The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck

Image from The Battle of the Nile

CASA BY ANCHOR.

BY SLOWCUS.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
There isn’t any doubt;
And yet who saw him on the wreck?
Who really heard him shout?

Would he have stood and roasted there
With jolly-boats so near,
And bragged about his fierce despair
Nor walked off on his ear?

Why not give one good roar for oars
Assail his pa for sail
To wait him toward the fishing shores?
Why stay aboard and wail?

What wonder standing there he seemed
So beautiful and bright?
Who couldn’t while around him beamed
That lovely Titian light?

His pow-wow with his father I
Regard as tempting fate;
If he declined to early die,
Why stay there and dilate?

“Pa, can’t you speak — a little please?
Just try a sneeze or cough,
My nearest kin, kin you release,
Or are you, father, off?”

And while his father slept below
The boy, he never stirred;
One of a “race” who never “go”
Unless they “get the word.”

He called aloud, “Am I allowed
Your leave to leave? Your son
Stands fire, you now, but don’t you crowd
The thing; I’m toasted done.

“Of course I’ll do what you desire,
If you’re laid on the shelf;
I burn with ardor — but, this fire!
You know how ’tis yourself.

“Speak father, I would be released?
I list your loving tones,”
He knew not that he pa, deceased,
Had gone to Davy Jones.

Upon his brow he felt the heat,
Yet stood serene and calm.
With only now and then a bleat,
Like Mary’s little lamb.

The yards and spars did burn and snap
All in the wildest way;
Not e’en a shroud was left the chap,
And he the only stay.

There came a bursting thunder peal —
Good gracious! Pretty soon
Boy, ship, and anchor, flag and keel,
Went up in a balloon.

And when this sound burst o’er the tide,
The boy! oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds, or none beside
Stayed long enough to see.

With mast and helm and pennon fair,
That acted well enough,
The sickest thing that perished there
Was that young sailor muff.

Now, boys, don’t take a cent of stock
In Cas-a-bi-an-ca;
The spots from such a son they’d knock,
Our Young A-mer-i-ca.

Cambridge City Tribune (Cambridge City, Indiana) Oct 26, 1871

Image from 80 Plus – an octogenarian’s blog

*****

The original poem, from the All Poetry website:

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll’d on…he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call’d aloud…”Say, father,say
If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried
“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll’d on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but one more aloud,
“My father, must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way,

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream’d above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound…
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

By Felicia Dorothea Hemans, © 1809, All rights reserved.

Editor notes

Casabianca, It tells the story of Giocante Casabianca, a 12-year old boy, who was the son of Luce Julien Joseph Casabianca. Casabianca was the commander of Admiral de Brueys’ flagship, l’Orient , Giocante Casabianca stayed at his post aboard the flagship L’Orient during the Battle of the Nile. Giocante Casabianca and his father both died in an explosion when the fire reached the gunpowder store.

The Atlanta Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Jul 21, 1894

*****

Evidently, this was a popular poem to parody – From The Guardian

“Casabianca” was soon taken up by the parodists. As we’ve recently discussed on this forum, a good parody demands such close reading it might almost be thought an ironical act of love. But most of the anonymous parodists of “Casabianca” didn’t get beyond the first verse. “The boy stood on the burning deck./ His feet were covered in blisters./ He’d burnt the socks right off his feet/ And had to wear his sister’s” was the version I heard as a child.

A few more:

The Atlanta Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Jun 24, 1895

The Atlanta Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Feb 2, 1913

Syracuse Herald (Syracuse, New York) Sep 25, 1920

Syracuse Herald (Syracuse, New York) Jul 7, 1912

CASABIANCA.

THE BOY stood on the burning deck — an orator was he,
and in that scene of fire and wreck he spoke quite fluently,
“The men who hold the public scaps should all be fired,” he cried;
“they should make room for worthy chaps who wait their turn outside.
True virtue always stands without, and vainly yearns and tolls,
while wickedness in office shouts, and passes round the spoils.
One rule should govern our fair land — a rule that’s bound to win
all office holders should be canned, to let some new ones in.
All people usefully employed at forge, in mill or shop,
should know that labor’s null and void — man’s duty is to yawp.
The farmer should forsake his play, the harness man his straps;
the blacksmith should get busy now, and look around for snaps.
Why should the carpenter perform, when we have homes enough;
why should producers round us swarm, when statesmen are the stuff?
Why should we put up ice or hay, or deal in clothes or meat,
when politicians point the way that leads to Easy street?”
There came a burst of thunder sound; the boy — O where was he?
Ask of the winds that all around with lungs bestrewed the sea.

Walt Mason

Syracuse Herald (Syracuse, New York) Jun 14, 1911

THE SPENDING SPREE

The boy stood on the burning deck and soaked his aching head;
he wrote a million dollar check, then cheerily he said:
“My friends, I’ve never made a move one honest cent to earn,
but here’s where I start out to prove that I have wealth to burn.”
They called aloud, he would not go; heroic were his words:
“I’ve still got money left to throw at insects and at birds.”
And calmly midst the awful wreck while billows played wild games
he wrote another million check and fed it to the flames.
You say if you had such a boy you’d bend him o’er your knee,
and many shingles you’d deploy to curb his spending spree;
and yet you’re strutting ’round the deck as lordly as a jay
and spending money by the peck and throwing it away.
It seems that men cannot withstand the siren lure of debt;
the things their appetites demand they buy, already yet.
When times of stress and panic come they’ll utter naughty words
and wish they had the goodly sum they pelted at the birds.

CLEM BRADSHAW.

Reno Evening Gazette (Reno, Nevada) May 31, 1920

The Three Little Kittens

The Three Little Kittens.

Three little kittens in coats so gray
Went out with the Old Mother Cat one day.

Said the first little kitten, “If we only might see
A monstrous great rat, what fun it would be!”

Said the next little kitten, “I’d seize hold of his head
And bite and squeeze him until he was dead!”

Said the third little kitten, “Should I see a rat,
I’d eat him all up in much less time than that.”

Suddenly something jumped out of the wood —
All three turned and ran as fast as they could

And never once stopped till they came to their house,
Yet it wasn’t a rat, but a wee baby mouse.

It was caught and then eaten by Old Mother Cat,
Said the three little kittens, “Now just think of that!”

— New Orleans Picaynne.

Sandusky Register (Sandusky, Ohio) Jun 4, 1894

Images from:

Title: Three Little Kittens
Author: Robert Michael Ballantyne
Publisher: T. Nelson, 1859
Google book link

Leave the Devil a Drop

PARODY ON HAMLET.

TO drink, or not to drink; that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler that the body suffer
The parching burning, of outrageous thirst,
Or take a mug and put it to your mouth,
And, so by drinking end it? To drink — to thirst —
No more; and by a drink to say we end
The throat_ache, and the various tortures
Burning thirst is heir to, ’tis a consumation
Devoutly to be wished. To drink, to quaff,
To drink; perchance get drunk; aye, there’s the rub!
For in that draught, what spirit there may be,
When we have first drank off the foaming top,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect,
which makes us bear our thrift for so long time;
For who would bear the jeers and scoffs of men,
The tavern keeper’s bill, the bystander’s contumely,
The pangs of aching bones, and time’s delay,
The insolence of people, and the spurns
That those who are very drunk must always take,
When he himself might all those ills forego,
By drinking water?

ANGEL’s FACE.

NO plate had John and Joan to hoard,
Plain folk in humble plight,
One only tankard crown’d their board,
And that was filled each night;

Along whole inner bottom — stretch’d
In pride of chubby grace —
Some rude engraver’s hand had etch’d
A baby Angel’s face.

John swallow’d first a moderate sup;
But Joan was not like John;
For when her lips once touch’d the cup,
She swill’d till all was gone.

John often urg’d her to drink fair;
But she ne’er chang’d a jot;
She lov’d to see the Angel there,
And therefore — drain’d the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play’d;
And where the Angel stood so plain
He got a Dev’l pourtray’d.

John saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan was stoutly quaff’d;
And ever, when she siez’d her ale,
She clear’d it at a draught —

John star’d with wonder petrefy’d,
His hair stood on his pate;
And “why dost guzzle now,” he cry’d,
“At this enormous rate?” —

“John,” she said, “am I to blame?
I can’t in conscience stop;
For then ‘twould be a burning shame,
To leave the Dev’l — a drop.”

