Sequel to the "One-Horse Shay"
Doubtless my readers all have heard
Of the "wonderful one-horse shay "
That "went to pieces all at once"
On the terrible earthquake-day.
But did they ever think of the horse,
Or mourn the loss of him,—
The "ewe-necked bay" (who drew the "shay"),
So full of life and vim?
He was a wonderful nag, I'm told,
In spite of his old "rat-tail";
And, though he always minded the rein,
He laughed at the snow and hail.
He had the finest stable in town,
With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson's oft "Hud-dup"
He never would answer neigh.
To the parson's shay he was ever true,
Though her other felloes were tired:
To live and die with his fiancée
Was all that his heart desired.
He was much attached to his ancient mate;
So the parson "hitched them together;"
And, when they went on their bridle tour,
His heart was light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful shay.
Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast
Like this fearful, harrowing blow.
Which put a check on his happiness,
And filled his heart with w(h)oa.
As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain
Entered his faithful breast,
As he there beheld the sad remains
Of her whom he loved the best.
With a sudden bound and fearful snort,
He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I'll mention here, —
No traces were left behind.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Deacon's Masterpiece Or, The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay": A Logical Story
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it -- ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, --
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, --
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, --
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, -- lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, --
Above or below, or within or without, --
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it could n' break daown:
"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, --
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," --
Last of its timber, -- they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren -- where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -- it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; --
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; --
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. -- You're welcome. -- No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER, -- the Earthquake-day, --
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be, -- for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-horse shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. -- Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text, --
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the -- Moses -- was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, --
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n-house clock, --
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, --
All at once, and nothing first, --
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Twenty Hoss-Power Shay
You have heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day.
And then, of a sudden, it up and bust,
And all that was left was a mound of dust?
Holmes -- O. W. -- told it well
In a rhyme of his -- what there was to tell --
But the one-hoss shay wasn't "one, two, three"
With a vehicle once belonged to me.
One hoss? No, sir! Not six nor nine --
Twenty there were in this rig of mine!
Twenty hosses as tough as rocks,
All caged up in a sort of box
That stood jist back of the forward wheels!
Right! She was one of those automobiles
With twenty hosses bottled inside -
Hosses that not only pull but ride!
Wonder what Holmes would have had to say
If the mare had rode in his one-hoss shay!
I reckon the shay would have logicked out
Before the century rolled about.
Well, this big touring car, I say,
Was built just like the one-hoss shay --
Some dependable, logical way --
Flipflaps, dujabs, wheels and things,
Levers, thing-gum-bobs and springs,
Hub, and felloe, and hoss-power chest --
One part just as strong as the rest;
So "logic is logic," as Holmes would say,
And no one part could first give way.
Wonderful vehicle, you'll admit,
With not one flaw in the whole of it;
As long as I had it, I declare
I hadn't one cent to pay for repair,
It couldn't break down because, you see,
It was such a logical symphony.
Now for my tale. We're not so slow
These days as a hundred years ago,
And it's like enough that the one-hoss shay,
Ambling along in its sleepy way,
Should creep a century 'thout a break,
But nowadays we aim to make
A pace that is something like a pace,
And if that old shay got in our race
It would stand the pressure twenty days
And go to the home of played-out shays.
"Logic is logic." Just figure this out --
For I know just what I'm talking about: --
If a one-hoss vehicle, genus shays,
Will stand our pressure twenty days,
Then, vice versa, a twenty-hoss shay
Should stand the pressure just one day; --
Well, mine is a logical automobile,
From rubber tire to steering wheel.
I bought it one morning at just 10.42,
And the very next morning what did it do,
Right on the second, but up and bust!
Talk of the old shay's pile of dust --
That's not logical; my mobile
Vanished completely! Brass and steel,
Iron and wood and rubber tire
Went right up in a gush of fire,
And in half a minute a gassy smell
Was all I had left by which to tell
I ever owned a touring car, --
And then that vanished, and there you are!
