Of yonder crystal stream,
The waters were so fair,
That as I passed I paused,
And went and bathed me there.
I've loved you long, I love you yet,
And you I never can forget.

Then by the stream I sat.
Under the maple's bough,
The cool wind stirred my hair,
And fanned and dried my brow.
I've loved you long, I love you yet.
And you I never can forget.

And there amid the boughs
Of that fair maple tree,
A nightingale there was,
Right merrily sang he.
I've loved you long, I love you yet,
And you I never can forget.

Sing, oh nightingale, sing,
Sing thou whose heart is glad;
Thy heart is merry and gay,
And mine is weary and sad.
I've loved you long, I love you yet.
And you I never can forget.

My love and I are foes,
Right bitter foes are we;
I would not cull her a rose
From yonder brier tree.
I've loved you long, I love you yet,
And you I never can forget.

I wish with all my heart,
The rose were on the tree,
That rose, and brier, and all
Were cast in yonder sea —
I've loved you long, I love you yet,
And you I never can forget.

Were sunk in yonder sea,
Were sunk in yonder main.
And that my love and I
Were friends — were friends again.
I've loved you long, I love you yet.
And you I never can forget.

WHAT, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea and the Med-
Iterranean — he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Akhoond I mourn,
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.

Dead, dead, dead;
Sorrow Swats!
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he had often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to victory,
As the case might be.
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed,
Shed tears like water,
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat!
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But lain 'mid worms to rot:
His mortal part alone, his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his frame surround
(For ever hallowed be the ground!)
And sceptics mock the lowly mound
And say, "He's now of no Ahkoond!
(His soul is in the skies!)
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries —
He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength,
Its sun had dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond,
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not.

A Dutch collector, fat and squat,
Purchased a vase of beauty rare —
A perfect, delicate, dainty thing,
Green and frail as the dragon-fly's wing,
Marked with the mark of the dynasty Ming.
Of all perfection lacked it naught
Save this — the piece was not a pair.

He took his cane, of the yellow bamboo;
His long furred cloak o'er his shoulder threw;
In his pocket his purse, that the gold shone through,
And forth he fared, like the Wandering Jew.
There was not a stall in a country fair,
Or dusty shop in a city square,
But the Burgomaster hied him there;
Searching, with many anxieties,
For treasures of pigeon-blue Japanese.
But those who watched him closely knew
That his eye glanced dull at the pigeon-blue,
While a fiery gleam in it was seen
Whenever he chanced on a vase of green —
A dainty, delicate, perfect thing,
With the mark of the dynasty of Ming.

At last at Antwerp his vase he found
In a crazy barrack, half under ground —
The priceless, dainty, delicate thing,
With the mark of the dynasty of Ming.
There he entered, blithe and gay;
Gray and haggard he staggered away;
For little of love, believe me, lies
Between him who sells and him who buys
A treasure like this, that has no peer
In the whole round world, be it far or near.
Like a starved snake was his purse of green;
But he clasped 'neath his cloak, with fingers lean,
A perfect, delicate, dainty thing,
Green and frail as the dragon-fly's wing,
Marked with the dynasty of Ming.

Homeward he went, and the scene was fair;
The scent of clover was in the air;
He heard the humming of peaceful bees,
And the boughs that swayed in the evening breeze;
His leaden lattice, that he could see,
Glowed like a diamond tracery;
The old dog lay at the garden gate;
On the chimney sat the stork sedate.
Peace was on every living thing
And all the landscape's emerald ring!
But happiest he who crossed the door
And set foot on the cool, tiled floor;
For beneath his long furred cloak he bore
A tiny, delicate, dainty thing,
Frail and fair as the dragon-fly's wing,
Marked with the dynasty of Ming.

Down he sat, with a long, long sigh
A sight of utter luxury!
A bumper of sherry in his hold
Had shone like a stream of burning gold
Before the mantelpiece old and dark,
Quaint with the story of Noah's ark,
Which in the centre one treasure bore
The clock of the Emperor Henry IV.
While at the other end was seen
Something in shadow, delicate green
The vase, as frail as the dragon-fly's wing,
Marked with the mark of the dynasty Ming.

From beneath his cloak the mate he drew,
And minutely and mutely he scanned the two.
Ne'er before, I trow, had earthly eye,
Beheld such perfect symmetry!

He placed on the mantel his treasures two;
His wine he sipped; a long sigh he drew;
He puffed from his pipe a cloud of blue.
"There," said he proudly, "I think they'll do!"
And in ten minutes off he went,
Snoring the snore of the well content.