The Centinel (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Sep 25, 1805

John Anderson, My Jo – My Jim – My John – My Tom and My, What a Lunatic!

Image of this Irish couple (Luke and Bridget Reilly) is from the Photopol blog.

The parodies continue:

ANSWER TO “JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.”

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

Jean Anderson, my ain Jean!
Ye’ve been a leal gude wife;
Ye’ve mair than shared by pain, Jean,
Ye’ve been my joy through life;
I loved ye in your youth, Jean,
Wi’ bonny snooded brow;
But maun I tell the truth, Jean,
I love ye better now.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *
I’ve been a man ol toil, Jean,
And aye obliged to roam;
But still ye had the smile, Jean,
And canny “welcome home!”
Our hearth was aye a light, Jean,
The kail pot on the fire,
When I came back at night, Jean,
I found my hearts desire.

Our bairus hae bred some cares, Jean,
But thanks to thee my Jo,
They brought not our gray hairs, Jean,
Wi’ shame or sorrow low;
And when at last our bed, Jean,
Beside the kirk maun be,
They’ll honor us when dead, Jean,
And that’s enough for me.

Rock River Pilot (Watertown, Wisconsin) Mar 1, 1848

The original Robert Burns version (previously posted) for comparison.

Peddlin’ My Jo:

1886 Bicycle for Two – Image from the Copenhagen City Museum

John Anderson, My Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John,
When we were first acquent
You wouldn’t ride the bike, John,
But now your spine is bent.
I see you riding by, John,
And goodness how you go —
You’re the swiftest sco???er in the town,
John Anderson, my Jo.

John Anderson, my Jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither —
I’ll ne’er forget the day, John,
Nor, ”aibelins, wil you ither!
We coasted on your tandem,
And, jinks, how we did go,
Till we struck that fence-rail at the foot,
John Anderson, my Jo.

— Chicago News.

The Daily Herald (Delphos, Ohio) Jun 17, 1899

Civil War Hero:

John Logan, O my Jo, John,
When we were first acquaint,
A soldier bold you were, John,
Bedecked with warlike paint;
And when your slogan sounded
It nerved your loyal clan,
For to the front they bounded —
You led them like a man.

Oshkosh Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Jun 24, 1884

Image from Wiki.

Now for politics and corruption, but I repeat myself:

This one is about John Kelly and Tammany Hall:

John Kellyus, my jo, John,
When we were first acquaint,
You were a dreaded chief, John,
When you put on your paint;
But now your goose is cooked, John,
Your head is lying low —
It lies beneath old Sammy’s feet,
John Kellyus, my jo!

—Albany Journal.

The Helena Independent (Helena, Montana) Oct 30, 1881

Image from The Old Photo Album website – American Civil War Portraits

COLFAX’S FAREWELL.

(“John Anderson, My Jo, John.“)

OLD subsidy, my Pomeroy,
When first we were acquaint,
The gospel of Sharpe’s rifles
Declared you quite a saint.
But now the cause of freedom
Will surely quick succumb —
In spite of all your bonds and things,
They cast you out, my Pom!

Well subsidized, my Pomeroy,
We fought the fight together,
And many a little picking, Pom,
Laid by for stormy weather.
Now we must tumble down, Pom,
But cheek by jowl we’ll fall,
And sink together in the mud
Where we were meant to crawl.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Mar 1, 1873

Image of Gov. J. Madison Wells from the Vangobot Pop Art Machine website.

“ADAPTED” FROM THE SCOTTISH.

Tom Anderson, my Jo, Tom,
When we were first acquaint,
For those electoral returns
In confidence you “went.”
You “fixed” ’em very bully, Tom,
With “Maddy” Wells and Co.,
And thought you had a certain thing,
Tom Anderson, my Jo!

But, Thomas A., my Jo, now
That matter “hasn’t went”
Entirely “serene,” and so
Your bonny brow is “brent,”
And your locks are prison locks, Tom,
And not at all like snow,
For they’ll not melt away with spring,
Tom Anderson, my Jo!

— Washington Post.

The Daily Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Feb 15, 1878

Image of John Sherman from Wiki.

ANOTHER CONFIDENTIAL LETTER.

FROM JOHN SHERMAN TO JAMES E. ANDERSON.

Jim Anderson, my jo, Jim,
When first we were acquaint,
You hadn’t kalsomined yourself
With pugilistic paint.
But now your jaw is oiled, Jim,
You’re telling what you know,
And I am shaking in my shoes —
Jim Anderson, my jo.

Jim Anderson, my jo, Jim,
We planned the fraud thegither,
And promised that we never would
Go back on one anither,
We juggled the returns, but James,
Jim James, how could you blow
And peach on me and Rutherford —
Jim Anderson, my jo?

Jim Anderson, my jo, Jim,
I promised we would pay,
But you despised a clerkship at
Three dollars every day,
Old Evarts should have sent you off
Consul to Cailao —
But hindsight isn’t foresight much
Jim Anderson, my jo!

Jim Anderson, my jo, Jim,
‘Twas not a fair divide,
You stole the mule for us and then
We wouldn’t let you ride.
And Stanley M. is sick, Jim,
And Hayes is lying low,
And I’m the deadest sort of duck,
Jim Anderson, my jo!

— N.Y. Sun.

The Daily Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Jun 9, 1878

Read more:

Title: A Political Crime: The History of the Great Fraud
Author: Albert M. Gibson
Publisher: W.S. Gottsberger, 1885

pg 214 [Wells, Tom Anderson]

Chapter XV pg 283 [Sherman and John E. Anderson]

President John Tyler image from the We Love the Prairie Primer homeschool blog.

From the United States Gazette.

A New Song to an Old Tune.

John Tyler, sir, my Jo John, when first we were acquaint,
You did pretend to be a Whig, for Harry, sir, you went;
But now you’ve got in power, John, the cloven foot you show;
A shame unto all traitors, John, John Tyler, sir my Jo.

John Tyler, sir, my Jo John, the Whigs they fought thegither,
And many a canty day, John, they had with one anither;
But you have betrayed them, John, and why did you do so?
A shame unto all traitors, John, John Tyler, sir, my Jo.

John Tyler, sir, my Jo John, when nature first began,
To try her canny hand, John, her master work was man,
But when she turned you out, John, she said it was “no go,”
You proved to be but journey-work, John Tyler, sir my Jo.

John Tyler, sir, my Jo John, why will you be a fool,
And sneak around the Locos, John, who use you as a tool?
They’re laughing in their sleeves, John, to think that you’ll veto
The only bill can save you, John, John Tyler, sir my Jo.

John Tyler, sir, my Jo John, the higher monkies go,
The more they show their tails, John, you know it’s even so;
Then get you out the White House, John, and homeward do you go,
And make the people happy, John, John Tyler, sir, my jo.

Huron Reflector (Norwalk, Ohio) Sep 27, 1842

Image from the Turn Back to God website.

Sweet, Long-lasting love:

IT’S MIGHTY COMFORTIN’.

Oh, it’s mighty comfortin’ when your hair is gettin’ thin,
And the wrinkles in your face have come to stay,
Just to feel her little hand smoothin’ out each silver strand,
While you meet her lovin’ look and hear her say:

“John, my dear, it seems as tho’ every day you live you grow
Handsomer than in olden day.”
And you smile back at your wife while you think, in all your life
You never heard a sweeter word of praise.

Then somehow, the teardrops rise to your dim, old fadin’ eyes,
While you kiss the tender hand still white and small,
And you try to tell her how you loved her then — you love her now,
But, bless me, if the words will come at all!

For just then it comes to you to think of trials she’s gone thro’,
And borne without a murmur for your sake;
You can only bow your head at the lovin’ things she’s said,
And your poor old heart can only ache and ache.

But she knows what ails you then, and she kisses you again,
While you hear her gently whisper, sweet and low;
“Life has bro’t more hopes than fears; we have known more smiles than tears;
You are the dearest dear of dears, John Anderson, my Jo!”

So it’s comfortin’, I say, when your hair is gettin’ gray,
And our slippin’ down life’s hill a mighty fast,
Just to feel her little hand strokin’ back each silver strand,
While she whispers that she loves you to the last.

— Farmer’s Voice.

The Daily Herald (Delphos, Ohio) Feb 26, 1898

Image of Lunatic Asylum, Columbus, Ohio from Wiki.

Kind of odd, dare I say crazy, for this Judge to out “riding” with this  “lunatic.” Maybe he was jilted:

A Poetic Fancy.

Judge Gilmore, of Columbus, has the original manuscript of the following verse, written by a young man who went to the lunatic asylum about a week later. The young poet asked the Judge out for a drive, and when they had gone some miles into the country said his object was to submit something to him. He then recited, “John Anderson, my jo,” and when he came to the sad ending: “We’ll sleep the gither at the fit, John Anderson, my jo,” he exclaimed, “That’s not the end of it. Burns never finished it. That’s not the end of such life-long love. There’s more to it. I have the closing verse here.” Then he read it:

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We wilna min’ that sleep;
The grave, so cauld an’ dark, John,
The spirit canna keep
For we will wake in heaven, John;
An’ hand in hand we’ll go
An live for aye in blissfu’ love
John Anderson, my jo.

Lima Daily News (Lima, Ohio) Jul 9, 1889

*****

Previous “John Anderson, My Jo” posts:

Robert Burns: “John Anderson, My Jo”

and

John Alcohol and the Poor Man’s Club

The Night After Christmas

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.

The following is an amusing parody upon Clement Moore’s unequalled “Night before Christmas:”

‘Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Every soul was abed, and as still as a mouse;
The stockings, so lately St. Nicholas’ care,
Were emptied of all that was eatable there.
The darlings had duly been tucked in their beds —
With very full stomachs, and pains in their heads.

I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,
And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,
When out in the nurs’ry arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my sleep, crying — “What is the matter?”
I flew to each bedside — still half in a doze —
Tore open the curtains, and threw off the clothes;
While the light of the taper served clearly to show
The piteous plight of those objects below;
For what to the fond father’s eyes should appear
But the little pale face of each sick little dear?
For each pet that had crammed itself full as a tick,
I knew in a moment now felt like Old Nick.

Their pulses were rapid, their breathing the same,
What their stomachs rejected I’ll mention by name —
Now Turkey, now Stuffing, Plum Pudding, of course,
And Custards, and Crullers, and Cranberry sauce;
Before outraged nature, all went to the wall,
Yes — Lollypops, Flapdoddle, Dinner and all;
Like pellets which urchins from popguns let fly,
Went figs, nuts and raisins, jam, jelly and pie,
Till each error of diet was brought to my view,
To the shame of Mamma and Santa Claus, too.

I turned from the sight, to my bedroom stepped back,
And brought out a phial marked “Pulv. Ipecac.,”
When my Nancy exclaimed — for their sufferings shocked her —
“Don’t you think you had better, love, run for the Doctor?”
I ran — and was scarcely back under my roof,
When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalap’s hoof.
I might say that I hardly had turned myself round,
When the Doctor came into the room with a bound.
He was covered with mud from his head to his foot,
And the suit he had on was his very worst suit;
He had hardly had time to put that on his back,
And he looked like a Falstaff half fuddled with sack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! Had the Doctor got merry?
His cheeks looked like Port and his breath smelt of Sherry,
He hadn’t been shaved for a fortnight or so,
And the beard on his chin wasn’t white as the snow.
But inspecting their tongues in despite of their teeth,
And drawing his watch from the waistcoat beneath,
He felt of each pulse, saying — “Each little belly
Must get rid” — here he laughed — of the rest of that jelly.”

I gazed on each chubby, plump, sick little elf,
And groaned when he said so, in spite of myself;
But a wink of his eye when he physicked our Fred
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He didn’t prescribe, but went straightway to work
And dosed all the rest, gave his trousers a jerk,
And, adding directions while blowing his nose,
He buttoned his coat; from his chair he arose,
Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalap a whistle,
And Jalap dashed off as if pricked by a thistle;
But the Doctor exclaimed, ere he drove out of sight,
“They’ll be well by to-morrow — good-night, Jones, good-night!”

The Golden Era – Jan 19, 1862

Images from A Polar Bear’s (Christmas) Tale blog posting of, A Visit From Saint Nicholas, 1862 by Clement Moore.

Miner Rhymes from Gold Country

From the Trinity Times.

The Song of the Miner.

A PARODY – By L.F.W.

Turning all the rivers,
Working in the rills,
Tunnelling the mountains,
Sluicing off the hills;
Sweating in the sun, and
Shivering in the blast,
Mighty pleasant mode of
Living very fast!