End of my twenty hoss-power shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
Submitted by John Martin
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Their Innocents
shay is so beautiful
shay is so awesome
shay is so funny
shay is this shay is that
that is how him going on and on bout her starts
all I do is sit back smile and know
as his eyes float into the starry sky
his mind is wondering forty miles away
where her pretty head lays down to rest
wishing she was with him
only if he knew she was wishing he was with her
she wonders if he knows he is the only thing she thinks about
when she lays her head down to only dream of him
he lays and wonders if she knows
she is the only thing he thinks about
as he lays his head down
only to end up dreaming of her once again
only if they both knew that the desire
to be with each other
is just as great as the others
the longest talk
the sweetest dream
will never satisfy the hunger for each other
when there together her eyes tell him secrets
secrets that no one else knows
her body looks like an angel’s but with horns underneath her hallow
one touch of his hand
the sun melts underneath her skin
one smile or laugh makes his day
as I sit and watch
their eyes and bodies lite on fire
and the lake they stand on
start to boil with the passion they share between them
all I can do is smile and laugh
knowing that their innocents will come and go
but their love always be there
to stay forever
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Logic
'Tis strange, but true, that a common cat
Has got ten tails, — just think of that!
Don't see it, eh? The fact is plain:
To prove it so I rise t'explain.
We say a cat has but one tail:
Behold how logic lifts the veil!
No cat has nine tails: don't you see
One cat has one tail more than she ?
Now add the one tail to the nine,
You'll find a full ten-tailed feline.
As Holmes has said, in his "One-Horse Shay,"
Logic is logic; that's all I say.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The bow-leg boy
Who should come up the road one day
But the doctor-man in his two-wheel shay!
And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy!
I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy!
Such a cute little boy!
Such a funny little boy!
Such a dear little bow-leg boy!"
He took out his box and he opened it wide,
And there was the bow-leg boy inside!
And when they saw that cunning little mite,
They cried in a chorus expressive of delight:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
Observing a strict geometrical law,
They cut out his panties with a circular saw;
Which gave such a stress to his oval stride
That the people he met invariably cried:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
They gave him a wheel and away he went
Speeding along to his heart's content;
And he sits so straight and he pedals so strong
That the folks all say as he bowls along:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow,
He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho";
And the world is filled and thrilled with the joy
Of that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy--
The cute little boy!
The funny little boy!
The dear little bow-leg boy!
If ever the doctor-man comes my way
With his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay,
I 'll ask for the treasure I'd fain possess--
Now, honest Injun! can't you guess?
Why, a cute little boy--
A funny little boy--
A dear little bow-leg boy!
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hot Digitty Dog
Hot digitty dog! Now, ain't it queer,
I've been abroad for over a year;
Seen a helluva lot since then,
Killed, I reckon, a dozen men;
Six was doubtful, but six was sure,
Three in Normandy, three in the Ruhr.
Four I got with a hand grenade,
Two I shot in a midnight raid:
Oh, I ain't sorry, except perhaps
To think that my jerries wasn't japs.
Hot digitty dog! Now ain't it tough;
I oughta be handed hero stuff -
Bands and banquets, and flags and flowers,
Speeches, peaches, confetti showers;
"Welcome back to the old home town,
Colour Sargent Josephus Brown.
Fought like a tiger, one of our best,
Medals and ribands on his chest.
cheers for a warrior, fresh from the fight . . ."
Sure I'd 'a got 'em - - had I been white.
Hot digitty dog! It's jist too bad,
Gittin' home an' nobody gald;
Sneakin' into the Owl Drug Store
Nobody knowin' me any more;
Admirin' my uniform fine and fit -
Say, I've certainly changed a bit
From the lanky lad who used to croon
To a battered banjo in Shay's Saloon;
From the no-good nigger who runned away
After stickin' his knife into ol' man Shay.
They's a lynched me, for he was white,
But he raped my sister one Sunday night;
So I did what a proper man should do,
And I sunk his body deep in the slough.
Oh, he taunted me to my dark disgrace,
Called me a nigger, spat in my face;
So I buried my jack-knife in his heart,
Laughin' to see the hot blood start;
Laughin' still, though it's long ago,
And nobody's ever a-gonna know.
Nobody's ever a-gonna tell
How Ol' Man Shay went straight to hell;
nobody's gonna make me confess -
And what is a killin' more or less.
My skin may be black, but by Christ! I fight;
I've slain a dozen, and each was white,
And none of 'em ever did me no harm,
And my conscience is clear - I've no alarm;
So I'll go where I sank Ol' Man Shay in the bog,
And spit in the water . . . Hot digitty dog!
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ms Shay
Thirty-one years old...
Wow how time has passed.
With looks of a teen-ager!
'Now Shayla...
You and I know that ain't gon' last! '
But you have a timeless beauty,
And what's greater is your heart that's pure.
You have Kamara and Kevin...
Two wonderful children you raise.
They reflect your terrificness,
And you deserve the praise.
I wont mention your cooking...
Because someone else might be reading this,
And looking!
But I will say this...
I've heard you cook a mean pot of grits!
You know Uncle Larry likes to tease...
Especially you, my beautiful niece!
And when all is said and done...
I want the world to know,
How magnificent you have become!
I am so proud of you, 'Ms Shay'
And I am wishing you a glorious,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Dedicated to My Niece:
Ms Shayla Louise Dixon
On her birthday
August 21st 2007
'Love you, My precious one! '
Uncle Larry
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hot Rocks Polka
If I could stick my hand in my heart
Spill it all over the stage
Would it satisfy you
Would it slide on by you
Would you think the boy is strange
Aint it stra-a-ange
If I could win
If I could sing
A love song so divine
Would it be enough for your cheating heart
If I broke down and cried
If I cri-i-ied
I said, ah no, its only rock n roll
But I like it
Ah no, its only rock n roll
But I like it, like it
Yes I do
I really really really really do do-do do do
Hey
Gold coast slave ship bound for cotton fields
Sold in a market down in new orleans
Scarred old slaver knows hes doin all right
Hear they whip the women just around midnight
Brown sugar
How come you taste so good
Brown sugar
Just like a young girl should
I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would make her connection
By her feet was a footloose man
You cant always get what you want
You cant always get what you want
You cant always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You might find
You get what you need
You need honkey tonk women
Gimme gimme gimme the honkey tonk blues
Under my thumb
The girl who once had me down
Under my thumb
The girl who once pushed me around
Its down to me
Yes it is
The way she talks when shes spoken to
Down to me
The change has come
Shes under my thumb
So, goodbye ruby tuesday
Who could hang a name on you
When you change with every new day
Still, Im gonna miss you
Who who who who who-who who who who who who-who who who who-who
Who who who who who-who who who who who who-who who who who-who
Please allow me to introdue myself
Im a man of wealth and taste (woo woo)
Ive been around for a long long year
So many a man sold a faith (woo woo)
Pleased to meet you (woo woo)
Hope you guessed (woo woo) my name (woo woo woo woo)
cause whats bothering you (woo woo)
Is the nature (woo woo) of my game (woo woo woo woo)
I said, hey! you! get off of my cloud!
Hey! you! get off of my cloud!
Hey! you! get off of my cloud!
Dont hang around because twos a crowd
Shay-do-bay(? ), shatter, shay-do-bay(? ), shatter
Laughter, joy, and lonliness
And sex and sex and sex and sex
Look at me
Im in tatters
Shay-do-bay(? ), Im shattered
Shay-do-bay(? ), shatter
This doesnt happen to me every day, oh my
Lets spend the night together
No excuses offered anyway, oh my
Lets spend the night together
Ill satisfy your every need (every need)
And I know youll satisfy me
Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-my
Lets spend the night together
Now I need you more than ever
Lets spend the night together now
Ma-ma-ma-ma ma-ma-ma ma ma my
I cant get no
Satisfaction
I cant get no
Girlie action
cause I try (and I try) and I try (and I try)
And I try (and I try) and I try (and I try)
I cant get no
I cant get no
I cant get no
Satisfaction
Satisfaction
Satisfaction
Satisfaction
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fade to Grey
Shane and Shay raking leaves in the autumn breeze
oh to be free under the trees in that autumn breeze
Tumbling and falling, scarlet red and amber warm
Shane and Shay in sync with fall
my loves, my life
The warm colors of autumn dusk, all too fast to fade
Winter beckons at the door; harkening no more falls
Scarlet tears mixed with gentle blue
sorrow and joy of maternal dues
Separate now, no longer one
No more days of raking leaves in an autumn breeze
Amber warm love gone gray
Why do my young ones stray
poem by Ophelia Deborah Payne Jarrett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am Feeling What A Feeling
This city of concrete and steel
Is full of material girls
They don't recognize genius
They throw away all the pearls
They take the fake gems
In God's holy names
I am feeling
What a feeling
What a feeling
I am feeling
Jay Jon Praymer Bhaab Janay Na
Taar Shathay Nai Layna Deyna
Khaati Shona Chhariya Jay Nayy Naucoal Shona
Shay Jon Shona Cheenay Na
They want to live a lavish life
They are not scared of war and strife
They are not scared of telling lie
They leave their minds with the poor guy
They take the wrong steps
They are like the apes
I am feeling
What a feeling
What a feeling
I am feeling
Jay Jon Praymer Bhaab Janay Na
Taar Shathay Nai Layna Deyna
Khaati Shona Chhariya Jay Nayy Naucoal Shona
Shay Jon Shona Cheenay Na
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Wonderful Aussie Waler
When Allenby's Army smashed the Turk
Who was the bloke who did all the work
The Aussie knows and he'll tell you straight
That most of the job was done by his mate
The wonderful Aussie Waler
It was umpty-nine in the shade each day
And the wells were spoiled in the Turkish way
But with nothing to eat and plenty to do
The heart of the Waler carried him through
The wonderful, wonderful Waler
For ten long weeks through the desert hot
He plugged along and all that he got
Was a drink, or not a drink a day
But did the stamina once give way
Of the wonderful Aussie Waler?
Was he the one to desert his mate?
Just watch him coming up the straight
With twenty stone of harness and man
No wonder the Turk was an also ran
With the wonderful, wonderful Waler
When drinks were not and feeds were few
There still was his harness that he could chew
With a nibble or two at another's mane
He plucked up heart to march again
The wonderful Aussie Waler
And when everything edible seemed to be stale
A hair or two from a neighbour's tail
Makes a pleasant meal and there's no doubt
They took it turn and turn about
The wonderful, wonderful Waler
A great Australian through and through
There's a good time coming old horse for you
There's a paddock green with grass to your knees
And there you shall roll at your lordly ease
My wonderful Aussie Waler
With a gallop or two to keep you fit
And won't it bring back the thrill of it!
There 're no more hardships and little work
For the cobber who broke the heathen Turk
My wonderful, wonderful Waler
But what is that the orders tell?
This mate of mine they're going to sell
To the old home paddock you'll never come back
They are selling you as a local's hack
My wonderful, wonderful Waler
The times together that we've been through
When all that I had in the world was you
Out there! Out there in a world of men
You were more than wife or sweetheart then
My wonderful, wonderful Waler
There was trust and mateship in your eyes
A horse has no soul - All lies I All lies!
And more than a kiss or soft eyes that speak
Was your muzzling nose against my cheek
You wonderful Aussie Waler
A life long slavery is your fate
Not while a mate can still shoot straight
Your eyes - I need a steady hand -
Good bye old chap - you understand
You wonderful, wonderful Waler.
