the Song of Wandering Aengus - Yeats

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

circa 1899
By William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread.
And when white moths were on the wing
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
with apple blossoms in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old witch wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

© William Butler Yeats

Snap-Apple Night - James

SNAP-APPLE NIGHT
by Joseph James (1800s)

By all that’s good! a merry scene
As ever met a poet’s vision;
Though high-born Pride may close her een,
And call on Scorn for his derision.

I will maintain it, human hearts
Are better prompting smiling faces
Than aught vain Fashion’s school imparts
Of cold and studied grimaces.

And better far the homely jest
May ask our honest admiration,
Than wit, in splendid language drest,
Whose aim is Virtue’s degradation.

But, to our picture:—mark it well!
Tradition’s yearly acted story;
When laughing Joy rings Sorrow’s knell,
And social Pleasure shines in glory.

The string suspended from on high,
With fruit and flame at random swinging;
Quick comes the blazing candle by,
When at the apple teeth are springing.

See where his booby squireship waits,
With open mouth the prize to grapple;
Give me the power, ye dubious fates,
He’ll get a candle for an apple.

That laughing girl, too, asks to bite;
Ye flames, be sure your scorchings miss her;
Nought less than rapturous Delight,
Or rosy Innocence, should kiss her.

See where her friendly prompter stands,
Mark his keen eye, how swift it glances;
And how his fortune-favour’d hands
Repel or hurry her advances.

‘Tis pleasant, faith! to view the sport—
Not most life like, but like life really—
Whether we view the lasses court,
Or Patrick flourish his shillelah.

Here sits a sage card-reading dame,
A pythoness for divination!
Who tells known lovers, name for name,
The objects of their admiration.

She knows when maidens would be brides,—
Let non her wond’rous powers disparage;
Experience, more than witchcraft, guides,
Who dreams of love sure thinks of marriage.

Aye, try your fortunes, dearest girls,
And, if dark fate no more discovers,
Sure as the sun the dew impearls,
I’ll wage my life you all get lovers.

Who doubts that whiskey can inspire?
See here, at least, it is no fiction:
View you good-humoured rosy Friar
Give mother Church’s benediction.

And round about him many a glass
Is lifted to his rev’rence holy;
A toast! a toast! boys, let it pass,
Grief is another name for Folly.

So we’ll be merry and be wise;
Come follow on as I begin it—
“The tear that dims dear woman’s eyes,
Joy kiss away the self-same minute.”

Hurrah! hurrah! again! again!
With loudes, longest honours greet it;
Re-fill your glasses, boys! and then
Good Father Michael shall repeat it.

A pleasant picture! O, for power
To give them life, as now they ape it;
I’d give, methinks, Regina’s dower,
To my warm wishes so to shape it.

To mix among the jovial crowd,
And find them old familiar faces;
Dear human hearts, that shame the proud
Inhabitants of loftier places.

I’d come in where the kisses smack,
And forward through the crew advancing,
Slap the old fiddler on his back,
And whisper, “Set the girls a dancing.”

And, opening the bolted door,
Cry, come all in—the more the merrier!
Hag Care is dead, my boys, therefore
This very night we mean to bury her.

What is the fashion-crowded hall,
Where wealth and title sport their treasure?
How weak, how vain, how empty, all,
Compared with honest, homely pleasure.

All blithsome as the summer birds,
Rejoicing in the hour of plenty,
Whose welcome lies in fewest words,
Share all we have, so it content ye!

Give Pride her place, give Wealth her gold,
Give restless Power her soul’s ambition;
Give those who sell, and those who sold
Their country’s welfare—to perdition.

But, oh! when gay good Humour smiles
Where social Mirth makes happy faces,
Where Beauty fretful Care beguiles,
And honest Laughter sorrow chases.

There set the bard. My song is done;
ye critic folk forbear your stricture;
If the poor muse no praise hath won,
Why give your plaudits to the picture.

