BEST LOVED POEMS
Page 26
And the former was a pudd’n, and the latter was a fake.
So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a “single,” to the wonderment of all.
And the much-despised Blakey “tore the cover off the ball.”
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin’ third.
Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell—
It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face;
And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped;
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on the stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult, he made the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let the ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville: Mighty Casey has struck out.
ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER
CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT Slowly England’s sun was setting o’er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring tonight!”
“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls, dark, damp and cold—
“I’ve a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset”; and her face grew strangely white
As she breathed the husky whisper, “Curfew must not ring tonight!”
“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton—and his accents pierced her heart
Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart—
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right—
Now I’m old I still must do it: Curfew, girl, must ring tonight!”
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
“At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright,
As in undertone she murmured, “Curfew must not ring tonight!”
With quick step she bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,
Left the old man threading slowly paths he’d often trod before;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro
As she climbed the dusty ladder, on which fell no ray of light,
Up and up, her white lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her like the pathway down to hell;
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging. ’Tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow;
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light,
And she springs and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
Out she swung, far out; the city seemed a speck of light below;
She ’twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro;
And the sexton at the bell rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil’s funeral knell.
Still the maiden clung more firmly, and, with trembling lips and white,
Said, to hush her heart’s wild beating, “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
It was o’er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted; but the brave deed she had done
Should be told long ages after—often as the setting sun
Should illume the sky with beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Long should tell the little children, “Curfew did not ring that night.”
O’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,
Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn;
And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity—lit his eye with misty light;
“Go, your lover lives!” said Cromwell; “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”
ROSA HARTWICK THORP
BARBARA FRIETCHIE Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Fr
ederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down.
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word;
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tossed
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
Arid the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
FRANKIE AND JOHNNY Frankie and Johnny were lovers, O lordy how they could love.
Swore to be true to each other, true as the stars above;
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Johnny’s mother told him, and she was mighty wise,
Don’t spend Frankie’s money on that parlor Ann Eliz;
You’re Frankie’s man, and you’re doin’ her wrong.
Frankie and Johnny went walking, Johnny in his brand new suit,
“O good Lawd,” says Frankie, “Don’t my Johnny look cute?”
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to the corner, to buy a glass of beer;
She says to the fat bartender, “Has my lovinest man been here?
He was my man but he’s done me wrong.”
Frankie went down to the pawn shop, she bought herself a little forty-four.
She aimed it at the ceiling, shot a big hole in the floor;
“Where is my man, he’s doin’ me wrong?”
Frankie went back to the hotel, she didn’t go there for fun,
’Cause under her long red kimono she toted a forty-four gun.
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to the hotel, looked in the window so high,
There she saw her lovin’ Johnny a-lovin’ up Alice Bly;
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Frankie went down to the hotel, she rang that hotel bell,
“Stand back all of you floozies or I’ll blow you all to hell,
I want my man, he’s doin’ me wrong.”
Frankie threw back her kimono, she took out her forty-four.
Root-a-toot-toot, three times she shot, right through that hardwood floor,
She shot her man, ’cause he done her wrong.
Johnny grabbed off his Stetson, “O good Lawd, Frankie, don’t shoot.”
But Frankie put her finger on the trigger, and the gun went root-a-toot-toot,
He was her man, but she shot him down.
Johnny saw Frankie a comin’, down the backstairs he did scoot;
Frankie had the little gun out, let him have it rooty-de-toot;
For he was her man, but she shot him down.
Johnny he mounted the staircase, cried, “O Frankie, don’t shoot!”
Three times she pulled the forty-four gun a rooty-toot-toot-toot-toot,
She nailed the man what threw her down.
“Roll me over easy, roll me over slow,
Roll me over easy, boys, ’cause my wounds they hurt me so,
But I was her man, and I done her wrong.”
“Oh my baby, kiss me once before I go.
Turn me over on my right side, doctor, where de bullet hurt me so.
I was her man but I done her wrong.”
Johnny he was a gambler, he gambled for the gain.
The very last words he ever said were, “High-low Jack and the game.”
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Bring out your long black coffin, bring out your funeral clo’es;
Bring back Johnny’s mother; to the churchyard Johnny goes.
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Frankie went to his coffin, she looked down on his face.
She said, “O Lawd, have mercy on me, I wish I could take his place,
He was my man, and I done him wrong.”
Oh bring on your rubber-tired hearses, bring on your rubber-tired hacks,
They’re takin’ Johnny to the buryin’ groun’ an’ they won’t bring a bit of him back;
He was her man but he done her wrong.
Frankie stood on the corner to watch the funeral go by;
“Bring back my poor dead Johnny to me,” to the undertaker she did sigh,
“He was my man, but he done me wrong.”
Frankie heard a rumbling away down in the ground,
Maybe it was little Johnny where she had shot him down.
He was her man and she done him wrong.
Frankie went to Mrs. Halcomb, she fell down on her knees,
She said, “Mrs. Halcomb, forgive me, forgive me, if you please,
For I’ve killed my man what done me wrong.”
“Forgive you, Frankie darling, forgive you I never can.
Forgive you, Frankie darling, for killing your only man,
Oh he was your man tho’ he done you wrong.”
Frankie said to the warden, “What are they goin’ to do?”
The warden he said to Frankie, “It’s the electric chair for you,
You shot your man tho’ he done you wrong.”
The sheriff came around in the morning, said it was all for the best,
He said her lover Johnny was nothin’ but a doggone pest.
He was her man but he done her wrong.
The judge said to the jury, “It’s as plain as plain can be;
This woman shot her lover, it’s murder in the second degree,
He was her man tho’ he done her wrong.”
Now it was not murder in the second degree, and was not murder in the third,
The woman simply dropped her man, like a hunter drops a bird.
He was her man but he done her wrong.
“Oh bring a thousand policemen, bring ’em around today,
Oh lock me in that dungeon, and throw the keys away,
I shot my man, ’cause he done me wrong.”
“Yes, put me in that dungeon, oh put me in that cell,
Put me where the northeast wind blows from the southeast corner of hell.
I shot my man, ’cause he done me wrong.”
Frankie mounted to the scaffold as calm as a girl can be,
And turning her eyes to heaven, she said, “Good Lord, I am coming to Thee.
He was my man, but he done me wrong.”
ANONYMOUS
Index of First Lines
Abide with me: fast falls the eventide
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon
A child should always say what’s true
Adam
A fire mist and a planet
A fool there was and he made his prayer
A fool there was, and she lowered her pride
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
A horse can’t pull while kicking
A hundred years from now, dear heart
Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A little way, more soft and sweet
A little work, a little play
All day I did the little things
All night long and every night
All paths lead to you
All the breath and the bloom of the year
All things bright and beautiful
And this is good old Boston
An old man, going a lone highway
An old sweetheart of mine!—Is her presence here with me
A place in thy memory, dearest
As a white candle