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Wayside Weeds
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Through the warm September days;
Past the oily eddies sweeping
Where the hidden boulder lies;
Down the rapid gaily leaping
Where the spray about us flies.
Poling through the gravelly shallows,
Floating ’neath the alder’s shade,
Where the moose at noon-tide wallows,
And the beaver plies his trade;
Shoving through the rustling sedges,
Battling with the autumn gale;
Lifting over rocky ledges,
Sweating on the portage trail —
On we go, with steadfast faces,
Till at last with gladdened eyes,
We behold the secret places
Where the Maskinongé lies.
Shall we find him in the rushes?
Where the waterlilies grow?
Where the roaring torrent gushes?
In the foam-flecked pool below?
Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel,
Is the Maskinongé grim,
Who shall dare him to a duel?
Who shall fight and conquer him?
* * * *
Proudly with his spoil returning,
We with shouts the victor greet;
By the camp-fire brightly burning,
He shall have the warmest seat.
Is he hungry? Pile the platter;
Thirsty? Join the gay carouse;
Weary with his toil? What matter?
Heap his bed with balsam boughs.
Fill his pipe with rare Virginian,
Cheer him till the echoes ring,
Monarch of his new dominion,
Maskinongewagaming.
1904.
Magaguadavic[4 - Pronounced Mackadavy.] and Digdeguash
“Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel?”
Let each man praise the river
That’s dearest to his heart,
The Rhine, the Guadalquivir,
The Danube or the Dart.
Let others sing the Tavy,
The Tweed, the Wye, the Lea,
Give me the Magaguadavic,
The Digdeguash for me.
Some men choose lakes for fishing —
Ceceebe or Couchiching,
Namabinagashishing,
Kenongewagaming.
I’ll take my affidavy
That what they say is bosh;
Give me the Magaguadavic,
Give me the Digdeguash!
Beneath the shady willow
Cast cunningly your flies,
His wake a widening billow;
Behold the monster rise!
No dreadnought in the navy
Could make so big a splosh;
You’d hear at Magaguadavic
The trout of Digdeguash!
Behind the purple spruces
The golden sunset dies,
As each his pipe produces
And puts away his flies.
The basket’s full, the slavey
To-morrow morn shall wash
The spoils of Magaguadavic,
The loot of Digdeguash!
And when upon the table
They come to lie in state,
Hardly shall we be able
A decent grace to wait.
They need no sauce nor gravy,
For none can beat, by gosh!
The trout of Magaguadavic,
But those of Digdeguash!
Past the oily eddies sweeping
Where the hidden boulder lies;
Down the rapid gaily leaping
Where the spray about us flies.
Poling through the gravelly shallows,
Floating ’neath the alder’s shade,
Where the moose at noon-tide wallows,
And the beaver plies his trade;
Shoving through the rustling sedges,
Battling with the autumn gale;
Lifting over rocky ledges,
Sweating on the portage trail —
On we go, with steadfast faces,
Till at last with gladdened eyes,
We behold the secret places
Where the Maskinongé lies.
Shall we find him in the rushes?
Where the waterlilies grow?
Where the roaring torrent gushes?
In the foam-flecked pool below?
Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel,
Is the Maskinongé grim,
Who shall dare him to a duel?
Who shall fight and conquer him?
* * * *
Proudly with his spoil returning,
We with shouts the victor greet;
By the camp-fire brightly burning,
He shall have the warmest seat.
Is he hungry? Pile the platter;
Thirsty? Join the gay carouse;
Weary with his toil? What matter?
Heap his bed with balsam boughs.
Fill his pipe with rare Virginian,
Cheer him till the echoes ring,
Monarch of his new dominion,
Maskinongewagaming.
1904.
Magaguadavic[4 - Pronounced Mackadavy.] and Digdeguash
“Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel?”
Let each man praise the river
That’s dearest to his heart,
The Rhine, the Guadalquivir,
The Danube or the Dart.
Let others sing the Tavy,
The Tweed, the Wye, the Lea,
Give me the Magaguadavic,
The Digdeguash for me.
Some men choose lakes for fishing —
Ceceebe or Couchiching,
Namabinagashishing,
Kenongewagaming.
I’ll take my affidavy
That what they say is bosh;
Give me the Magaguadavic,
Give me the Digdeguash!
Beneath the shady willow
Cast cunningly your flies,
His wake a widening billow;
Behold the monster rise!
No dreadnought in the navy
Could make so big a splosh;
You’d hear at Magaguadavic
The trout of Digdeguash!
Behind the purple spruces
The golden sunset dies,
As each his pipe produces
And puts away his flies.
The basket’s full, the slavey
To-morrow morn shall wash
The spoils of Magaguadavic,
The loot of Digdeguash!
And when upon the table
They come to lie in state,
Hardly shall we be able
A decent grace to wait.
They need no sauce nor gravy,
For none can beat, by gosh!
The trout of Magaguadavic,
But those of Digdeguash!
Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
Далее