Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two. Various

      Grandma told me all about it,

      Told me so I could not doubt it,

      How she danced, my grandma danced, long ago!

      How she held her pretty head,

      How her dainty skirts she spread,

      How she turned her little toes,

      Smiling little human rose!

      Grandma's hair was bright and shining,

      Dimpled cheeks, too! ah! how funny!

      Bless me, now she wears a cap,

      My grandma does, and takes a nap every single day;

      Yet she danced the minuet long ago;

      Now she sits there rocking, rocking,

      Always knitting grandpa's stocking—

      Every girl was taught to knit long ago—

      But her figure is so neat,

      And her ways so staid and sweet,

      I can almost see her now,

      Bending to her partner's bow, long ago.

      Grandma says our modern jumping,

      Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping,

      Would have shocked the gentle people long ago.

      No, they moved with stately grace,

      Everything in proper place,

      Gliding slowly forward, then

      Slowly courtesying back again.

      Modern ways are quite alarming, grandma says,

      But boys were charming—

      Girls and boys I mean, of course—long ago,

      Sweetly modest, bravely shy!

      What if all of us should try just to feel

      Like those who met in the stately minuet, long ago.

      With the minuet in fashion,

      Who could fly into a passion?

      All would wear the calm they wore long ago,

      And if in years to come, perchance,

      I tell my grandchild of our dance,

      I should really like to say,

      We did it in some such way, long ago.

      We are two travellers, Roger and I.

      Roger's my dog—Come here, you scamp!

      Jump for the gentleman—mind your eye!

      Over the table—look out for the lamp!—

      The rogue is growing a little old;

      Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

      And slept outdoors when nights were cold,

      And ate, and drank—and starved together.

      We've learned what comfort is, I tell you:

      A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

      A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow,

      The paw he holds up there has been frozen),

      Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

      (This outdoor business is bad for strings),

      Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,

      And Roger and I set up for kings!

      No, thank you, Sir, I never drink.

      Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

      Aren't we, Roger? see him wink.

      Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.

      He's thirsty, too—see him nod his head?

      What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk;

      He understands every word that's said,

      And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

      The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

      I've been so sadly given to grog,

      I wonder I've not lost the respect

      (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.

      But he sticks by through thick and thin;

      And this old coat with its empty pockets

      And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

      He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

      There isn't another creature living

      Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

      So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

      To such a miserable, thankless master.

      No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin—

      By George! it makes my old eyes water—

      That is, there's something in this gin

      That chokes a fellow, but no matter!

      We'll have some music, if you're willing.

      And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)

      Shall march a little.—Start, you villain!

      Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!

      'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!

      (Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold

      Your cap while the gentleman gives a trifle

      To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

      March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes,

      When he stands up to hear his sentence;

      Now tell me how many drams it takes

      To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

      Five yelps—that's five; he's mighty knowing;

      The night's before us, fill the glasses;—

      Quick, Sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!—

      Some brandy,—thank you;—there,—it passes!

      Why not reform? That's easily said;

      But I've gone through such wretched treatment,

      Sometimes