He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker,
And he’s good at every one of ’em
the same:
And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand
and the breaker,
And a thousand wives and mothers bless
his name.
He’s an angel dressed in oilskins, he’s
a saint in a “sou’wester”,
He’s as plucky as they make, or
ever can;
He’s a hero born and bred, but it hasn’t
swelled his head,
And he’s jest the U.S. Gov’ment’s
hired man.
* * * * *
“The evenin’ hymn”
When the hot summer daylight is dyin’,
And the mist through the valley has rolled,
And the soft velvet clouds ter the west’ard
Are purple with trimmings of gold,—
Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky,
The crickets chirp out from each nook,
And the frogs with their voices so husky
Jine in from the marsh and the brook.
The chorus grows louder and deeper,
An owl sends a hoot from the hill,
The leaves on the elm-trees are rustling
A whippoorwill calls by the mill.
Where swamp honeysuckles are bloomin’
The breeze scatters sweets on the night,
Like incense the evenin’ perfumin’,
With fireflies fer candles alight.
And the noise of the frogs and the crickets
And the birds and the breeze are ter me
Lots better than high-toned supraners,
Although they don’t get to “high
C”;
And the church, with its grand painted skylight,
Seems cramped and forbiddin’ and
grim
’Side of my old front porch in the twilight
When God’s choir sings its “Evenin’
Hymn.”
* * * * *
THE MEADOW ROAD
Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road
Leading down beside the ocean’s
pebbly shore,
Where a pair of patient oxen slowly drag their heavy
load,
And a barefoot urchin trudges on before:
Yet I’m dreaming o’er it, smiling, and
my thoughts are far away
’Mid the glorious summer sunshine
long ago,
And once more a happy, careless boy, in memory I stray
Down a little country road I used to know.
I hear the voice of “Father” as he drives
the lumbering steers,
And the pigeons coo and flutter on the
shed,
While all the simple, homelike sounds come whispering
to my ears,
And the cloudless sky of June is overhead;
And again the yoke is creaking as the oxen swing and
sway,
The old cart rattles loudly as it jars,
Then we pass beneath the elm trees where the robin’s
song is gay,
And go out beyond the garden through the
bars;
Down the lane, behind the orchard where the wild rose
blushes sweet,
Through the pasture, past the spring beside
the brook
Where the clover blossoms press their dewy kisses
on my feet
And the honeysuckle scents each shady
nook;
By the meadow and the bushes, where the blackbirds
build their nests,
Up the hill, beneath the shadow of the
pine,
Till the breath of Ocean meets us, dancing o’er
his sparkling crests,
And our faces feel the tingling of the
brine.