Scarcely had echoed the first soft snore
Than a sight that ne'er had been seen before,
Was seen on the mantel-piece that bore
The clock of the Emperor Henry IV.
Each tall, transit cent, glittering thing,
Marked with the mark of the dynasty Ming,
Seemed to rise, and waver and peer
Through the dusky, scented atmosphere.
There was a rustling as of old silk;
The breath of a maiden, sweet as milk;
The perfume of roses, rich and old;
The tinkle of dangling chains of gold;
The flirt of a fan, and little feet,
And twittering voices, soft and sweet;
The plash of oar, and a flapping sail,
And the clink of a sword 'gainst golden mail;
And the laughing questions and lost replies,
Like the twitter of birds before sunrise!
Then slowly, strangely, from either side
The vases of green began to glide
Until their progress perforce was o'er
At the clock of the Emperor Henry IV.

The Burgomaster awoke, and stared
In sheer surprise; then fiercely glared
"Left I them thus, or did I dream?
Or was it some bold invader's scheme
These precious vases to rudely shock
Against the Emperor's sacred clock?
Come back, my treasures! Your journey's o'er."
And so he ranged them as once before,
And took up his intermitted snore.

Listen, reader, and you shall see
The key of this hidden mystery:
Ages before, ere yet the wall
Was sent o'er the kingly hills to crawl —
Ages before, while yet Pekin
Save the wild duck's whistle knew no din —
Long, long ago so very long ago
'Twas the earliest years of the dynasty To —
Lived the Prince Strongspeare, the Emperor's heir,
And the Princess Tea-Flower, fairest of fair.
They were betrothed, that they should wed;
But the songs are lost, and the poets dead,
That told their passion pure and strong,
Early aroused and lasting long.
Gay was the Prince, and as summer glad!
But her voice and eyes held something sad;
And ever, as lightly he laughed to look
Down the golden page of Life's open book,
She would sigh, and softly repeat
The verse of a poet old and sweet:
"Lover, tread softly where'er thou art,
For the dust of the road is some one's heart."

Forth they went one eve to sail
Upon the Turquoise River pale.
She spied the lotos flower fair to see,
And rose to reach it witchingly;
But the boat was cranky, the tide ran fast,
And lover and love in its wave were cast!
And the jealous water-sprites held them down
With clinging chains of water-weeds brown.
So were the Prince and Princess drowned!
But when, next morning, their bodies were found
There went a cry from the people round:
"Bury the lovers true and fair —
As lovers never buried were!
Build on the crest of yon hilltop high
A tower of ebon and ivory.
And make the doors and the balustrade
Of costliest gold and precious jade;
And lay within its precincts fair
The ashes of the gentle pair,
That they may be forever one
Long as the river sees the sun —
Long as the hills before us rise
In haughty challenge to the skies —
Long, long as the wide world doth know
The fame of the dynasty of To.

So on and on the ages rolled
Over ivory towers and gates of gold;
And the dynasties shriveled like lotos pods,
And seven times China changed her gods;
And all the face of the land was new —
Mountains were changed to rivers blue,
And where had flowed the valley rill
Rose, commanding, a haughty hill;
And the dome where the Prince and Princess lay
Was blown to dust, or changed to clay.
And at last a cunning potter came,
Who neither knew the place nor name,
But found the shattered walls within
Stores of the goedliest kaolin;
And there his worthiest work he wrought,
The finest creations of his thought —
Two vases, fine as the dragon-fly's wing,
Marked with the mark of the dynasty Ming;
And one of them went to a foreign King.
And they had been severed for many a year
Tea-Flower and her lover Prince Strongspeare;
And Fate had brought them together once more,
Within the Burgomaster's door,
But barred by the clock of Henry IV.

George T. Lanigan.       

I.

ALAS, unhappy land; ill-fated spot
Kotal — though where or what
On earth Kotal is, the hard has forgot;
Further than this indeed he knoweth not —
It borders upon Swat!

II.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battal-
Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies
Upon Kotal,
On cad Kotal whose people ululate
For their loved Moolla late.

Put away his little turban,
And his narghileh embrowned,
The lord of Kotal — rural urban —
'S gone unto his last Akhoond,
'S gone to meet his rival Swattan,
'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.

III.

