other way.

O I'd pitilessly test him!

And test him! and test him!

O I'd pitilessly test him Far beyond his own control; And every tantalizing lure With which I could arrest him, I'd loosen to molest him, Till I tried his very soul.

But ah, when I relented-- Relented, relented!

But ah, when I relented When the stars were blurred and dim, And the moon above, with crescent grace, Looked off as I repented, And with rapture half demented, All my heart went out to him!

WHEN WE THREE MEET

When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine Whose verses well and flow as wine,-- My thirsting fancy thou dost fill With draughts delicious, sweeter still Since tasted by those lips of thine.

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine Of autumn, with a warmth divine, Thrilled through as only I shall thrill When we three meet.

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine, We yet shall loosen, line by line, Old ballads, and the blither trill Of our-time singers--for there will Be with us all the Muses nine When we three meet.

JOSH BILLINGS

DEAD IN CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 15, 1885

Jolly-hearted old Josh Billings, With his wisdom and his wit, And his gravity of presence, And the drollery of it!

Has he left us, and forever?

When so many merry years He has only left us laughing-- And he leaves us now in tears?

Has he turned from his "Deer Publik,"

With his slyly twinkling eyes Now grown dim and heavy-lidded In despite of sunny skies?-- Yet with rugged brow uplifted, And the long hair tossed away, Like an old heroic lion, With a mane of iron-gray.

Though we lose him, still we find him In the mirth of every lip, And we fare through all his pages In his glad companionship: His voice is wed with Nature's, Laughing in each woody nook With the chirrup of the robin And the chuckle of the brook.

But the children--O the children!-- They who leaped to his caress, And felt his arms about them, And his love and tenderness,-- Where--where will they find comfort As their tears fall like the rain, And they swarm his face with kisses That he answers not again?

WHICH ANE

Which ane, an' which ane, An' which ane for thee?-- Here thou hast thy vera choice, An' which sall it be?-- Ye hae the Holy Brither, An' ye hae the Scholarly; An', last, ye hae the b.u.t.t o' baith-- Which sall it be?

Ane's oot o' Edinborough, Wi' the Beuk an' Gown; An' ane's cam frae Cambridge; An' ane frae scaur an' down: An' Deil tak the hindmaist!

Sae the test gaes roun': An' here ye hae the lairdly twa, An' ane frae scaur an' down.

Yon's Melancholy-- An' the pipes a-skirlin'-- Gangs limp an' droopet, Like a coof at hirlin',-- Droopet aye his lang skirts I' the wins unfurlin'; Yon's Melancholy-- An' the pipes a-skirlin'!

Which ane, an' which ane, An' which ane for thee?-- Here thou hast thy vera choice, An' which sall it be?

Ye hae the Holy Brither, An' ye hae the Scholarly; An', last, ye hae the b.u.t.t o' baith-- Which sall it be?

Elbuck ye'r bag, mon!

An' pipe as ye'd burst!

Can ye gie's a waur, mon E'en than the first?-- Be it Meister Wisemon, I' the cla.s.sics versed, An' a slawer gait yet E'en than the first?