---

From Poetry, 1841

When Hallowe'en was creepy

The Scarecrow - Robertson

THE SCARECROW
By Donald Robertson (1800s-1900s)

A scarecrow, in a field of corn,
Stood broken down, well nigh,
But through the sunshine or the rain,
His face still faced the sky.

The ravens filled with strange alarm,
Flew by with startled cry,
When seeing ‘tween his wind tossed arms
His face still faced the sky.

But once a dove from out a wood
Came cooing forth a sigh,
Now, though the scarecrow yearned for love,
His face still faced the sky.

And so he missed the love he sought,
And soon he drooped to die,
Unheeded, broken, on the ground,
His face still faced the sky.

The dove a mate soon found, indeed
Why should she longer try
To win the scarecrow fallen low;
His face still faced the sky.

She took his heart of withered straw,
To line her nest near by,
And scarcely noticed as she passed,
His face still faced the sky.

---

From Impressions in Rhyme, 1896

Jacky-My-Lantern - Harris

JACKY-MY-LANTERN
Joel Chandler Harris (1848-1908)

from Legends of the Old Plantation, © 1881

UPON his next visit to Uncle Remus, the little boy was exceedingly anxious to know more about witches, but the old man prudently refrained from exciting the youngster’s imagination any further in that direction. Uncle Remus had a board across his lap, and, armed with a mallet and a shoe-knife, was engaged in making shoe-pegs.

“W’iles I wuz crossin’ de branch des now,” he said, endeavoring to change the subject, “I come up wid a Jacky-my-lantem, en she wuz bu’nin’ wuss’n a bunch er lightnin’-bugs, mon. I know’d she wuz a fixin’ fer ter lead me inter dat quogmire down in de swamp, en I steer’d cle’r an’ er. Yasser. I did dat. You ain’t never seed no Jacky-my-lanterns, is you, honey?”

The little boy never had, but he had heard of them, and he wanted to know what they were, and thereupon Uncle Remus proceeded to tell him.

“One time,” said the old darkey, transferring his spectacles from his nose to the top of his head and leaning his elbows upon his peg-board, “dere wuz a blacksmif man, en dish yer blacksmif man, he tuck’n stuck closer by his dram dan he did by his bellus. Monday mawnin’ he’d git on a Spree, en all dat week he’d be on a spree, en de nex’ Monday mawnin’ he’d take a fresh start. Bimeby, one day, atter de blacksmif bin spreein’’roun’ en cussin’ might’ly, he hear a sorter rustlin’ fuss at de do’, en in walk de Bad Man.”

“Who, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked.

“De Bad Man, honey; de Ole Boy hisse’f right fresh from de ridjun w’at you year Miss Sally readin’ ’bout. He done hide his hawns, en his tail, en his hoof, en he come dress up like w’ite fokes. He tuck off his hat en he bow, en den he tell de blacksmif who he is, en dat he done come atter ’im. Den de blacksmif, he gun ter cry en beg, en he beg so hard en he cry so loud dat de Bad Man say he make a trade wid ’im. At de een’ er one year de sperit er de blacksmif wuz to be his’n en endurin’ er dat time de blacksmif mus’ put in his hottes’ licks in de intruss er de Bad Man, en den he put a spell on de cheer de blacksmif was settin’ in, en on his sludge-hammer. De man w’at sot in de cheer couldn’t git up less’n de blacksmif let ’im, en de man w’at pick up de sludge ’ud hatter keep on knockin’ wid it twel de blacksmif say quit; en den he gun ’im money plenty, en off he put.