His rival, but in what?
Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat
Kotal's lamented Moolla late,
As it were, emulate?
Was it in the tented field
With crash of sword on shield,
While backward meaner champions reeled
And loud the tom-tom pealed?
Did they barter gash for scar
With the Persian scimetar
Or the Afghanistee tulwar,
While loud the tom-tom pealed —
While loud the tom-tom pealed,
And the jim-jam squealed.
And champions less well heeled
Their war-horses wheeled
And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field?
Was Kotal's proud citadel —
Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned,
Beaten down with shot and shell
By the guns of the Akhoond?
Or were wails despairing caught, as
The burghers pale of Swat
Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas?"
— Or what?
Or made each in the cabinet his mark
Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?
Did they explain and render hazier
The policies of Central Asia?
Did they with speeches from the throne,
Wars dynastic,
Entents cordiales,
Between Swat and Kotal;
Holy alliances,
And other appliances
Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic
Come by much more than their own?
Made they mots, as "There to-day are
No more Himalayehs,"
Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are
No more Himalaya?"
Or, said the Akhoond, "Sah,
L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?"
Khabu, did there come great fear
On thy Khabuldozed Ameer
Ali Shere?
Or did the Khan of far
Kashgar
Tremble at the menace hot
Of the Moolla of Kotal,
"I will extirpate thee, pal
Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat?"
Who knows
Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?
Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes,
And in their deaths not very much divided?
If any one knows it.
Let him disclose it!

WHEN Washington was young, and not
As yet his country's sire and saviour,
An Ax for him his father bought,
Reward of excellent behaviour.

Well loving what he drank and ate,
That father, in a corner handy,
A row of Cherry Trees had set.
Suggesting Jam and Pie and Brandy.

Armed with his little Tomahawk,
George to that orchard forth did sally,
And root and branch and leaf and stalk
He mutilated generally.

His father, wild, though not with joy.
To see his darling fruit trees wither.
Crooked his forefinger at his boy.
And said to him, "Sirrah, come hither!"

Straightway to him the urchin hied,
And, through the orchard as he ran, "Sir,
Axe me no questions," loudly cried,
"And I will make no lying answer."

His father led him by the ear
To view his desolation's traces;
"Now, George," he said, in tones severe,
"Who's chopped that Cherry Tree to blazes?"

The boy an instant looks around,
And at that very moment hies ac-
Ross that meteory-haunted ground
The negro gardener, Ike or Isaac.

Brief space was his for thought; he saw,
Unless he fibbed, he'd surely catch it;
"I cannot tell a lie, papa!
Ike cut it with my little Hatchet!"

"My dear, dear child, come to my knees —
For I had infinitely rather
You lied like ten Tom Ochiltrees
Than spoiled them cherries," cried his father.

He placed the boy across his lap.
Nor thence did let him rise before he
Had an appeal, with leathern strap,
Made to his a posteriori.

And so when George was President,
And first in peace, and first in war, he,
Remembering this incident,
Lied no more than was necessary.

From bleak New England's mountains,
Up to the corralled strand
Where fair Montana's fountains
Rolled alleged silver sand,
A missionary, mild in
His manners and his speech,
Journeyed to seek the wild in
A church wherein to preach.

In the "city" where he duly
His wandering tent did pitch,
It could not be said truly
The good man "struck it rich."
For the people (who would gather
To hear his words with mirth)
Were not earth's salt, but rather
The salters of the earth.

Of calls though oft spoke deacon
Or brother — I mean "pard" —
He found that they were speaking
(See Hamlet) by the card,
And the language that they wsed with
Regard to every game
The good man's face suffused with
A (bob tailed) flush of shame.

And to his deep dejection,
When all around his hat
He sent for a collection,
But little wealth he gat.
If growled the parson plucky
They would satiric smile,
And hint he was blamed lucky
In getting back the tile.

One day unto the preacher
Two ruffians did repair;
Each was the vilest creature —
Except the other — there.
One was the "A 1 Terror,"
The other "Murderer Ned;"
And they confessed the error
Of the lives that they had led.

The missionary 'ware was
That jesting they must be;
He said in his church there was
Just then no vacancy.
But when toward the trigger
He saw their fingers glide.
He remembered with great vigour
There was "room for two inside."

"Seein' we now air brothors,"
The "A 1 Terror" cries,
"We ought to gat the others
To come and be likewise.
So cock your gun, my hearty,
And parson, fetch your hat;
Hey for a donation party
For the Church of Dead-mule Flat!"

Forth went the luckless parson,
Between the ruffians two,
Who homicide and arson
Vowed for "the cause" they'd do.
They had their weapons handy,
And used toward all they met
The modus operandi
Of frontier etiquette.

First, Brother "Terror A 1"
Would range them in a row,
And stand prepared to slay one
Whose hands should downward go.
While Deacon "Murderer Ed," he
Went through them systemat-
Ically, and the ready
Placed in the parson's hat.

