George W. Doneghy

I.

I wouldn't mind the weather much--I'd sizzle and I'd stew,
And do the very best I could the heat to struggle through,
If I could find some way, you know, the feller to eschew,
Who greets you with the chestnut phrase--
                "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"


II.

The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top--
The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop--
I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too,
If it wasn't for the cuss who says--
                "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FER YOU?"


III.

The sun might shine his level best--the sky seem molten brass--
The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass--
The evening come without a breeze--the morning have no dew--
I...

Written In The Danville (KY.) Cemetery.


I.

Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day,
    We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine,
Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away,
    And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find.


II.

In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace
    Familiar forms of those in life we knew,
And see again the shadowy outlines of some face
    That, living, beamed with kindness--ever true.


III.

Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy
    Have dotted o'er with many an emerald mound,
And marked each stone with mournful tracery
    Which stands within this consecrated ground.


IV.

And there the marble shaft its s...

    This song that I sing--
    It is not of a spring,
Nor yet of a silvery stream--
    But of a vision bright
    Which came last night
In the garb of a blissful dream--
    When I thought, as I lay,
    It was Thanksgiving Day,
And I was invited to dine
    Where a table stood
    On which everything good
Spread a feast that was almost divine!

    Where the savors arose,
    Right under my nose,
From turkey--and pumpkin pies;
    And from jolly roast pig
    Were slices as big
As some of the campaign lies!
    And celery so white
    'Twas a thing of delight
To bite the crisp stalks in two.
    And the cranberry sauce--
    Oh, I tell you 'twas boss--
And flanked by an oyster stew!

    Where the bread and ...

In the attic, unused, there they put it away;
The old oaken frame has begun to decay;
What iron's about it is eaten with rust,
And upon and around it are cobwebs and dust;
The dear, loving hands that on it have spun,
With labor and toil forever are done,
And long is the time since I saw them unreel
The threads, snowy white, from the old spinning-wheel!

It stood on a porch where the Summer sunshine
Sifted down to the floor through a clambering vine,
Whose tendrils about the lattice-work clung
Like my heart-strings round her, and the song that she sung;
And the pictures of fancy I con o'er and o'er,
Till, raptured, I see the dear features once more,
And thrill with the touch when her lips set the seal
Of her love, as she spun on the old spinning-wheel!

I.

O what memories sweet entwine
Around each word and faded line!
Yellow and dim with the touch of years,
And soiled with the marks of tears--
A sacred treasure of the heart
Which death alone can from him part--
A letter--cherished as no other--
And ending with the name of--Mother!


II.

Writ it was to a wayward boy,
When life to him seemed full of joy--
Pleading with him so to live
That he her heart no grief would give--
That after years might ne'er be fraught
With sorrow that himself had wrought:--
"May guardian angels 'round you hover,"
She wrote--and signed the name of--Mother!


III.

The paper has the taint of must--
The hand that traced the lines is dust,
And silvery hair is on the head
...

I.

I'm just in my glory when the cat I can tease,
Or I'm hunting for bird nests up in the trees,
And I wear out my pants in the seat and the knees;
I'm the pride of my daddy, my mammy's own joy--
A frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!


II.

I can make a top hum, and at marbles, you bet,
I'm the cock of the walk and the king of the "set;"
I'm hearty and healthy--and don't you forget
The dead loads of "goodies" that I can destroy--
I'm a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!


III.

They send me to school with my satchel and books,
And my pockets bulged out with nails and fish-hooks;
And sometimes while there my teacher she looks
And captures the things that provoke and annoy
From a frolicsome, rollicksome, ...

I.

The years have passed in ceaseless round
    Since first they laid her here to rest
In dreamless sleep beneath the silent mound,
    With folded hands upon her gentle breast.


II.

The ivy twines about the crumbling stone,
    And Springtime's scented blossoms fling
Their incense o'er the peaceful home
    That knows no more of suffering.


III.

Full many a Summer's sun has shed
    Its brightest smile upon the hallowed spot,
And sobered Autumn and wild Winter spread
    Their garments here--she heeds them not!


IV.

The feathered wildlings of the wood and field
    Their untaught melody around it make,
But she who sleeps with eyes so softly sealed
    Their gladsome songs can never more a...

I.

O others may boast of their pleasures galore--
The miser with rapture may count o'er his store,
And some may imagine great happiness there
In the gay shining beam of Society's glare;
But best of all comforts a feller can know,
While wintry winds whistle and fast flies the snow,
Is a pipe after supper, by a bright blazing fire,
Encircled with ringlets that curl high and higher!


II.

O doctors may tell you and others declare
It'll shorten your days and your heart will impair--
That nicotine poison will flow through your veins
And nervous distraction will rack with its pains;
But what cares a feller in slippers and gown,
When wintry winds whistle and snow's pouring down,
With papers and books, and his feet near the fire,
Encircled w...

I.

The sun has sunk in the crimson west,
    And "around the languid eyes of day"
The Twilight's dreamy shadows rest
    And light and shade alternate play;
The winds are hushed, nor leaf nor flower
Is swayed with motion by their power.


II.

The fireflies with meteor lamps
    Arise from out the dewy lawn,
And there the elfin cricket chants
    His vespers when the day is gone,
And far above, the sky's coquette
With all her starry train is met.

