Famous Poems from Bygone Days

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by Martin Gardner (ed)


  On the spot where the fellow was married.

  An anonymous parodist opened “The Burial of the Bachelor” this way:

  Not a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,

  As the groom to the wedding we carried;

  Not a jester discharged his farewell shot

  As the bachelor went to be married.

  Sir Robert Ball, the Irish Astronomer Royal, found an historical error in the second stanza of Wolfe’s poem. It seems there could not have been any misty light from the moon because it had long set before the burial took place.

  So well known was the poem, observed William Harmon, that Thoreau quoted its first stanza, in his famous essay on civil disobedience, without identifying the poem or its author.

  The Burial of Sir John Moore

  Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

  As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;

  Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

  O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

  We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

  The sods with our bayonets turning,

  By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,

  And the lantern dimly burning.

  No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

  Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;

  But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

  With his martial cloak around him.

  Few and short were the prayers we said,

  And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

  But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

  And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

  We thought as we hollow’d his narrow bed,

  And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

  That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,

  And we far away on the billow!

  Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,

  And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him;

  But little he’ll reck if they let him sleep on,

  In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

  But half of our heavy task was done,

  When the clock struck the hour for retiring,

  And we heard the distant and random gun

  That the foe was sullenly firing.

  Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

  From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

  We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

  But we left him alone in his glory.

  HENRY CLAY WORK

  (1832—1884)

  “GRANDFATHER’S CLOCK” may be a bit out of place here because it is a song whose words and music were both written by Work. I include it because its lyrics appeared in so many pre-1900 collections of popular verse.

  Work was born in Middletown, Connecticut, and raised in Quincy, Illinois. When his family moved back to Middletown, young Work learned the printing trade and taught himself music. He worked in Chicago as a printer from 1854 until his numerous Union songs of the Civil War brought him fame. They include “Grafted into the Army,” “Kingdom Coming,” “Babylon Is Fallen” and “Marching through Georgia,” a song celebrating Major General William Sherman’s famous march to Savannah. Among his temperance songs, the most frequently sung was about a drunk that begins, “Father, dear father, come home with me now.” It, too, turns up in many nineteenth-century verse anthologies.

  “Grandfather’s Clock,” Work’s most successful non-war song, was published in 1876 and first sung in a minstrel show. His nephew, Bertram G. Work, gathered his uncle’s songs into a book titled The Songs of Henry Clay Work (c. 1885), which had many later editions.

  Grandfather’s Clock

  My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf,

  So it stood ninety years on the floor;

  It was taller by half than the old man himself,

  Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

  It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born

  And was always his treasure and pride.

  But it stopped short—never to go again—

  When the old man died.

  Ninety years without slumbering

  Tick, tick, tick, tick.

  His life-seconds numbering

  Tick, tick, tick, tick.

  It stopped short—never to go again—

  When the old man died.

  In watching its pendulum swing to and fro

  Many hours had he spent while a boy;

  And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know

  And to share both his grief and his joy,

  For it struck twenty-four when he entered the door

  With a blooming and beautiful bride,

  But it stopped short—never to go again—

  When the old man died.

  My grandfather said of those he could hire,

  Not a servant so faithful he found,

  For it wasted no time and had but one desire—

  At the close of each week to be wound.

  And it kept in its place—not a frown upon its face,

  And its hands never hung by its side;

  But it stopped short—never to go again—

  When the old man died.

  It rang an alarm in the dead of night—

  An alarm that for years had been dumb.

  And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight

  That his hour for departure had come.

  Still the clock kept the time with a soft and muffled chime

  As we silently stood by his side;

  But it stopped short—never to go again—

  When the old man died.

  ALPHABETICAL LIST OF TITLES

  Ah Sin’s Reply

  America for Me

  Asleep at the Switch

  Ballad of Yukon Jake, The

  Barbara Frietchie

  Beautiful Snow

  Ben Bolt

  Ben Bolt’s Grave

  Ben Bolt’s Reply

  Best Road of All, The

  Blue and the Gray, The (Francis Miles Finch)

  Blue and the Gray, The (Anonymous)

  Blue and the Gray, The (Anonymous)

  Boy to the Schoolmaster, The

  Burial of Sir John Moore, The

  Chambered Nautilus, The

  Cry of the Dreamer, The

  Darius Green and His Flying-Machine

  Dream Within a Dream, A

  Each in His Own Tongue

  Eternal Goodness, The

  Face on the Barroom Floor, The

  Fool’s Prayer, The

  Glove and the Lions, The

  Golf Links, The

  Grandfather’s Clock

  Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, The

  Grumbling Old Woman, The

  Guilty or Not Guilty

  Hand That Rocks the Cradle, The

  Hell-Bound Train, The

  Her Last Letter

  Her Letter

  His Answer

  How Did You Die?