Waiting through the summer,
Notice on a claim —
“Intend to work this ground as
Soon as it will rain.”
Building airy castles,
Filling them with gold;
Dreaming of the maidens
Known, and loved of old.

Traders shake their heads and
Grumble without reason,
Do not like to credit
‘Till the rainy season;
Tell them of our prospects,
Got a pile in view,
Found the bed rock pitching,
Gravel turning blue.

Skies begin to threaten,
Water come at last!
All the creeks and gulches
Rising very fast.
Break away the ditches,
Carry off the flume;
Too much of a good thing
Quite as bad as none!

Gentleman from Pike, thinks
There’s a “right smart” show;
Wants to make some money,
Grub is getting low.
Able-bodied Yankee
Never takes affront,
Means to make a fortune,
“Darn” him if he don’t.

Tender looking hombre
From the sunny South,
Obviously feeling
Down about the mouth,
Stranger in the country,
Stares when he is told
That his pan of mica
Will not pass for gold.

Colored population
Lucky to a man,
Putting on the airs that
Only darkies can.
Chinaman with rocker
Slowly trots along,
Muttering as he passes —
“Tax no good for John.”

Men of every nation,
Men of every shade,
Men of every station,
Men of every grade,
Entering together
In the golden race,
Pitching into nature,
Tearing up her face!

Turning all the rivers,
Working in the rills,
Tunnelling the mountains,
Sluicing off the hills,
Sweating in the sun, and
Shivering in the blast,
Mighty pleasant mode of
Living very fast!

Mountain Democrat, The (Placerville, California) Nov 29, 1856

While most of these poems are humorous, this next one is sad:

THE AGED MINER.

[In compliance with the request of a subscriber, we re-publish the following verses, contributed to the GOLDEN ERA a few years ago, by “A Mountain Bard.”]

He stood amidst the crowd,
With his visage wan and old,
With a trumpet voice and loud
He thus his story told;
“Ye miners all, ye weak and strong,
Who to these rivers swiftly throng,
Cast down your tools and fly amain,
To those at home, who cry in vain.
Give up the search, turn back I say,
And ye will bless that happy day.
Three mortal years I’ve roamed, yet look;
Can’t ye read me like a book?
I’m strapped, without a cent,
Let’s pause, my grief has found its vent.
On the hills, by the plains, they lie,
Prostrate and ill, they seek to die —
Little they reck or care for life,
To combat in a useless strife.
Hope deferred — indeed my friends —
My wife to me a letter sends —
She, trustful, hoped for happier days,
But who on earth can read God’s ways?
No more to me — two girls as fair
As the angles are, with golden hair,
They me blessed — a soothing balm
That o’er my bosom shed a calm.
I dreamed a spirit stood nigh me,
A glorious light around its brow;
Softly a voice said ‘come to me,
Where the living waters flow.'”
Thus spoke that care-worn man,
With voice so loud and clear,
The evening breeze his cheeks did fan,
The miners all did shake with fear —
Strangely sat fear upon their hearts,
Conscience loud smote in their breasts —
Guilt on their faces as each one starts,
At that old man’s behests —
They pressed around — besought his stay —
In vain, his thoughts were far away —
“My steps lie on the mountain top,
I cannot rest, I cannot stop.”
They watched him up the steep ascent,
And wondered whither he went.
News came — “beneath a stunted tree
A dead man lay” — the soul was free.

The Golden Era – May 11, 1862

I don’t know if Imogene was just a popular woman’s name that was used during this time period, but I ran across several items in The Golden Era newspaper, all humorous, in which Imogene was used.

A LETTER FROM CALIFORNIA.

BY PLUCK MARRIOT.

You needn’t expect for sometime yet
To see me come home, Imogene;
Nor need you frown and think I forget,
Nor turn to your sister, Jane and say
“How Pluck has changed since he went away
From his ‘sweet little Imogene.'”

You know I promised, when last we met
At the parlor door, Imogene,
I’d stay here a year, perhaps, and get,
What gold I could pack with a dozen men,
And come with it all back home again
To live with and wed Imogene.

But the hills are not all great lumps of gold,
As we pictured them, Imogene,
Nor do I find as we thought of old,
That all the sand in the creeks is bright,
Nor all men happy as once they might
Have lived with their dear Imogene.

My hand’s so stiff I can scarcely write
A letter to you, Imogene
For I work these days with all my might,
Yet I cannot tell as the months glide on,
How many more years I shall be gone
From my sweet little Imogene.

For the times are hard, and snows so deep,
Up here in the mines, Imogene,
And I’m often tempted to stop and weep,
For thinking how blind the future is —
But then my labor becomes a bliss
When I think of my Imogene.

Tell mother my health is very fair,
And kiss her for me, Imogene;
Don’t tell how hard winters are —
You know she’ll fret, its always her way —
But tell her I’ll surely come some day,
To live with you both, Imogene.

The Golden Era – Jun 15, 1862

LETTER FROM CARRIE.

DEAR ERA:– You can’t tell how tickled I was to see my letter printed. It looked so curious to see all I had written spelled out in types. I took it right to Uncle John and showed it to him, for he had laughed at me when I sent the letter to you and said you would only stuff it into that tall basket by your table. Well, uncle read it all over and said I might just as well have sent the kiss to you as to Cousin Charlie, as you were a better looking youth. By the way, Charlie wrote me a letter, last Tuesday, and he want me to tell you for him that you were very much mistaken in ascribing the authorship of the poetry “California” to any other person than himself. He says that he was the original author, and that he composed the verses one night when he was going after the cows. He says, moreover, that you have not printed a correct copy as he wrote it. He sends a copy that he says is all right and wants you to notify all of your readers of the fact. It runs as thus:

CALIFORNY.

Thar’s a right smart streak of timber land
That runs down to the shore,
Whar nater’s poured out everthing
That a white man wants and more.
Yes, jest actooally piled up good things over a man’s head till
He cries out, “Easy, Lord.”

In Autumn comes the honest miner down,
With every cent he’s made thoughout the year,
Straight from his far off mountain-crested home,
To spend for Concert Girls and German Lager Beer
The hard earned eagles his heart had once held dear.

We have here, too, our splendid Golden Gate;
(I spose it’s splendid, ’cause folks say it is,
But it’s really not exactly to my taste,
And I think I’ve had a fair look at its phiz
From plunger’s keel when great big storm had riz.)

Yes, here we stand beside the ragin’ main,
To guard our town from visionary foe;
We’ve got our Monitor, I reckon, where its plain
It’s safe from French or Peter Donohoe —
She fears not now the mildest storm that blows.

I was just going to apologise for not writing last week, but I see you crowded out that interesting department of “Answers to Correspondents” in last Sunday’s paper, and I wont say a word about it.

Yours, till — next week.
CARRIE

The Golden Era – Jan 24, 1864

Mining Life.

“Rural Betts,” writing from Josephine county, Oregon, to the editor of Harper’s Weekly, sends some extracts from a poem which he amused himself with writing while living alone and mining in the mountains of Southern Oregon. The following is his picture:

Back to his lonely camp at close of day
The luckless miner wends his weary way,
In pensive study where on earth to make
Another raise, a small provision stake.
Uncombed, unwashed, unshaven, and unshorn,
His clothes in strips by chaparral are torn;
Toes peeping from his boots, and battered hat,
Tired, wet, and weary as a drowned rat.
How changed from him we in the city knew,
In stove-pipe beaver and a long-tailed blue,
Cigar in mouth, and carpet-sack in hand,
By steamer bound to California land.
His store of wood collected for the night,
To dry his clothes, and cook his little bite;
A broken shovel fries his meat, and bakes
A hasty mixture of unleavened cakes;
An oyster-can for tea pot will suffice,
And pine or fur leaves Hyson’s place supplies.
His supper over, he improves a chance
To patch with flour sacks his demolished pants.
In musing mood he listens to the sound
Of night winds moaning in the woods around;
The mountain wolf or cougar’s long howl,
The shrill coyote and the hooting owl;
While as he plied his busy task, thus ran
The meditations of the lonely man.

Of which “meditations,” says the editor, we have only space to give eight concluding lines, which certainly imply that there may be disadvantages connected even with gold digging:

Poor as the Prodigal who fed with swine,
His dimes all spent in rioting and wine,
Chased by misfortune over hill and dale
Like a stray dog with a tin-pail as his tail;
Too poor to leave, and out of luck to stay,
The chance is small to ever get away;
Thus thousands live, exposed to all the ills
That luckless miners suffer in the hills.

