Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,-- Not the one of History, Who, with flaming tongue and pen, Scathes the vanities of men; Not the one whose biting wit Cuts pretense and etches it On the brazen brow that dares Filch the laurel that it wears: Not the Donn Piatt whose praise Echoes in the noisy ways Of the faction, onward led By the statesman!--But, instead, Give the simple man to me,-- Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! II. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! Branches of the old oak tree, Drape him royally in fine Purple shade and golden shine! Emerald plush of sloping lawn Be the throne he sits upon! And, O Summer sunset, thou Be his crown, and gild a brow Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed By the breezes, mellow-palmed As Erata's white hand agleam On the forehead of a dream.-- So forever rule o'er me, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! III. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: Through a lilied memory Plays the wayward little creek Round thy home at hide-and-seek-- As I see and hear it, still Romping round the wooded hill, Till its laugh-and-babble blends With the silence while it sends Glances back to kiss the sight, In its babyish delight, Ere it strays amid the gloom Of the glens that burst in bloom Of the rarest rhyme for thee, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! IV. Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! What a darling destiny Has been mine--to meet him there-- Lolling in an easy chair On the terrace, while he told Reminiscences of old-- Letting my cigar die out, Hearing poems talked about; And entranced to hear him say Gentle things of Thackeray, Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, Known to him as host and guest-- Known to him as he to me-- Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! THEM FLOWERS. Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf, All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore-- Jes all so knocked out he can't handle hisself With a stiff upper-lip any more; Shet him up all alone in the gloom of a room As dark as the tomb, and as grim, And then take and send him some roses in bloom, And you can have fun out o' him! You've ketched him 'fore now--when his liver was sound And his appetite notched like a saw-- A-mockin' you, mayby, fer romancin' round With a big posy-bunch in yer paw; But you ketch him, say, when his health is away, And he's flat on his back in distress, And _then_ you kin trot out yer little bokay And not be insulted, I guess! You see, it's like this, what his weaknesses is,-- Them flowers makes him think of the days Of his innocent youth, and that mother o' his, And the roses that _she_ us't to raise:-- So here, all alone with the roses you send-- Bein' sick and all trimbly and faint,-- My eyes is--my eyes is--my eyes is--old friend-- Is a-leakin'--I'm blamed ef they ain't! THE QUIET LODGER.