THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade;
He saw her wave a handkerchief, as much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;

I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,

And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;

Oh, there are kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain

But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman: “Oh, what was that, my daughter?"

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'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"

"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past.'

Out spoke the ancient fisherman: "Now, bring me my harpoon!

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb; Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,

And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was

drowned;

But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster shop for mermaids down below.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

ONLY SEVEN

A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH

I marvell'd why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I ask'd her why she cried;

The damsel answered with a groan,
"I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven."

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?"
How many apples have you had?"
She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?" quoth I;

"Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,
"Of course you've had eleven."
The maiden answer'd with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles;

But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you won't reform," said I,
"You'll never go to Heaven.”
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,

"I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I'd better call my song,

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;

And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,

To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same
society,

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare, And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules,

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault:
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass, at least, to all intent:
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order when

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was
a sin,

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful
James;

And I've told in simple language what I know about the

row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

AN ACTOR

Bret Harte

A shabby fellow chanced one day to meet
The British Roscius in the street,

Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags;
The fellow hugged him with a kind embrace;

Good sir, I do not recollect your face,"

Quoth Garrick. "No?" replied the man of rags;

"The boards of Drury you and I have trod

Full many a time together, I am sure.”

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'When?" with an oath, cried Garrick, "for, by G-d, I never saw that face of yours before!

What characters, I pray,

Did you and I together play?"

"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mockWhen you played Hamlet, sir, I played the cock!" John Wolcot ("Peter Pindar")

THE BITER BIT

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,

And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, O mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother, I hear the mar riage bell;

It booms along the upland, -oh, it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering

step,

And closely to his side she clings, she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,

The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that

won my ear,

Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he press'd,

By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confess'd;

And down the hedgerows where we've stray'd again and yet

again;

And he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!