(Read Before A Meeting Of The Danville Scribbler Club.)


Dear friends, to-night the inspiration of my theme
Is not the baseless fabric of a weird, fantastic dream--
For truth, combined with justice, doth impel,
And therefore it is fact--not fiction--that I tell.

"Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again"--
A maxim true as holy writ;--then it is plain,
If rudely woven by an untaught hand it be,
Sustains but transitory wrong and injury.

And thus it is, in homely rhyme, I venture forth,
Relating nothing here but under oath;
And if, perchance, at times it sounds a little strange,
You know that truth o'er fiction hath a wider range.

These stanzas three I hope you'll deem explanatory--
As introductory and preliminary to the story--
A preface ...

Some sing of the lily, some sing of the rose,
Some sing of each flower in beauty that blows;
But sing me a song that shall render its meed
To the fragrance and aroma found in a weed,
Which banishes care and mitigates grief--
I mean a big twist of old "natural leaf!"

When sorrow's dark mantle the spirit doth wear,
And the heart is oppressed with the demon of care,
Then get out your pipe and its magic invoke
And all of your troubles will vanish in smoke!
O, you who have tried it will know what I mean
When the praises I sing of a hank of long green!

Since the days of King James and his old counterblast
Its sway of all classes has ever held fast,
And its patron saint Raleigh forever will live
In remembrance as sweet as affection can give,
And the incen...

I.

In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze,
    She moved with pretty air of grace,
And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze
    Seemed borrowed brightness from her face!
O, winsome maid, demure and sweet!
    I'll ne'er forget when first I met her,
And saw the dainty slippered feet
    Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta!


II.

O, dreams of youth and beauty rare,
    What rose-hued visions thou canst paint!
But none in loveliness compare
    With her who seemed Love's patron saint!
Her pictured image haunts the mind,
    And, oh, I never can forget her,
Nor rarer pleasure hope to find
    Than dance with her at Linnietta!


III.

Arrayed in softly flowing gown,
    The love-light flashing from her eyes--
...

I.

The flower that she gave to me
    Has withered now and died--
But yet with fond fidelity
    Its faded leaves abide.


II.

The petals that so fragrant then
    She wore upon her breast--
Still clinging to the lifeless stem,
    With miser care possessed.


III.

As when in sweetest purity
    It shed its perfume rare,
A symbol dear 'twill ever be
    Of one divinely fair!


IV.

Plucked by the cruel hand of Death
    In beauty's youthful bloom--
She perished with his chilling breath,
    And withered in the tomb.


V.

But I will cherish ever thus
    The token that she gave
When sun-lit skies were over us,
    Unclouded by the grave!

I.

There's the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink,
And many rare flowers which others may think
Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow,
With delicious perfume, and colors that glow--
But go to the orchard and sniff the delight
Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white,
And let the soul float away in a swoon
On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom!


II.

There's the cowslip, narcissus, and sweet mignonette,
The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet,
As much as I love them in Summer array,
It's the white and the pink I dream of to-day,
And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace
And shower their blossoms right down in my face
When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume
Is wafted along where...

I.

No more to feel the pressure warm
    Of dimpled arms around your neck--
No more to clasp the little form
    That Nature did with beauty deck.


II.

No more to hear the music sweet
    Of merry laugh and prattling talk--
No more to see the busy feet
    Come toddling down the shaded walk.


III.

No more the glint of flaxen hair
    That nestled 'round the lilied brow--
No more the rose's bloom will wear
    The cheek so cold and pallid now.


IV.

No more the light from loving eyes,
    Whose hue was like the violet blown
Where Summer's softest, bluest skies,
    Had lent it coloring from their own.


V.

No more to fondly bend above
    The little one when sl...

Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South,
From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth--
When Autumn has come and tempered the rays
Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze,
Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight,
When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite,
And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole,
And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!

To camp there and fish for a week at a time,
And have the four-pounders just tug at your line,
Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see
When we dream of that home where we all hope to be;
And no king in the world who sits on a throne
E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone
When you throw out your line and it whizzes away,
Just cutting the water to foamy white ...

To Chattanooga's vale, where flows the winding Tennessee,
And rugged Lookout sentinels heroic dust of sixty-three--
Where Chickamauga's gory field re-echoed to the cannon's roar,
And shot and shell through serried ranks a bloody pathway tore,
And mountain slope and wood and field were lumined with the blaze
Of musketry from Blue and Gray in those September days--
They come again, the gallant few, survivors of the fray,
Their breasts with hallowed memories filled, but passion passed away!

The fleeting years have silvered o'er the locks of those who live,
And turned to dust the sleeping ones who to their flag did give
The last drop of the crimson tide from ghastly wounds poured out
Amid the conflict's awful din and wild resounding shout;
And yet it seems but yesterday, or lik...

I.

White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year,
    In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing,
Thou comest now to wail above the bier
    Of thy dead sisters--on thy bosom wearing
The icy jewel and the frosted gem--
But on thy marble brow the Star of Bethlehem!


II.

Beneath thy foot-prints lie the Autumn leaves,
    Mould'ring and hast'ning to decay;
And where the drifting snow its mantle weaves
    The Summer songsters sang the happy hours away.
What tho' the birds have flown the blighted stem?
There's in thy jeweled crown the Star of Bethlehem!