  If All the Skies

  If I Should Die To-night (by Arabella Eugenie Smith)

  If I Should Die To-night (by Ben King)

  I Remember, I Remember

  I Saw God Wash the World

  Jim Bludso of the Prairie Bell

  Keep a-Goin!

  Kiss in the Rain, A

  Leadville Jim

  Lesson of the Water-Mill, The

  Life on the Ocean Wave, A

  Lips That Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine

  Lips That Touch Liquor Shall Never Touch Mine

  Little Red God, The

  Little Things

  Love-Knot, The

  Memory

  My Garden (by J. A. Lindon)

  My Garden (by Thomas Edward Brown)

  Night’s Mardi Gras

  Nobody’s Child

  Nothing to Wear

  Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?

  Old Clock on the Stairs, The
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  Opportunity

  Organist, The

  Out to Old Aunt Mary’s

  Over the Hill from the Poor-House

  Over the Hill to the Poor-House

  Owl-Critic, The

  Petra

  Plain Language from Truthful James

  Prospice

  Puzzled Census-Taker, The

  Philosopher’s Scales, The

  Rain on the Roof

  Rainy Day, The

  Response to “Beautiful Snow,” A

  Rhyme of the Rail

  Somebody’s Darling

  Somebody’s Mother

  Spell of the Yukon, The

  Spider and the Fly, The

  Stirrup-Cup, The

  Sweetes’ Li’l’ Feller

  Thanksgiving Day

  There Is No Death

  There Is No Death (revised version)

  Think Gently of the Erring

  Twenty Years Ago

  Waiting

  Wants of Man, The

  What My Lover Said

  When Mamma Was a Little Girl

  ALPHABETICAL LIST OF FIRST LINES

  A fire-mist and a planet

  A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!

  A garden is a lovesome thing? What rot!

  A life on the ocean wave

  A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o’er

  Alice Lee stood awaiting her lover one night

  Alone in the dreary, pitiless street

  Being asked by an intimate party,—

  Blessings on the hand of woman!

  By the flow of the inland river

  By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom

  By the side of sweet Alice they have laid Ben Bolt

  Cast by the bright wings of a seraph—the snow

  Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

  Don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,—

  Each thin hand resting on a grave

  Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat

  “Got any boys?” the marshal said

  He came to town one winter day

  Here’s a little red song to the god of guts

  I am tired of planning and toiling

  If all the skies were sunshine

  If ever there lived a Yankee lad

  If I should die to-night

  If I should die to-night

  If you strike a thorn or rose

  I like a road that leads away to prospects white and fair

  I’m sitting alone by the fire

  Into a ward of the whitewashed walls

  I remember, I remember

  I saw God wash the world last night

  It seems no work of man’s creative hand

  I’ve wander’d to the village, Tom, I’ve sat beneath the tree

  I wanted the gold, and I sought it

  I wonder how the organist

  June 4th! Do you know what that date means?

  King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport

  Listen to the water-mill

  Little drops of water

  “Man wants but little here below”

  Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square

  My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf

  My mind lets go a thousand things

  My short and happy day is done

  Night is the true democracy. When day

  Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note

  O Friends! with whom my feet have trod

  Oh, the North Countree is a hard countree

  Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow

  Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

  Oh, yes, I remember her name with delight

  “O mother! what do they mean by blue?”

  One stormy night I chanced to meet

  Over the hill to the poor-house I’m trudgin’ my weary way,—

  Over the hill to the poor-house I went, one winter’s day:

  Over the river, and through the wood

  Serene, I fold my hands and wait

  She stood at the bar of justice

  Singing through the forests

  Somewhat back from the village street

  Sweetes’ li’l’ feller

  Take this kiss upon the brow!

  The day is cold, and dark, and dreary

  The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away

  The golf links lie so near the mill

  There is no death! The stars go down

  There is no death! The stars go down

  There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu

  There was an old woman, and—what do you think?—

  The royal feast was done; the King

  The woman was old and ragged and gray

  Think gently of the erring

  This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—

  This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign

  ‘Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down

  Tom Gray lay on the bar room floor

  ’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there

  Tying her bonnet under her chin

  Up from the meadows rich with corn

  Wall, no! I can’t tell whar he lives

  Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother mine

  When Mamma was a little girl

  When the humid shadows hover

  Which I wish to remark

  Which my name is Ah Sin

  “Who stuffed that white owl?” No one spoke in the shop

  “Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly

  You are coming to woo me, but not as of yore

  You’ve quizzed me often and puzzled me long

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