BARBARA FRITCHIE. UP from the meadows rich with corn, Round about them orchards sweep, To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early fall, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, Under his slouched hat, left and right It shivered the window pane and sash, She leaned far out of the window sill, A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, "Who touches a hair on yon grey head, All day long the free flag tossed On the loyal winds, that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honour to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier! Over Barbara Fritchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace, and order, and beauty, draw On thy stars below, in Frederick town! J. G. WHITTIER. Barbara Fritchie was 96 years old at the time of the occurrence, which took place literally as described in the poem. A PARODY. DROUGH der streets of Frederickdown, All day drough Frederickdown so fasd, Und der repel flag skimming ond so pright, Off der mony flags dot flapped in der morning vind Nary a vone could enybody find, Ub shumbed old Miss Frietchie den, Who vos pent down py nine score years und den. She took der flag der men hauled down, Und stuck id fasd on her nighd-gown, Un pud id in der vindow vere all could see Dot dere vas vone who did lofe dot goot old flag so free. Yust den ub come Stonewall Jack, Riden on his hosses' pack, Under his prows he squinted his eyes, By golly de olt flag make him much surprise. "Halt!" vell efery man stood him sdill, She freezed on dot olt flag right quick, A look of shameness soon came o'er All dot day und all dot night, Undil efery repel vas knocked oud of sight, (A Ballad of New England life.) Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk, Gathering, in her apron wet, Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet. "Why," he murmured, loth to leave her, "Gather yarbs for chills and fever, When a lovyer, bold and true, "Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty; Leastways, one to please me well Jest look here! these peltries give "I, you think, am but a vagrant, Yet-I'm sure it's worth a thank- Turned and vanished Hiram Hover; Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down. Then, at last, one winter morning, Hiram came, without a warning: "Either," said he, "you are blind, Huldah, or you've changed your mind. "Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments: Since you wear the skunk and mink, There's no harm in me, I think.” "Well," said she, " we will not quarrel, "Hiram : I accept the moral. Now the fashion's so, I guess Thus the trouble all was over Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde Love employs, with equal favour, That, which first appeared to part, Under one impartial banner, Draw, from every beast they snare, From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor. This is an imitation of the style of some of Whittier's delightful ballads, only substituting a comical for an earnest motive. Change that motive, and a few expressions, and it would become a serious poem. Ralph Waldo Emerson. ALL OR NOTHING. WHOSO answers my questions And the surest sentence Touch the East and West. Or ever coal was hardened I am crowned coeval With the Saurian eggs, Wouldst thou know the secret From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor. This is a fair imitation of some of Emerson's early poems. "Brahma " is, however, the most frequently parodied, although no parody approaches the mystery of the original. BRAHMA. IF the red slayer thinks he slays, I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; And one to me are shame and fame. When me they fly, I am the wings; And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode, Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. This first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, (No. 1) November, 1857. Colonel John Hay. JIM BLUDSO. WAL, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Whar have you been for the last three years He weren't no saint-them engineers And this was all the religion he had- Never be passed on the river; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, All boats have their day on the Mississip, The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed; And so come tearin' along that night,The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And quick as a flash she turned, and made There was runnin' and cursin,' but Jim yelled out "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. He weren't no saint-but at jedgment JOHN HAY. And a sorter radiant halo But I won't set by and hear none o' you say Bob hadn't a tender heart! This admirable parody was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, Editor of Judy. In the first volume of this Collection it was erroneously styled a parody of Bret Harte. :0: THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL. THE darkest, strangest mystery ever read, or heern, or see, Is 'long of a drink at Taggart's Hall- I've heern the tale a thousand ways, Tom Taggart stood behind his bar; At last come Colonel Blood, of Pike, Remarked "A whiskey-skin." Tom mixed the beverage full and far, I'll leave the choice to you. Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, "I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn Jest drap that whiskey skin." No man high-toneder could be found He went for his 'leven-inch bowie knife :- But I'll drap a slice of liver or two Which caused him great surprise. Then coats went off, and all went in ; Like bull-pups, cheered the furse. I ve sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer- JOHN HAY, BIG BILL. THERE'S them that eats till they're bustin', And them that drinks till they're blind, And them that snuffin' and spooney, But the best of all to my mind, (And I've been around in my time, boys, If he put his hand to his bowie Or scratched the scruff of his neck, You could only tell by waitin' To see if you bled a peck: And the way he fired 'twas lovely! Nobody knowed which was dead, Till Big Bill grinned, and the stiff'un Tumbled over onto his head ! At school he killed his master; Courtin', he killed seven more: There wasn't much growth in the country, And now Big Bill is an angel,- Jist when he was rampin' the roughest, A thievin' and sneakin' Yankee Got the start on our blessed Bill, From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor. James Russell Lowell. In the great American Civil War Mr. J. S. Lowell was a warm partisan of the Northern cause, and his most popular poems, The Biglow Papers, were written in favour of the emancipation of the slaves, and the suppression of the Southern, or Confederate States. The Biglow Papers have been principally parodied, in this country, by the Liberal newspapers, and of these only a few examples are sufficiently good to bear quoting. THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED. I DU believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is ; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees, It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an' triggers, But libbaty's a kind o' thing That don't agree with niggers. I du believe the people want Fer I hev loved my country sence I du believe in any plan Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, I du believe it's wise an' good I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann. I du believe in special ways The bread comes back in many days I mean in preyin' till one busts I du believe hard coin the stuff I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's Freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em ; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'! I du believe thet I should give I du believe thet all o' me I du believe in prayer an' praise Uncle Sam. The people of the United States use this term of themselves, in the same way that Britons speak of " John Bull." |