Poetry of Oliver Wendell Holmes | Page 8

Burns and Moore,?Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.
You think they are crusaders, sent?From some infernal clime,?To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,?And dock the tail of Rhyme,?To crack the voice of Melody,?And break the legs of Time.
But hark! the air again is still,?The music all is ground,?And silence, like a poultice, comes?To heal the blows of sound;?It cannot be,--it is,--it is,--?A hat is going round!
No! Pay the dentist when he leaves?A fracture in your jaw,?And pay the owner of the bear?That stunned you with his paw,?And buy the lobster that has had?Your knuckles in his claw;
But if you are a portly man,?Put on your fiercest frown,?And talk about a constable?To turn them out of town;?Then close your sentence with an oath,?And shut the window down!
And if you are a slender man,?Not big enough for that,?Or, if you cannot make a speech,?Because you are a flat,?Go very quietly and drop?A button in the hat!
THE TREADMILL SONG
THE stars are rolling in the sky,?The earth rolls on below,?And we can feel the rattling wheel?Revolving as we go.?Then tread away, my gallant boys,?And make the axle fly;?Why should not wheels go round about,?Like planets in the sky?
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,?And stir your solid pegs?Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,?And shake your spider legs;?What though you're awkward at the trade,?There's time enough to learn,--?So lean upon the rail, my lad,?And take another turn.
They've built us up a noble wall,?To keep the vulgar out;?We've nothing in the world to do?But just to walk about;?So faster, now, you middle men,?And try to beat the ends,--?It's pleasant work to ramble round?Among one's honest friends.
Here, tread upon the long man's toes,?He sha'n't be lazy here,--?And punch the little fellow's ribs,?And tweak that lubber's ear,--?He's lost them both,--don't pull his hair,?Because he wears a scratch,?But poke him in the further eye,?That is n't in the patch.
Hark! fellows, there 's the supper-bell,?And so our work is done;?It's pretty sport,--suppose we take?A round or two for fun!?If ever they should turn me out,?When I have better grown,?Now hang me, but I mean to have?A treadmill of my own!
THE SEPTEMBER GALE
This tremendous hurricane occurred on the 23d of September, 1815. I remember it well, being then seven years old. A full account of it was published, I think, in the records of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Some of my recollections are given in The Seasons, an article to be found in a book of mine entitled Pages from an Old Volume of Life.
I'M not a chicken; I have seen?Full many a chill September,?And though I was a youngster then,?That gale I well remember;?The day before, my kite-string snapped,?And I, my kite pursuing,?The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;?For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,?When married folks get clashing;?There was a heavy sigh or two,?Before the fire was flashing,--?A little stir among the clouds,?Before they rent asunder,--?A little rocking of the trees,?And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!?They seemed like bursting craters!?And oaks lay scattered on the ground?As if they were p'taters;?And all above was in a howl,?And all below a clatter,--?The earth was like a frying-pan,?Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,?And all our things were drying;?The storm came roaring through the lines,?And set them all a flying;?I saw the shirts and petticoats?Go riding off like witches;?I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,--?I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air,?Alas! too late to win them;?I saw them chase the clouds, as if?The devil had been in them;?They were my darlings and my pride,?My boyhood's only riches,--?"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,--?"My breeches! Oh my breeches!"
That night I saw them in my dreams,?How changed from what I knew them!?The dews had steeped their faded threads,?The winds had whistled through them?I saw the wide and ghastly rents?Where demon claws had torn them;?A hole was in their amplest part,?As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,?And tailors kind and clever,?But those young pantaloons have gone?Forever and forever!?And not till fate has cut the last?Of all my earthly stitches,?This aching heart shall cease to mourn?My loved, my long-lost breeches!
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS
I WROTE some lines once on a time?In wondrous merry mood,?And thought, as usual, men would say?They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,?I laughed as I would die;?Albeit, in the general way,?A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;?How kind it was of him?To mind a slender man like me,?He of the mighty limb.
"These to the printer," I exclaimed,?And, in my humorous way,?I added, (as a trifling jest,)?"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,?And saw him peep within;?At the first line he read, his face?Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin