Saga of the oak, and other poemsVenable, William Henry
General
Saga of the oak, and other poems
Venable, William Henry
American poetry -- 20th century
Hard by Mineami Bayou,
Where the gadding breezes cool
Loiter up from the Ohio,
Gabriel, at sink of sun,
Throned upon a wooden stool,
Fondled his accordion.
Then the ragged urchins round,
And their brown-legged sisters, maybe,
Lugging each a flax-haired baby,--
Sometimes, too, the weary mothers,
Yea, and I, and lingering others,
By sad, dulcet quaverings won,
Gathered near to catch the sound;
O’er the hill the risen moon
Paused to hear the mellow tune;
All too sadly, all too soon,
Gabriel would cease to play,
Light his pipe and puff away.
“Vas a Fräulein,”--mumbled he;
“Vish I vas to-night not hier;
Not America for me,--
Only shust das lager-bier.”
“Play a waltz now, Gabriel!” “Nein,
Rhine wein ist der beste wein.”
Gabriel did sigh and sadden
For the linden shades of Baden,
For the glooms of Schwartzenwald;
So a homesick brief he scrawled
To his mother, her to tell
That he was not strong or well.
(Of the Fräulein wrote he not,--
Haply Gabriel forgot.)
Soon the doting mother old,--
Four-score were her years and three,--
Sent the lout a purse of gold,
With the summons--“Come to me!
Komm zu mir, mein Sohn, geschwind,
Komm zu mir, mein liebes Kind.”
From the Ohio’s crooked vale,
Flying fast by rail and sail,
Home to Schwartzenwald away,
Eastward to the Land of Play,
Gabriel of Schwartzenwald
Followed the mother-tongue that called
From the fatherland in tearful tone,
“Komm, Gabriel, mein lieber Sohn!”
Followed the mother-voice and the call
Of the nameless Fräulein, short or tall,
And the coaxing lisp of the linden leaves,
And the bark of a dog forlorn that grieves
For an absent master; the gurgle, too,
Of bottled grape-juice and foamy brew,
And the tweedle-dee of the fiddle gay
That leads to the dance on a holiday;--
Followed his dreams and his memories,
Whirled with the sleeping speed of wheels,
Flew on the eager wings of the breeze,
Doubting of naught that his foolish heart feels,
Sure that the country of Do-as-you-please,
If any such ever is found upon earth,
Is the home of our mother, the land of our birth.
COFFEA ARABICA.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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