“De blacksmif, he sail in fer ter have his fun, en he have so much dat he done clean forgot ’bout his contrack, but bimeby, one day he look down de road, en dar he see de Bad Man comin’, en den he kuow’d de year wuz out w’en de Bad Man got in de do’, de blacksmif wuz poandin’ ’way at a hoss-shoe, but he wa’n’t so bizzy dat he didn’t ax ’im in. De Bad Man sorter do like he ain’t got no time fer ter tarry, but de blacksmff say he got some little jobs dat he bleedzd ter finish up, en den he ax de Bad Man fer ter set down a minnit; en de Bad Man, he tuck’n sot down, en he sot in dat cheer w’at he done conju’a en, co’se, dar he wuz. Den de blacksmif, he ’gun ter poke fun at de Bad Man, en he ax him don’t he want a dram, en won’t he hitch his cheer up little nigher de fier, en de Bad Man, he beg en he beg, but ’twan’t doin’ no good, kase de blacksmif ’low dat he gwineter keep ’im dar twel he promus dat he let ’im off one year mo’, en, sho nuff, de Bad Man promus dat ef de blacksmif let ’im up he give ’im a n’er showin’. So den de blacksnif gun de wud, en de Bad Man sa’nter off down de big road, settin’ traps en layin’ his progance fer ter ketch mo’ sinners.

“De nex’ year hit pass same like t’er one. At de ’p’inted time yer come de Ole Boy atter de blacksnif, but still de blackssnif had some jobs dat he bleedzd ter finish up, en he ax de Bad Man fer ter take holt er de sludge en he he’p ’im out; en de Bad Man, he ’low dat r’er’n be disperlite, he don’t keer ef he do hit ’er a biff er two; en wid dat he grab up de sludge, en dar he wuz ’gin, kase he done conju’d de sludge so dat whosomedever tuck ’er up can’t put ’er down less’n de blacksmif say de wud. Dey perlaver’d dar, dey did, twel bimeby de Bad Man he up’n let ’im off n’er year.

“Well, den, dat year pass same ez t’er one. Mont’ in en mont’ out dat man wuz rollin’ in dram, en bimeby yer come de Bad Man. De blacksmif cry en he holler, en he rip ’roan’ en t’ar his ha’r, but hit des like he didn’t, kase de Bad Man grab ’im up en cram ’im in a bag en tote ’im off. W’iles dey wuz gwine ’long dey come up wid a passel er fokes w’at wuz havin’ wanner deze yer fote er July bobbycues, en de Ole Boy, he ’low dat maybe he kin git some mo’ game, en w’at do he do but jine in wid urn. He lines in en he talk politics same like t’er fokes, twel bimeby dinnertime come ’roan’, en dey ax ’im up, w’ich ’greed wid his stummuck, en he pozzit his bag anderneed de table ’longside de udder bags w’at de hongry fokes’d brung.

“No sooner did de blacksmif git back on de groan’ dan he ’gun ter wuk his way outer de bag. He crope out, he did, en den he tuck’n change de bag. He tuck’n tuck a n’er bag en lay it down whar dish yer bag wuz, en den he crope outer de crowd en lay low in de underbresh.

“Las’, w’en de time come fer ter go, de Ole Boy up wid his bag en slung her on his shoulder, en off he put fer de Bad Place. W’en he got dar he tuck’n drap de bag off’n his back en call up de imps, en dey des come a squallin’ en a caperin’, w’ich I speck dey mus’ a bin hongry. Leas’ways dey des swawm’d ’roan’, hollerin’ out: ‘Daddy, w’at you brung—daddy, w’at you brung?’

“So den dey open de bag, en lo en beholes, out jump a big bull-dog, en de way he shuck dem little imps wuz a caution, en he kep’ on guyawin’ un urn twel de Ole Boy open de gate en t’un ’im out.”

“And what became of the blacksmith?” the little boy asked, as Uncle Remus paused to snuff the candle with his fingers.

“I’m drivin’ on ’roan’, honey. Atter ’long time, de blacksmif he tuck’n die, en w’en he go ter de Good Place de man at de gate dunner who he is, en he can’t squeeze in. Den he go down ter de Bad Place, en knock. De Ole Boy, he look out, he did, en he know’d de blacksmif de minnit he laid eyes on ’im; but he shake his head en say, sezee:

“‘You’ll hatter skuze me, Brer Blacksrnif, kase I d an had ’speunce ’longer you. You’ll hatter go some’rs else ef you wanter raise enny racket,’ sezee, en wid dat he shet do do”.

