"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea, –
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? -
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!'

Sweetly along the Salem road

99

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,

Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
Of voices shouting, far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—
"What to me is this noisy ride?

What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,

And hear a cry from a reeling deck!

Hate me and curse me,

I only dread

The hand of God and the face of the dead!"

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him!- why should we?"
Said an old wife mourning her only son,
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run !
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

From THE BIGLOW PAPERS.

James Russell Lowell.

DEAR SIR,- Your letter come to han'

Requestin' me to please be funny;
But I ain't made upon a plan

Thet knows wut's comin', gall or honey:
Ther''s times the world doos look so queer,
Odd fancies come afore I call 'em;

An' then agin, for half a year,

No preacher 'thout a call 's more solemn.

You 're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute,
Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,
An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit,
I'd take an' citify my English.

I ken write long-tailed, ef I please,

But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee;

Then, 'fore I know it, my idees

Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,

I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin';
The parson's books, life, death an' time

Hev took some trouble with my schoolin';

Nor th' airth don't get put out with me,

Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman;

Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree

But half forgives my bein' human.

An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way

Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger; Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay,

While book-froth seems to whet your hunger; For puttin' in a downright lick

'twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can metch it, An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick Ez stret-grained hickory does a hetchet.

But when I can't, I can't, thet's all,
For Natur' won't put up with gullin';
hev to shove an' haul

Idees you

Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein : Live thoughts ain't sent fer; thru all rifts O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards, Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts

Feel thet th' old airth's a-wheelin' sunwards.

Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick

Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,

An' into ary place 'ould stick

Without no bother nor objection;

But sence the war my thoughts hang back
Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em,

An' subs'tutes, they don't never lack,

But then they'll slope afore you've mist 'em.

Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz;
I can't see wut there is to hender,
An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz,
Like bumblebees agin a winder;

'fore these times come, in all airth's row,

Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in,

Where I could hide an' think,— but now

It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'.

Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number, An', creakin' 'cross the snow crus' white,

Walk the col' starlight into summer;
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell

Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.

I hev been gladder o' sech things

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,
They filled my heart with livin' springs,
But now they seem to freeze 'em over;
Sights innercent ez babes on knee,
Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle,
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me

To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.

In-doors an' out by spells I try;

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',
But leaves my natur' stiff and dry
Ez fiel's of clover arter mowin';
An' her jes' keepin' on the same,
Calmer'n a clock, an' never carin',
An' findin' nary thing to blame,

Is wus than ef she took to swearin'.

Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane
The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
But I can't hark to wut they're say'n',