George W. Doneghy

One Autumn evening, wandering, when the sun was hanging low,
Through a woodland where the music of a streamlet's gentle flow
Commingled with the rustling of the yellow golden leaves,
And the idling breeze's sighing as it floated through the trees,
I heard sweet voices whispering in accents soft and low,
That lulled to rest the troubled soul, like those of long ago.

Enchanted thus I lingered, by unseen hands fast bound,
My willing fancy captive to the magic of sweet sound,
And eagerly I listened to the whispering voices tell
Of happy days of childhood, and the tear unbidden fell,
As were pictured to the mind again the halcyon scenes of yore,
And loved ones that no more I'll meet till on the silent shore!

And as the slanting shadows fell athwart the scattered leaves

I.

There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days,
That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze;
And you see the leaves a-dropping, in a lazy kind of way,
Where the maple trees are standing in their Summer-time array.


II.

There's a yellowish tinge a-creeping over Nature's emerald sheen,
And the cattle stand, half-sleeping, in the middle of the stream
Where the glassy pool is shaded by the overhanging limb,
And the pebbly bottom's glinting where the silvery minnows swim.


III.

The tasseled corn is nodding, and the crow on drowsy wing
Is sailing o'er the orchard where the ripening apples swing,
And the fleecy clouds are floating in the azure of the sky,
And the gentle breeze is sighing as it's idly w...

(With Apologies To Riley.)


I.

As one who dreams at evening o'er the new hats that he's worn,
And muses on the better times that once to him were known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design,
I see the faded ribbon on that old straw hat of mine.


II.

The firelight seems to mock me as the ruddy flames arise,
And I turn about to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes;
And I ponder then in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my condition, and to vanish like the smoke.


III.

With fondest recollection the loving thoughts that start
Into being are but feelings from the bottom of my heart;
And to wear the new hats over is a luxury divine--
Till my truant fancy wanders with that old straw hat of...

When the burning sun of Summer shines from out a brassy sky,
And has parched and browned the meadows, and the creek's run dry,
O sweet it is to wander there and hear the water sing
It's rippling song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

Since Logan and the pioneers first stood upon its bank,
And heard it gurgle from the rock, and of its waters drank,
With ceaseless music in its flow, like silvery chimes that ring,
Has been the song of gladness from the
                                            Old
                                                "Bull
                                                    Spring!"

A...

I.

Let tipplers all boast of the pleasure divine
That is found in old whisky, in beer and in wine--
But what are all those to a feller who knows
Where the "Medical Spring" in its purity flows,
And has knelt at its brink and just drank his fill
Of the clear, sparkling fluid, from Nature's own still?


II.

How often I've strayed on a hot Summer's day
Where it gurgles and gushes, then flows on its way
With a ripple as sweet as the music that died
When the tones of loved voices are to us denied,
And mirrored my face in the "Medical Spring,"
Where the beetling old cliffs their cool shadows fling!


III.

Not riches, nor honors, nor place do I crave,
Ere they lay me at last to rest in the grave,
But oh, let me hear its music...

By magic spell was I entranced
When on me first thy brown eyes glanced,
And sunbeams played at hide and seek
Thro' silken ringlets on thy dimpling cheek,
And like some glorious halo shed
Their radiance o'er thy shapely head--
And seemed as if they loved to dwell
Where'er thy airy footsteps fell!
And in my dreams I see thee now--
The pearly teeth--the arching brow--
The form that mocks the sculptor's art
To add one curve that could impart
More beauty and more witching grace,
Or chisel out a sweeter face!
Blest be the hour when first I met
This charming girl of Somerset!

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom,
With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June,
And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine,
Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line,
And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still,
And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below,
And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know--
But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel
That something so delectable that over yer will steal;
For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill
When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on,

I.

With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack
They follow close on Reynard's track,
And wake the slumbering echoes round
With music of the horn and hound;
Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale,
They course him in the moonlight pale,
And sport they find which brings delight--
These reckless riders of the night!


II.

The game is up! away, away!
Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay;
They clear them at a single leap,
And like the wind they onward sweep!
O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch
The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch,
And heedless all they follow on
With ringing shout and winding horn!


III.

Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter,
To speed like theirs was but a canter;
Had you bestrode ...

By the waters of a river, where the rocks like giants stand,
There a stranger, young and favored, built a home with his own hand.

Hewed the logs and reared the roof-tree, where for years alone he dwelt,
Wanderer from the sunny Southland, and from pangs his heart had felt.

Legend says high-born and wealthy, seeking there in Nature's wilds
To forget a maiden fickle, basking in a rival's smiles.

Where the music of the wild birds, echoed from the cliffs around,
Blended with the voice of waters, flowing past with silvery sound;

Where in Springtime wild flowers blooming shed their incense day and night,
And the rugged cliff-sides wearing robes of dogwood, snowy white;

Where in Summer old trees spreading overhead a leafy roof
Flung their shadows, deep and coolin...

