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,

Written In The Danville (KY.) Cemetery. I. Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day,

This song that I sing-- It is not of a spring, Nor yet of a silvery stream--

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,

I. O what memories sweet entwine Around each word and faded line!

I. I'm just in my glory when the cat I can tease, Or I'm hunting for bird nests up in the trees,

I. The years have passed in ceaseless round Since first they laid her here to rest

I. O others may boast of their pleasures galore-- The miser with rapture may count o'er his store,

I. The sun has sunk in the crimson west, And "around the languid eyes of day"

(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--

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

I. In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze, She moved with pretty air of grace,

I. The flower that she gave to me Has withered now and died--

I. There's the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink, And many rare flowers which others may think

I. No more to feel the pressure warm Of dimpled arms around your neck--

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

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,

I. White-shrouded, latest-born of all the year, In thy cold hands no bud or floweret bearing,

I. Rock-sentineled, romantic stream! Thy waters flow with silvery gleam

You may boast about the landscapes fair so far across the sea Of castled Rhine, and southern France, and favored Italy-- But have you seen, when Springtime flings the scented blossoms down,

I. The sweetest dreams, it seems to me, that we can ever know, Are those the fancy brings to us of days of long-ago,

I. Give me the patches on my pants, the freckles on my face-- The happy heart where cankering care had never found a place--

I. In Southern sunny clime there is a hallowed tomb, Where rest the ashes of a minstrel priest;

I. The sweetest music put in song since Robby Burns's time Is that which breathes its harmony from Georgia's sunny clime,

Facile Princeps. I. O gifted one of the Sunny South, with lips so eloquent,

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1894. "Gone to his exceeding great reward," The friend of rich and poor alike;

I. Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun,

I. Now Farmer Jones was noted for fast horses on his place, And also as the father of a son with freckled face,

I. Gim me back my stone-bruised heel, And them tow-linen pants,

I. Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf They laid the loved and lost away;

Sweet Memory! thou faculty divine-- Triumphant o'er the cruel hand of Time! On thy tablets we may trace

I. I passed her on the crowded street-- This winsome maid, demure and sweet--

I. "I'll tell yer what," said Uncle Zeke, down at the country store, "I'd been a farmer all my life--fur twenty year or more--

Fought October 8th, 1862. Here on this spot, where Nature now, with chilling, icy breath, Has mantled in a robe of white the field of strife and death,

I. Oh, melancholy child of want and woe! A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky!

(A PARAPHRASE.) I. Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray

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,

I. There's a something in the atmosphere, in sweet September days, That mantles all the landscape with its languid, dreamy haze;

(With Apologies To Riley.) I. As one who dreams at evening o'er the new hats that he's worn,

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

I. Let tipplers all boast of the pleasure divine That is found in old whisky, in beer and in wine--

By magic spell was I entranced When on me first thy brown eyes glanced, And sunbeams played at hide and seek

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,

I. With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack They follow close on Reynard's track,

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,

I. O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day As they stretch in dim distance far, far away,

I. It led adown the sloping hill, and through the valley wound, And where the blooming clover shed its fragrance all around,

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,

I. O don't you remember those days so divine, Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,

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

I. The winds were hushed, and thin and high The fleecy clouds were drifting,

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,

I. Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, Tied with a ribbon blue,

'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

I. Dear little one with eyes so blue, And silken ringlets of flaxen hair!

I walked within the silent city of the dead, Which then with Autumn leaves was carpeted, And where the faded flower and withered wreath

I can see the back-log blazing and the sparkles take their flight Up the cavernous old chimney on a merry Christmas night; I can see the old folks smiling and the children's cheeks aglow,

I. O sweet are the memories when backward we gaze Through the vista of years to our schoolboy days,

The sun is sinking where the western hills The vision bounds with rugged summits old, And with his latest beam he brightly gilds

Bright visions of childhood! How dear to the heart Are the scenes which from memory can never depart! Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears

When the nights are gittin' chilly and the leaves begin to fade, An' the mercury's down to thirty, 'stead o' ninety in the shade, There's a happy kind o' feelin' takes possession o' the soul--

I. O, where are the friends that in youth we once knew, Whose smiles were like sunshine, whose hearts were so true?

I. Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart,

I. When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door, And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,