Songs of an American Peddler

The pipes were squealin’ an Irish reel
For Ireland’s son and daughter,
Lad and lass were steppin’ out
With shout and whoop and laughter!

Oh glory be to the drone of the pipes,
The mellow pipes of Erin!
My grandsires they were Irish Kings
And played the pipes with feelin’.

Of hornpipes, reels and jogs and flings
The balmy, perfumed airs was full,
When all at once across the field
There galloped a bellowin’ bull!

The women ran, the men clumb trees, 
The pipers flew with the pipers,
While I heeded less the bull
Than Saint Patrick heeded the vipers!

Hold fast, says I, I’ll tackle the bull!
For me have nor fear, nor pity!
It's a bard of old Ireland now you’ll hear
When I sing you bull a ditty!

I eyed the bull and the bull eyed me
While I sang him a strophe of my makin’!
Says he “If I’m mad, it’s your songs so bad
That made me made and quakin’!

And then with zest I sang my best
O’ songs o’er which I’d cried,
And all the saddest made him the maddest
‘Til with a quake he died!

And now, alas, I must say what I would wish,
Oh wish unsaid,
The trees and the lads who heard my lay,
They also were dead!

Good morning, Mistress Violet, 
I’ll rest me a bit near you,
If you’ll allow, for far I’ve tramped 
And tramped the whole night through.

It’s brave you are, wee bit of a flower,
To live far away from us all
And never lamenting because you are swell,
Nor crying because you’re not tall!

The blue of the skies descended upon you,
A drop of the perfume of Heaven is yours
To bring joy to the joyless and hope to the saddened,
What more would you have than THAT, Mam,
Wee bringer of joy to us all?

There are those who would paint you with gaudiest colours,
Who see not the hand of the Maker in you,
Who scoff at your perfume because it’s not novel,
Who never can love what is simple and true!

Now what do you think about THAT, Mam?

For them is the song of the lark an old story,
The piping of thrushes old-fashioned and stale,
The voice of the simple, the lovely and true –
Can ne’er such joyless souls regale,

Please pardon me, Mam, for singing like this
And do not look askance, 
For it’s only the deafest or mortally demented
Who give me ever a chance!

Cease your gibb’ring and list to my lay!

Good day now, Mistress Violet, 
I must take leave of you,
If you’ll allow, for I must tramp
And tramp the whole day through,

You give me heart to face the hill,
No matter how rocky the road,
To live unseen and die unsung
And joyfully carry my load!

Tell me, Brook, where Melody dwells,
I’ve sought thro’ dale, in grove and dell,
In rocky haunt and forest fell,
But ne’er could I find Melody!

The song of birds, the wind in trees,
The lowing of kine, the drone of bees,
These I hear, O magic Brook, 
In all your whispered melodies!

I’ve seen Sun and Moon and Starlight
Gleam on your flashing breast,
Glitt’ring glist’ning, sparkling gems
On every ripple’s crumbling crest!

You entrance me, babbling Brook,
When weaving wavy melodies,
Whispered songs of joy and love,
Or sad complaints and threnodies.

Ever swift with tossing and dash,
Hast’ning on with plash and splash,
Ever seeking, elfish Brook,
Leafy dell or darkest nook,

Say, O Brook, where Melody dwells,
Fairest Melody’s shrine,
Melody that moves the heart,
Melody divine!

Halloo, Friend Crow – it is grand you are,
While ogling me so calmly!

Black friend, we’re both of us out of time,
We’re shunned and banished by my kin,
We are tramps and it’s our Fate to wear 
A smile without and a sob within.

‘Tis said you’re a heartless rogue,
The worst that ever flew:
Now listen, Crow, for I can show
How I do know that is not true.

Through a forest dark and gloomy,
Where the silence slept around me,
Where the hemlocks gazed upon me,
Gazed and wondered, there wandered.

From the topmost spreading branches
Of a tall and stately hemlock
Came a sound of gentle cawing,
Oh, so gentle, oh so wooing,

Little voices answered faintly,
Little voices crowing quaintly,
From the topmost spreading branches
of a proud and stately hemlock.

Long I listened to their prattle,
Oh, so gentle, oh, so tender!
They were kin of yours, Friend Crow!
So blink not, Friend, for I know you now!

You are like a son of America, Crow,
With naught but croaks for me,
But no man’s croaks nor jokes can alter
WHAT MAY BE.

Outcasts are we here on earth,
Jibes we know, but little mirth;
Yet ne’er despair and ne’er despise,
Perhaps we’ll SING in Paradise.

I’ve found at last an open door,
The only door that’s open to me;
Here I’ll tarry, lame and sore,
And pass the night, if that may be.

Ah, what a dismal clang was that!
The passing bell, O doleful knell
That tells the tale of some poor soul
Passing to Heaven or to Hell.

Dusky shadows float around me
Phantoms like shreds of cloud,
Dimly gliding, soaring, wavering,
Trailing each its ghostly shroud.

Ho, Phantoms! Hark to my song!
One that will cheer you, sorrowful throng!
Cease your gibb’ring and list to my lay!
Ah! They know me! They’ve faded away!

Nor the living, nor the dead
Have an ear for aught of me:
Now it’s my daily bread to learn
How poor my art must be.

There again the passing bell,
There again the doleful knell;
I wonder if it tolls for me,
This dark, shrouding lullaby.