Will Carleton

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a dame of comely seeming, With her work upon her knee,

Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze,

Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout; For things at home are crossways, and Betsey and I are out. We, who have worked together so long as man and wife,

They're taking me to the gallows, mother--they mean to hang me high; They're going to gather round me there, and watch me till I die; All earthly joy has vanished now, and gone each mortal hope,--

My business on the jury's done--the quibblin' all is through-- I've watched the lawyers right and left, and give my verdict true; I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in;

JOHN: I've worked in the field all day, a-plowin' the "stony streak;" I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse; I've tramped till my legs are weak;

GIVE us your hand, Mr. Lawyer: how do you do to-day? "GIVE US YOUR HAND, MR. LAWYER: HOW DO YOU DO TO-DAY?" You drew up that paper--I s'pose you want your pay.

I. The great procession came up the street, With clatter of hoofs and tramp of feet;

I. If you to me be cold, Or I be false to you,

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar, And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore, On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid,

[As Told in 1880.] Year of '71, children, middle of the fall, On one fearful night, children, we well-nigh lost our all.

Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through. Only a bounden duty remains for you and I--

I, who was always counted, they say, Rather a bad stick any way, Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- "OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE, I'M TRUDGIN' MY WEARY WAY." I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray--

The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head,

There is a chillness in the air-- A coldness in the smile of day; And e'en the sunbeam's crimson glare

I've been to the old farm-house, good-wife, Where you and I were wed; Where the love was born to our two hearts

They 've got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do,

The Farmer Discourses of his Son. Tom was goin' for a poet, an' said he'd a poet be; One of these long-haired fellers a feller hates to see;

Some men were born for great things, Some were born for small; Some--it is not recorded

Through blinding storm and clouds of night, We swiftly pushed our restless flight; With thundering hoof and warning neigh,