Or would you rather rove cool hills between? Exploring, mayhap, many a sylvan scene? Or nay--no--you wisely choose beneath tall trees, To just sit here, and sweetly take your ease. Then, Maid of Denver, here’s my hand! Share, oh kindly share with me my land. Fonder “hubby” you will never know, No, no, my pretty maid, my city maid, I love, I love you so. _“POET, MAY I PAIL YOUR COW?”_ _She_: “Poet--pastoral poet-- Poet, don’t you know it? Poet, please, sir, may I now? Poet, I would dearly love to pail your cow!” _He_: “Maid of Denver, then you may; I will bait her with some hay. So, boss--so, there, now! So,--so--you blamed old cow! “Just watch her kick-up, like a steer; Race away in mad career; But I can catch her; oh, yes, dear-- Snare her with my lariat Snub her, stretch her out, Tie her horns and tie her feet, She may bellow, she may fret. We shall pail her. Conquer her? Oh dear, yes, you bet! “Maid of Denver, try her now; She is humbled--s’drat that cow! Did she cavort like a steer? Bellow loudly in your ear? She did; yes, she did. But shall we pail her?” _She_: “Well, no, nay--not just now, poet, dear.” _WAS MAN MADE TO MOURN?_ “Man was made to mourn.” --Robert Burns. From Eden barred, abased, forlorn Man, some mortals say, was made to mourn. (Some even think his wicked soul should burn!) Of “sin original,” inoculated at the first, His “scapegoat” race they hold accursed. For Adam’s fault they’d make his offspring’s sweat, For Eve’s one error do hateful penance yet. Such silly cant--such canters--I could spurn! Nay, nay, man was not made to mourn. Joy, joy, presided at our birth; Heaven sent great gladness upon earth. Nature triumphed on our natal morn. Creation thrilled when man was born! Nay, nay; man was not made to mourn! Discard that old familiar saw. It is a rusty relic, dull and worn, A heathen tool with many a flaw. Nay, nay, it is a duty to be good; It is religious to be glad! O’er wrongs, o’er losses, wherefore brood? ’Tis wicked--sinful--to be sad! Nay, nay; man was not made to mourn; From Grief (that vile old sorceress) let us turn, At Pleasure’s shrine, far holier, happier lessons, we shall learn. _A HAPPY LOITERER_ Beneath our blue Colorado skies, Where tall mountains gladden eyes, Here I seek the care-free muse Till life’s burdens all I lose. Far away from Sorrow’s brood, How I love serene, sweet Solitude! What to me is worldling’s strife, While I lead this placid, unobtrusive life? Men or crosses, men of rules, Teach me not in Trouble’s schools. Wilful truant, I would lie Listening to the wild-bird’s melody.