Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment! she drew one lat deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned himwith her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know she stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding, A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark innyard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. A Psalm of Life HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882) Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Lives of great men all remind us Is there for honest poverty Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp- What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden gray, and a' that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine A man's a man for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men, for a' that!, men, for a that c.Cor a Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that Tho' hundreds worship at his word, A prince can mak a belted knight, But an honest man's aboon his might— Gude faith, he mauna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, an' a' that; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. flockhead Then let us pray that come it may,- That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, an' a' that. prize, superion For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet, for a' that That man to man, the warld o'er, X Jest 'Fore Christmas EUGENE FIELD (Born September 3, 1850; Died November 4, 1895) Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss. Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, As was et up by the cannibuls that live in Ceylon's Isle, That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me! And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's, And don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, and "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! From "The Poems of Eugene Field." 1911. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons |