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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

       Table of Contents

      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

       Table of Contents

      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,

      

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