John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 3

loved this noble fish,?And, coming from the kitchen fire?All piping hot upon a dish,?What raptures did he not inspire!?"Fish should swim twice," they used to say--?Once in their native vapid brine,?And then a better way--?You understand? Fetch on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,?How often have I cast for you--?How often sadly seen you scud?Where weeds and pussy willows grew!?How often have you filched my bait!?How often have you snapped my treacherous line!--?Yet here I have you on this plate.?You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_!
And, harkee, garcon! let the blood?Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him--?Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood?This piscatorial pride should swim;?So, were he living, he should say?He gladly died for me and mine,?And, as it was his native spray,?He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me?To share your fate, oh finny friend!?I surely were not loath to be?Reserved for such a noble end;?For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,?At last reels in his ruthless line,?What were my ecstacy to swim?In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!?And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,?Come hither every year and bring?The boons provocative of mirth;?And should your stock of bass run low,?However much I might repine,?I think I might survive the blow?If plied with wine, and still more wine!
TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.
Whereas, good friend, it doth appear?You do possess the notion?To his awhile away from here?To lands across the ocean;?Now, by these presents we would show?That, wheresoever wend you,?And wheresoever gales may blow,?Our friendship shall attend you.
What though on Scotia's banks and braes?You pluck the bonnie gowan,?Or chat of old Chicago days?O'er Berlin brew with Cowen;?What though you stroll some boulevard?In Paris (c'est la belle ville!),?Or make the round of Scotland Yard?With our lamented Melville?
Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine?True heart from true hearts sever??No--in this draught of honest wine?We pledge it, comrade--never!?Though mountain waves between us roll,?Come fortune or disaster--?'Twill knit us closer soul to soul?And bind our friendships faster.
So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd?To loyalty's devotion,?And here's to fortune that shall waft?Your ship across the ocean,?And here's a smile for those who prate?Of Davy Jones's locker,?And here's a pray'r in every fate--?God bless you, Knickerbocker!
THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.
Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go?To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show,?And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights?We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights;?When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,?He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies?Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine--?A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!?How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate-- How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!?You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,?And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!?What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied?To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then?Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,?Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,?And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,?Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.
Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right If ever it has been your wont to train around at night;?How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!
But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly?Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie-- I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,?Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;?Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine-- I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught