Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two. Various

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      I, who was always counted, they say,

      Rather a bad stick anyway,

      Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,

      Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six";

      I, the truant, saucy and bold,

      The one black sheep in my father's fold,

      "Once on a time," as the stories say,

      Went over the hill on a winter's day—

      Over the hill to the poor-house.

      Tom could save what twenty could earn;

      But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn;

      Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—

      Committed a hundred verses a week;

      Never forgot, an' never slipped;

      But "Honor thy father and mother," he skipped;

      So over the hill to the poor-house!

      As for Susan, her heart was kind

      An' good—what there was of it, mind;

      Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,

      Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice

      For one she loved; an' that 'ere one

      Was herself, when all was said an' done;

      An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,

      But anyone could pull 'em about;

      An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,

      Save one poor fellow, an' that was me;

      An' when, one dark an' rainy night,

      A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,

      They hitched on me, as the guilty chap

      That carried one end o' the halter-strap.

      An' I think, myself, that view of the case

      Wasn't altogether out o' place;

      My mother denied it, as mothers do,

      But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.

      Though for me one thing might be said—

      That I, as well as the horse, was led;

      And the worst of whisky spurred me on,

      Or else the deed would have never been done.

      But the keenest grief I ever felt

      Was when my mother beside me knelt,

      An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down,

      As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.

      I kissed her fondly, then an' there,

      An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

      I served my sentence—a bitter pill

      Some fellows should take who never will;

      And then I decided to go "out West,"

      Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;

      Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,

      But Fortune seemed to like me well;

      An' somehow every vein I struck

      Was always bubbling over with luck.

      An', better than that, I was steady an' true,

      An' put my good resolutions through.

      But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,

      "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,

      An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,

      Than if I had lived the same as before."

      But when this neighbor he wrote to me,

      "Your mother's in the poor-house," says he,

      I had a resurrection straightway,

      An' started for her that very day.

      And when I arrived where I was grown,

      I took good care that I shouldn't be known;

      But I bought the old cottage, through and through,

      Of someone Charley had sold it to;

      And held back neither work nor gold

      To fix it up as it was of old.

      The same big fire-place, wide and high,

      Flung up its cinders toward the sky;

      The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—

      I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;

      An' if everything wasn't just the same,

      Neither I nor money was to blame;

      Then—over the hill to the poor-house!

      One blowin', blusterin' winter's day,

      With a team an' cutter I started away;

      My fiery nags was as black as coal;

      (They some'at resembled the horse I stole;)

      I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—

      A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;

      She rose to her feet in great surprise,

      And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;

      I saw the whole of her trouble's trace

      In the lines that marred her dear old face;

      "Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!

      You're adopted along o' your horse thief son,

      Come over the hill from the poor-house!"

      She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,

      An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.

      An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,

      An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;

      An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,

      An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,

      To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,

      An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;

      An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,

      In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,

      Who often said, as I have heard,

      That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;

      (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,

      For all of 'em owe me more or less;)

      But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man

      In always a-doin' the best he can;

      That whether on the big book, a blot

      Gets over a fellow's name or not,

      Whenever he does a deed that's white,

      It's credited to him fair and right.

      An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,

      An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats,

      However СКАЧАТЬ