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Possession of Hannah Grace [Not Alone]
Shay Mitchell
by Brian Sieve from The Possession of Hannah Grace (2018)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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African Braid
An ethnic tapestry
Entwined with tradition
Abound in a culture
Born of resistance
poem by Shay B. Malden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Temps Perdu
I never may turn the loop of a road
Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load-
My heart, that a second before was flying.
I never behold the quivering rain-
And sweeter the rain than a lover to me-
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
There's never a rose spreads new at my door
Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day-
What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
poem by Dorothy Parker
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How The Old Horse Won The Bet
DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLEGIAN,
1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876.
'T WAS on the famous trotting-ground,
The betting men were gathered round
From far and near; the 'cracks' were there
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare
The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag,
The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag,
With these a third--and who is he
That stands beside his fast b. g.?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name
So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There too stood many a noted steed
Of Messenger and Morgan breed;
Green horses also, not a few;
Unknown as yet what they could do;
And all the hacks that know so well
The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
Blue are the skies of opening day;
The bordering turf is green with May;
The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown
On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan;
The horses paw and prance and neigh,
Fillies and colts like kittens play,
And dance and toss their rippled manes
Shining and soft as silken skeins;
Wagons and gigs are ranged about,
And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out;
Here stands--each youthful Jehu's dream
The jointed tandem, ticklish team!
And there in ampler breadth expand
The splendors of the four-in-hand;
On faultless ties and glossy tiles
The lovely bonnets beam their smiles;
(The style's the man, so books avow;
The style's the woman, anyhow);
From flounces frothed with creamy lace
Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face,
Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,
Or stares the wiry pet of Skye,--
O woman, in your hours of ease
So shy with us, so free with these!
'Come on! I 'll bet you two to one
I 'll make him do it!' 'Will you? Done!'
What was it who was bound to do?
I did not hear and can't tell you,--
Pray listen till my story's through.
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,
By cart and wagon rudely prest,
The parson's lean and bony bay
Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay--
Lent to his sexton for the day;
(A funeral--so the sexton said;
His mother's uncle's wife was dead.)
Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast,
So looked the poor forlorn old beast;
His coat was rough, his tail was bare,
The gray was sprinkled in his hair;
Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not,
And yet they say he once could trot
Among the fleetest of the town,
Till something cracked and broke him down,--
The steed's, the statesman's, common lot!
'And are we then so soon forgot?'
Ah me! I doubt if one of you
Has ever heard the name 'Old Blue,'
Whose fame through all this region rung
In those old days when I was young!
'Bring forth the horse!' Alas! he showed
Not like the one Mazeppa rode;
Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,
The wreck of what was once a steed,
Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints;
Yet not without his knowing points.
The sexton laughing in his sleeve,
As if 't were all a make-believe,
Led forth the horse, and as he laughed
Unhitched the breeching from a shaft,
Unclasped the rusty belt beneath,
Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth,
Slipped off his head-stall, set him free
From strap and rein,--a sight to see!
So worn, so lean in every limb,
It can't be they are saddling him!
It is! his back the pig-skin strides
And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides;
With look of mingled scorn and mirth
They buckle round the saddle-girth;
With horsey wink and saucy toss
A youngster throws his leg across,
And so, his rider on his back,
They lead him, limping, to the track,
Far up behind the starting-point,
To limber out each stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past,
One pitying look Old Hiram cast;
'Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!'
Cried out unsentimental Dan;
'A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!'
Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam
First feels the gathering head of steam,
With warning cough and threatening wheeze
The stiff old charger crooks his knees;
At first with cautious step sedate,
As if he dragged a coach of state
He's not a colt; he knows full well
That time is weight and sure to tell;
No horse so sturdy but he fears
The handicap of twenty years.
As through the throng on either hand
The old horse nears the judges' stand,
Beneath his jockey's feather-weight
He warms a little to his gait,
And now and then a step is tried
That hints of something like a stride.
'Go!'--Through his ear the summons stung
As if a battle-trump had rung;
The slumbering instincts long unstirred
Start at the old familiar word;
It thrills like flame through every limb,--
What mean his twenty years to him?
The savage blow his rider dealt
Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt;
The spur that pricked his staring hide
Unheeded tore his bleeding side;
Alike to him are spur and rein,--
He steps a five-year-old again!
Before the quarter pole was past,
Old Hiram said, 'He's going fast.'
Long ere the quarter was a half,
The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh;
Tighter his frightened jockey clung
As in a mighty stride he swung,
The gravel flying in his track,
His neck stretched out, his ears laid back,
His tail extended all the while
Behind him like a rat-tail file!
Off went a shoe,--away it spun,
Shot like a bullet from a gun;
The quaking jockey shapes a prayer
From scraps of oaths he used to swear;
He drops his whip, he drops his rein,
He clutches fiercely for a mane;
He'll lose his hold--he sways and reels--
He'll slide beneath those trampling heels!
The knees of many a horseman quake,
The flowers on many a bonnet shake,
And shouts arise from left and right,
'Stick on! Stick on!' 'Hould tight! Hould tight!'
'Cling round his neck and don't let go--'
'That pace can't hold--there! steady! whoa!'
But like the sable steed that bore
The spectral lover of Lenore,
His nostrils snorting foam and fire,
No stretch his bony limbs can tire;
And now the stand he rushes by,
And 'Stop him!--stop him!' is the cry.
Stand back! he 's only just begun--
He's having out three heats in one!
'Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains;
But follow up and grab the reins!'
Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,
And sprang impatient at the word;
Budd Doble started on his bay,
Old Hiram followed on his gray,
And off they spring, and round they go,
The fast ones doing 'all they know.'
Look! twice they follow at his heels,
As round the circling course he wheels,
And whirls with him that clinging boy
Like Hector round the walls of Troy;
Still on, and on, the third time round
They're tailing off! they're losing ground!
Budd Doble's nag begins to fail!
Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail!
And see! in spite of whip and shout,
Old Hiram's mare is giving out!
Now for the finish! at the turn,
The old horse--all the rest astern--
Comes swinging in, with easy trot;
By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain;
Some said, 'Old Dutchman come again!'
Some took his time,--at least they tried,
But what it was could none decide;
One said he couldn't understand
What happened to his second hand;
One said 2.10; that could n't be--
More like two twenty-two or three;
Old Hiram settled it at last;
'The time was two--too dee-vel-ish fast!'
The parson's horse had won the bet;
It cost him something of a sweat;
Back in the one-horse shay he went;
The parson wondered what it meant,
And murmured, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at double-quick;
I should n't wonder, I declare,
If brother--Jehu--made the prayer!
And this is all I have to say
About that tough old trotting bay,
Huddup! Huddup! G'lang! Good day!
Moral for which this tale is told
A horse can trot, for all he 's old.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Miss Him
Incrediable
Magnificent
Indescriabable
Sexy
Sweet
Young
Outgoing
Und erstanding
Handsome
Amazing
Romantic
Relaxful
Youthful
poem by Atlantic Shay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wendy
Tommie Lynn Milazzo, Shay Walker, Stephanie Lynn Wilson
from Wendy (2020)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Cameron's Heart
The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came,
With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson `at hame';
He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant --
The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt.
The meenister called him `ungodly -- a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord',
And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, `a rebel at hame and abroad'.
He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same);
That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name.
He was straight and he stuck to his country
and spoke with respect of his kirk;
He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work.
And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent,
Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.
He shunned all the girls in the camp,
and they said he was proof to the dart --
That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart;
He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last,
And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past:
A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl,
A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.
. . . . .
It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean
Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine.
The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full,
Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull.
He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart,
I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.
One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay,
When Alister cried, `Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.'
He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until
It reached the first log on the top,
where it suddenly stopped, and hung still.
I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me:
`Climb up for your life by the footholes.
I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!'
And those were the last words he uttered.
He groaned, for I heard him quite plain --
There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain.
The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath,
But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death.
And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate,
And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.
I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim,
When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him?
He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate --
His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate;
He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart,
And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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