“En dey do say,” continued Uncle Remus, with, unction, “dat sense dat day de blacksmif bin sorter huv’rin’ ’roan’ ’twix’ de heavens en de ye’th, en dark nights he shine out so fokes call ’im Jacky-my-lantun. Dat’s w’at dey tells me. Hit may be wrong er’t maybe right, but dat’s w’at I years.

Hallowe'en Failure - Smith

HALLOWE'EN FAILURE
by Carlyle Smith (pseudonym) John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922)

Who's dat peekin' in de do'?
Set mah heart a-beatin'!
Thought I see' a spook for sho
On mah way to meetin'.
Heerd a rustlin' all aroun',
Trees all sort o' jiggled;
An' along de frosty groun'
Funny shadders wriggled.

Who's dat by de winder-sill?
Gittin' sort o' skeery;
Feets is feelin' kind o' chill,
Eyes is sort o' teary.
'Most as nervous as a coon
When de dawgs is barkin',
Er a widder when some spoon
Comes along a-sparkin'.

Whass dat creepin' up de road,
Quiet like a ferret,
Hoppin' sof'ly as a toad?
Maybe hit's a sperrit!
Lordy! hope dey ain't no ghos'
Come to tell me howdy.
I ain't got no use for those
Fantoms damp an' cloudy.

Whass dat standin' by de fence
Wid its eyes a-yearnin',
Drivin' out mah common-sense
Wid its glances burnin'?
Don't dass skeercely go to bed
Wid dem spookses roun' me.
Ain't no res' fo' dis yere head
When dem folks surroun' me.

Whass dat groanin' soun' I hear
Off dar by de gyardin?
Lordy! Lordy! Lordy dear,
Grant dis sinner pardon!
I won't nebber—I declar'
Ef it ain't my Sammy!
Sambo, what yo' doin' dar?
Yo' can't skeer yo' mammy!

---

From Harper's Weekly, Oct. 29, 1910

Vintage Postcard of the week...

On the Hill of the Dead - Reid

ON THE HILL OF THE DEAD
By John Reid (1800s-1900s)

There is a narrow pathway familiar to my feet,
That crowns a bank of sadness and forms a silent street;

The green moss lies upon it, so seldom is it trod,
Save when the living use it to leave their dead with God.

I love that silent pathway, where only footprints fall
Of those whose love is faithful beyond the grave’s recall;

And there I often linger and watch the setting sun
Light up the home that waits me when my shor day is done,

And sometimes idly wonder if when I come to stay,
Any will come anigh me to break the long, still day.

I shall be dead and know not, but if I knew it now,
The death-dew might not gather so coldly on my brow:

Still I would live, for, living, the dead are with me yet,
Their life in mine up-gathered till I their love forget.

If God’s above, I pray not that He my soul shall save,
But that He keep His arms close-wrapt about this little grave:

It is the spot most precious on all His earth to me,
Where now my heart lies buried, where soon my bones shall be.

The old cathedral’s shadow comes creeping up the hill,
Uniting those who worship and those who wait His will;

And night enwraps the living, and night enwraps the dead,—
A short sleep, a long sleep, and who shall raise the head?

---

From Ballads and Poems by Members of the Glasgow Ballad Club, 1898

Frightened Path - Brown

The Frightened Path

circa 1920
by Abbie Farwell Brown (1871-1927)

The wood grew very quiet
As the road made a sudden turn;
Then a wavering, furtive path crept out
From the tangled briar and fern.

“Where does it lead?” I asked the child;
She shivered and shook her head.
“It doesn’t lead to any place,
It is running away!” she said.

“It is running away on tiptoe
Through the untrodden grass,
To join the cheerful highroad,
Where real, live people pass.

“It runs from a heap of ruins
Where a home stood in old days;
But nothing living goes there now,
And—Nothing Living stays!”

From Heart of New England, 1920

When Hallowe'en was creepy

Trick or Treat - Life Magazine