The party cleaned the city
Out in an hour or so.
"Dec," said the "Terror" witty,
"'Tis time for us to go.
Unto the distant heathen
We mean forthwith to slide,
And preach the Gospel, we, then,
The plunder must divide.

"The sun is hast'ning bedward,
No time to lose have we —
Here's half for Deacon Edward,
And here is half for me;
And, my white-chokered hearty,
You shall have back your hat.
'Rah for tho donation party
For the Church of Dead-mule Flat!"

"But, boys," the parson pleaded,
"'Tis hardly right for me
To let you, unimpeded,
Take the church's property.
All preachers [in] their trust are
Faithful presumed to be;
Just shoot my hat and duster,
That folk the holes may see.

"And think I made endeavour
The church funds to retain,"
In duster and in beaver
They fired their pistols twain.
And the parson snickered queerly
As he two six-shooters drew;
"Brethren, beloved dearly,
I've got the drop on you!"

He marches to the city,
And there his prize presents
To a vigilance comniittee
Of prominent residents.
The pleas the missionary
For his captives makes they fend off,
And they give the cemetery
Of his church a double send-off.

They gave him the "donation,"
And heap anew his hat,
And elect by acclamation
Him Pope of Dead-mule Flat;
A church tax straight they levy,
And now, when the hat goes round.
Its content are right heavy,
And have a chinking sound.

And his mother would not know'm,
That young mining engineer,
Who once had boen to Rome,
And with a superior sneer,
Where the Flatters most do cluster,
The statement did dispute
That the Pope wore a linen duster,
And was upon the shoot.

George T. Lanigan      

IT was an Amateur Dram. Ass.
(Kind reader, although your
Knowledge of French is not first-class
Don't call that Amature.)
It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,
The which did warfare wage
On the dramatic works of this
And every other age.

It had a walking gentleman,
A leading juvenile,
First lady in book-muslin dressed,
With a galvanic smile;
Thereto a singing chambermaid,
Benignant heavy pa,
And oh, heavier still was the heavy vill-
Ain, with his fierce "Ha! ha!"

There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down-
Or up — to Boucicault
These amateurs weren't competent
(S. Wegg) to collar and throw.
And when the winter time came round —
"Season" 's a stagier phrase —
The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one
Of the Bard of Avon's plays.

'Twas As you Like It that they chose;
For the leading lady's heart
Was set on playing Rosalind,
Or some other page's part.
And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass.,
A stalwart, dry-goods clerk,
Was cast for Orlando, in which rôle
He felt he'd make his mark.

"I mind me," said the President
(All thoughtful was his face),
"When Orlando was taken by Thingummy
That Charles was played by Mace.
Charles hath not many lines to speak,
Nay, not a single length —
Oh, if find we can a Mussulman
(That is, a man of strength),
And bring him on the stage as Charles —–
But, alas! it can't be did!"
"It can," replied the Treasurer;
"Let's get The Hunky Kid."

This Hunky Kid of whom they spoke
Belonged to the P. R.;
He always had his hair cut short,
And always had catarrh.
His voice was gruff, his language rough,
His forehead villainous low,
And 'neath his broken nose a vast
Expanse of jaw did show.
He was forty-eight about the chest,
And his fore-arm at the mid
Did measure twenty-one and a half —
Such was The Hunky Kid!

The Am. Dram. Ass., they have engaged
This pet of the P. R.;
As Charles the Wrestler he's to be
A bright, particular star.
And when they put the programme out,
Announce him thus they did:
Orlando . . . Mr. Romeo Jones;
Charles . . . Mr. T. H. Kid.

The night has come; the house is packed
From pit to gallery,
As those who through the curtain peep
Quake inwardly to see.
A squeak's heard in the orchestra,
As the leader draws across
Th' intestines of the agile cat
The tail of the noble hoss.

All is at sea behind the scenes.
Why do they fear and funk?
Alas, alas, The Hunky Kid
Is lamentably drunk!
He's in that most unlovely stage
Of half-intoxication
When men resent the hint they're tight
As a personal imputation!

"Ring up! ring up!" Orlando cried,
"Or we must cut the scene;
For Charles the Wrestler is imbued
With poisonous benzine,
And every moment gets more drunk
Than he before has been."

The wrestling scene has come and Charles
Is much disguised in drink;
The stage to him's an inclined plane,
The footlights make him blink,
Still strives he to act well his part
Where all the honour lies,
Though Shakespeare would not in his lines
His language recognise
Instead of "Come, where is this young —–?"
This man of bone and brawn,
He squares himself and bellows, "Time!
Fetch your Orlandos on!"