The Golden Era – Jan 22, 1865

*****

NOTE: Most of the images are cropped from the following book:

HUNTING FOR GOLD: reminisences [sic] of personal experience and research in the early days of the Pacific coast from Alaska to Panama.                                                                    by William Downie – 1893 (Google book LINK)

Our Union’s Future I Implore

Image from http://www.sonofthesouth.net

[Original.]
A PATRIOTIC POETICAL PARODY.

BY MRS. AURELIA CONANT GRIFFITH.

Once, upon an evening dreary,
While I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a mean and direful
Felony of the Southron corps —
Upon me slumbers stilly settle,
Disturbing naught the spirit’s mettle,
Continued with those thoughts to nettle —
Nettle my spirit’s very core;
“‘Tis but dreaming” oft I muttered,
“Settled upon my spirit’s core,
Only this and nothing more.”

“Oh, most surely I remember,
“‘Tis the last day of December,
“And that I am still a member
Of the Union I adore.
Vainly, thus I tried to waken,
Ev’ry measure I had taken,
Still my soul was horror-shaken —
Shaken for the land of yore;
For the good and glorious Union
Which our fathers formed of yore
Christening it with their heart’s gore.

And I fell to dreamful dozing;
Past and Future, thus disclosing,
Nerved me — swerved me into seeking
What I never sought before;
“Spirit one, or spirits seven,
“Come to me from Hell or Heaven,
“Only to my ken be given;
“Further knowledge, I implore,
Only to my sight be given
“Our Union’s Future I implore,
“This I asked and nothing more!”

Then, methought the air grew denser,
Perfumed from an unseen censer,
And a shadow ghostly gliding
Through the partly open door,
Cried, “Mortal, list to a confession
“Of the dying Year’s progression —
“Through the past annual session
“Sitting on Columbia’s shore,
To the Union you adore.

“List, I’ll read to you the reason
Why was born the darkest treason
Of devil sire and dusky dam;
Who, Union’s trouble gloating o’er,
Wildly chased a mad ambition,
Hoping for its full fruition
In their child’s future condition —
The fiendish, base-born Blackamoor;
Hoping in the full fruition
Of Tartarean Blackamoor
Learned in Plutonian lore.

“Davis, Beauregard, Toombs and Yancey!
A kingly bauble caught their fancy;
They wrought together, each one hoping
To claim the crown, and sceptered store;
But Abram cried, “Haste to repent thee,
Drop the power that Satan sent thee,
And pray the people for nepenthe!”
They laughed to see the Eagle soar,
With wrathful mien of majesty;
They mocked to see the Eagle soar,
And answered proudly “Nevermore!”

This last word was uttered gasping,
While his hands were wildly grasping
The seraphic scented air; then he
Vanished to return no more;
Vanished as the mystic token
Twelve at midnight had been spoken;
Then the silence was unbroken
Till through the half ope’d door
Came the New Year’s stately shadow;
Gliding through the open door,
Benediction, ah, it bore!

And I bent to it with reverence,
Heart rejoicing at the sev’rance
From the Old Year’s ghost so direful,
Dyed with fratricidal gore —
while “Prophet!” said I “will this Nation,
The best and greatest since Creation,
Fall before this dark temptation,
Dwell in Hades’ dismal shore?
Will it cease to be a beacon
To the oppressed of every shore?”
Quoth the Shadow “Nevermore.”

“But as gold tried in the fire,
Like an eaglet rising higher,
And as winnowed wheat prepared
For the Master’s garnered store,
Shall the Union’s second birth be,
And then will all the earth see
The glory of true Liberty —
Greater than ’twas e’er before;
And the people treasure freedom
With a care ne’er known before,
That it may suffer nevermore.”

With these words the shadow vanished,
From my eye-lids sleep was banished,
But the happy heartfelt blessing
Of its promise, still did pour
Oil upon the waters troubled
For my country’s danger, doubled
Of my soul, where fear’s had bubbled
By Tatarean Blackamoor;
And I prayed that back to Tartarus
Banished be the Blackamoor,
To return here nevermore!

The Golden Era (San Francisco, California)  – Jan 5, 1862

***

The beginning of the original poem by Edgar Allan Poe: