Poetry of Oliver Wendell Holmes | Page 8

fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,

Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.
It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;
It's
very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;
And so you take
your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.
Perhaps you're going out to dine,--
Some odious creature begs

You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And
says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.
He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little,
lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,--

And so you kindly help
to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,
As
if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.
And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come,
There's
something like a human voice,
And something like a drum;
You sit
in speechless agony,
Until your ear is numb.
Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be
A very dismal place;

Your "auld acquaintance" all at once
Is altered in the face;
Their
discords sting through 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