I.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day
As they stretch in dim distance far, far away,
And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown
To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known--
Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam,
Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream,
And far to the south, with their outlines so blue,
The rugged knobs blend into heaven's own hue!


II.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze
On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways
When memory's mirror presents them to view,
And I dream once again that I tread them anew,
While raptured I listen to the music of love
That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above,
And the soul drifts away in a swoon o...

I.

It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound,
And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around,
And then between the maple trees, across the little brook,
To where the old fence bars let down, a tortuous course it took;
And often are the times I've heard the merry, ringing laugh,
From rosy-ankled children there, along the meadow path.


II.

Three boys--and a little girl whose hair was chestnut gold--
(She's resting now in dreamless sleep beneath the crumbling mold;)--
But I remember her as when, with innocence and glee,
Her laughing eyes looked into mine--for she was dear to me;
And thus it is I love to let the fancy photograph
The merry group that idled there, along the meadow path.


III.

Adown it...

It hangs today where it has hung for fifty years or more,
But some who loved its silver tones the church-yard covers o'er,
And many are the times since then, with deep and solemn knell,
Has tolled for dear departed ones the
                                Old
                                    Church
                                        Bell!

Within a latticed tower it swings, high up above the street,
And every Sabbath morn is heard the music clear and sweet
Which floats above the village roofs, and over hill and dell,
Upborne upon the vagrant wind, from the
                                Old
                                    Church
                                        Bell!

Full many a change the hand of Time has in the village wrought,
And ...

I.

O don't you remember those days so divine,
Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,
When with sapling pole and a painted cork
We fished up and down the old Hanging Fork--
From the railroad bridge, with its single span,
Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam--
From early morn till the shades of night,
And it made no difference if fish didn't bite?


II.

What pleasure it gives to think and to dream
Of those long, happy days, and the old winding stream,
When we waded the creek with our pants to the knee,
And got our lines tangled in a sycamore tree,
And were most scared to death when out from the root
The long, wriggling snake through the water did shoot,
And you lost your line, your hook and your cork,
And I sli...

With its rude walls of stone and its moss-covered roof--
('Tis a picture inwoven with memory's woof)--
It stands there to-day, as it stood in the years
When we knew naught of sorrow--nor anguish--nor tears;
And though far from it now, I can see it at will--
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

O flights of fond fancy that deeply inurn
Sweet scenes of our childhood, no more to return!
Which carry us back in visions and dreams
And illumine life's pathway with memory's gleams--
Till we see once again, though with tears the eyes fill,
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play,
And wade in the branch that flowed on its way
Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet,
And a gurgle and ...

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high
    The fleecy clouds were drifting,
And through them as she sailed the sky
    The moon's soft light was sifting.


II.

Beneath her pale and tender ray,
    Its silvery kiss imprinting,
All dew-bedecked each flower and spray
    Like myriad jewels glinting.


III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound
    Of music sweet--entrancing--
'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound,
    Where love-lit eyes were glancing.


IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin
    There dulcet notes were blending,
And strains divine from a violin
    In harmony ascending.


V.

Enraptured by the magic spell,
    I lingering stood, and listening,

No matter what the weather was, in good old stage coach days,
The driver with his ruddy face and spanking team of bays
Would spin along the turnpike road, o'er level stretch and hill,
That wound away from "Idleburg" to classic Nicholasville.

The depths beneath his seat were filled with leathern sacks of mail,
And all the coach's top at times was crowded to the rail
With trunks, valises, packages, and bundles by the score,
That must have weighed, it seemed to me, five thousand pounds or more.

And strapped within the bulging boot, that hung far out behind,
Was added weight enough to make a team of oxen blind;
And counting all the passengers that filled the coach within,
The load those horses had to drag--I thought it was a sin!

How proud of them the driver was! An...

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair,
    Tied with a ribbon blue,
Laid by the hand of a mother there--
    Cherished with love so true!


II.

Only a soft and silken curl,
    Bound with a knotted bow;
Worn on the head of a little girl
    Lost in the long-ago.


III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept
    From the grave's decay and mold,
Over which her eyes have wept
    With anguish all untold!


IV.

Only a link in the golden chain,
    By Death's cold hand unbroken,
Which leads to where she'll meet again
    The wearer of this token.


V.

Only a relic undefiled,
    Enshrined in a broken heart--
Rent in twain when a darling child
    And a loving mother part...

'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood,
And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood;
And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare
That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.

They said the house was "hanted," and that not a man alive,
In all the country round about, could own the place and thrive;
That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera took--
And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look.

But they put it up at auction, and Tim Bluster bid the most,
Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of ghost
That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night
Could make his nerves unsteady, or could fill him with affright!"

So Tim got full possession, and he...