Poems [36]
No matter how we rhyme the words, The music speaks them handy, And where's the fair can't sing the air Of "Yankee doodle dandy!" "Yankee doodle--firm and true-- Yankee doodle dandy, Yankee doodle, doodle doo! Yankee doodle dandy!"
Lines
On the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward, at Dale Cemetery, Sing-Sing, May 3, 1853.
The knell was tolled--the requiem sung, The solemn burial-service read; And tributes from the heart and tongue Were rendered to the dead.
The dead?--Religion answers, "No! She is not dead--She can not die! A mortal left this vale of wo!-- An angel lives on high!"
The earth upon her coffin-lid Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu! The mound arose, and she was hid For ever from the view!
For ever?--Drearily the thought Passed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain; When Faith the recollection brought That we shall meet again.
The mourners wound their silent way Adown the mountain's gentle slope, Which, basking in the smile of May, Looked cheerfully as hope.
As hope?--What hope?--That boundless One God in His love and mercy gave; Which brightens, with salvation's sun, The darkness of the grave.
New-York in 1826. [See Notes]
(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.)
Air--"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays."
Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes] Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem; With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you, She often frolicks with one G. P. M. As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches, And lockets and broaches [See Notes], without any end, Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure, And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.
'Tis useless to speak of the griefs of society-- They overtake us in passing along; And public misfortunes, in all their variety, Need not be told in a holyday song. The troubles of Wall-street, I'm sure that you all meet, And they're not at all sweet--but look at their pranks: Usurious cravings, and discounts and shavings, With maniac ravings and Lombardy banks. [See Notes]
'Tis useless to speak of our dealers in cotton too, Profits and losses but burden the lay; The failure of merchants should now be forgotten too, Nor sadden the prospects of this festive day. Though Fortune has cheated the hope near completed, And cruelly treated the world mercantile, The poet's distresses, when Fortune oppresses, Are greater, he guesses--but still he can smile.
'Tis useless to speak of the gas-lights [See Notes] so beautiful, Shedding its beams through "the mist of the night;" Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful, Dazzle the vision with columns of light. The lamb and the lion--ask editor Tryon, His word you'll rely on--are seen near the Park, From which such lights flow out, as wind can not blow out, Yet often they go out, and all's in the dark.
'Tis useless to speak of the seats on the Battery [See Notes], They're too expensive to give to the town; Then our aldermen think it such flattery, If the public have leave to sit down! Our fortune to harden, they show Castle Garden-- Kind muses, your pardon, but rhyme it I must-- Where soldiers were drilling, you now must be willing To pay them a shilling--so down with the dust.
'Tis useless to speak of our writers poetical [See Notes], Of Halleck and Bryant and Woodworth, to write; There are others, whose trades are political-- Snowden and Townsend and Walker and Dwight. There's Lang the detector, and Coleman the hector, And Noah the protector and judge of the Jews, And King the accuser, and Stone the abuser, And Grim the confuser of morals and news.
'Tis useless to speak of the many civilities Shown to Fayette [See Notes] in this country of late, Or even to mention the splendid abilities Clinton possesses for ruling the state. The union of water and Erie's bright daughter Since Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more; And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles) Have vanished
Lines
On the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward, at Dale Cemetery, Sing-Sing, May 3, 1853.
The knell was tolled--the requiem sung, The solemn burial-service read; And tributes from the heart and tongue Were rendered to the dead.
The dead?--Religion answers, "No! She is not dead--She can not die! A mortal left this vale of wo!-- An angel lives on high!"
The earth upon her coffin-lid Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu! The mound arose, and she was hid For ever from the view!
For ever?--Drearily the thought Passed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain; When Faith the recollection brought That we shall meet again.
The mourners wound their silent way Adown the mountain's gentle slope, Which, basking in the smile of May, Looked cheerfully as hope.
As hope?--What hope?--That boundless One God in His love and mercy gave; Which brightens, with salvation's sun, The darkness of the grave.
New-York in 1826. [See Notes]
(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.)
Air--"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays."
Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes] Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem; With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you, She often frolicks with one G. P. M. As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches, And lockets and broaches [See Notes], without any end, Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure, And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.
'Tis useless to speak of the griefs of society-- They overtake us in passing along; And public misfortunes, in all their variety, Need not be told in a holyday song. The troubles of Wall-street, I'm sure that you all meet, And they're not at all sweet--but look at their pranks: Usurious cravings, and discounts and shavings, With maniac ravings and Lombardy banks. [See Notes]
'Tis useless to speak of our dealers in cotton too, Profits and losses but burden the lay; The failure of merchants should now be forgotten too, Nor sadden the prospects of this festive day. Though Fortune has cheated the hope near completed, And cruelly treated the world mercantile, The poet's distresses, when Fortune oppresses, Are greater, he guesses--but still he can smile.
'Tis useless to speak of the gas-lights [See Notes] so beautiful, Shedding its beams through "the mist of the night;" Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful, Dazzle the vision with columns of light. The lamb and the lion--ask editor Tryon, His word you'll rely on--are seen near the Park, From which such lights flow out, as wind can not blow out, Yet often they go out, and all's in the dark.
'Tis useless to speak of the seats on the Battery [See Notes], They're too expensive to give to the town; Then our aldermen think it such flattery, If the public have leave to sit down! Our fortune to harden, they show Castle Garden-- Kind muses, your pardon, but rhyme it I must-- Where soldiers were drilling, you now must be willing To pay them a shilling--so down with the dust.
'Tis useless to speak of our writers poetical [See Notes], Of Halleck and Bryant and Woodworth, to write; There are others, whose trades are political-- Snowden and Townsend and Walker and Dwight. There's Lang the detector, and Coleman the hector, And Noah the protector and judge of the Jews, And King the accuser, and Stone the abuser, And Grim the confuser of morals and news.
'Tis useless to speak of the many civilities Shown to Fayette [See Notes] in this country of late, Or even to mention the splendid abilities Clinton possesses for ruling the state. The union of water and Erie's bright daughter Since Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more; And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles) Have vanished