"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man,"
Fair Rosalind said she,
As the two wrestlers in the ring
Grapple right furiously;
But Charles the Wrestler had no sense
Of dramatic propriety.

He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones
In Graeco-Roman style;
He got what they call a grapevine lock
On that leading juvenile;
He flung him into the orchestra,
And the man with the ophicleide,
On whom he fell, he just said — well,
No matter what — and died!

When once the tiger has tasted blood,
And found that it is sweet,
He has a habit of killing more
Than he can possibly eat.
And thus it was with The Hunky Kid.
In his homicidal blindness
He lifted his hand against Rosalind,
Not in the way of kindness.
He chased poor Celia off at L.,
At R. U. E. Le Beau,
And he put such a head upon Duke Fred,
In fifteen seconds or so,
That never one of the courtly train
Might his haughty master know.

*       *       *       *      *

And that's precisely what came to pass
Because the luckless carles
Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass.
Cast The Hunky Kid for Charles!

IT was some thirty years ago,
An evening calm and red,
When a gold-haired stripling stood beside
His father's dying-bed,
"Attend, my son," the sick man said,
"Unto my dying tones,
And swear eternal vengeance to
The accursed race of Jones.
For why? Just nineteen years ago
A girl sat by my side,
With cheek of rose and breast of snow,
My peerless, promised bride.
A viper by the name of Jones
Came in between us twain;
With honeyed words he stole away
My loved Belinda Jane.
For he was rich and I was poor,
And poets all are stupid
Who feign the god of Love is not
Cupidity, but Cupid.
Perchance 'tis well, for had I wed
That maid of dark-brown curls,
You had not been, or been, instead
Of boy, a pair of girls.
Now listen to me, Walter Smith;
Hie to yon plumber bold,
An thou would'st ease my dying pang,
His 'prentice be enrolled,
For Jones has houses many on
The fashionable squares,
And thou, perchance, may'st be called in
To see to the repairs.
Think on thy father's ravished love.
Recall thy father's ills,
Remember this, the death-bed oath,
Then, make out Jones's bills."
 

Canto II — The Young Avenger

YOUNG Walter's to the plumber gone.
A boy with smut on nose,
Furnace and carpet-sack in hand,
With the journeyman he goes.
Now grown a journeyman himself,
In grimy hand he gripes
A candle-end, and 'neath the sink
Explores the frozen pipes.
His furnace portable he lights
With smoking wads of news-
Papers, and smiles to see within
The pot the solder fuse.
He gives his fiat: "They are froze
Down about sixteen feet;
If you want water ere July
You must dig up the street."
"Practical Plumber" now is he,
As witnesseth his sign,
And ready now to undertake
Repairs in any line.
One day a housemaid, as he sat
At the receipt of biz,
Came crying, "Ho, Sir Smith, Sir Smith,
Sir Jones's pipes is friz."
He girt his apron round his loins,
His tools took from the shelf,
And to the journeyman he said,
"I'll see to this myself."

"Would," said he, as he drew the bill,
My father were alive;
Ten pounds of solder at ten cents,
$1.75!"
 

Canto III — The Traitor's Doom

THE Jones had houses many on
The avenues and squares,
And hired the young Avenger Smith
To see to the repairs,
And Smith put faucets in, and cocks,
And meters, eke, and taps,
Connections, T-joints, sewer pipes,
Basins and water-traps;
He tore the walls and ripped the floors
To reach the pipes beyond,
And excavations in the street
And 'neath the side-walk yawned;
And daily as he entered up
The items in his book
The plumber's face wore a serene
And retrospective look.
And Jones would wring his hands and cry,
"Woe, woe, and utter woe!
Ah me! that taxes should be so high
And rents should be so low!"
Then he would give the Smith the house
As instalment on account
Of its repairs, and notes of hand
For the rest of the amount.
 

Canto IV — Avenged at Last

NOW Smith had been for a dozen years
In the practical plumbing line,
And the bills of Smith did not grind slow,
And they ground extremely fine.
Terrace by terrace, house by house,
The lands of Jones he took,
And heavier still the balance was
Writ in that fatal book.
At last, no property nor cash
Had he, so he did fail,
And the avenging plumber locked
Him up in Ludlow Jail.
His heartless creditor he besought
For mercy in his need.
Nay, nay, no mercy, lie and rot,"
Quoth he, "in jail, like Tweed.
For I have sworn avenged to be
On thee, thy kin and kith;
Rememberest thou Belinda Jane?
I am the son of Smith!!!"