THE DESPAIRING MUSE.

THE DESPAIRING MUSE.
359.6

Somebody has stolen the old garden | gate,
The millwheel has gone to decay.
The old oaken bucket is missing of late,
It must have been taken away.
The little red school house is wreck- ed and torn down,
Neglected its sad ruins lie,
The moths have quite eaten up grand- mother’s gown,
The old swimming hole has gone dry.

Somebody has taken the old trundle bed,
And broken the old cookle jar.
The old milking stool in its wreckage is spread
Out there where the chopping blocks are:
And the old lilac bushes that grew in the yard
Are pulled up and missing some- how:
Ah me, but the prospect is bitter and hard,
For what shall we write about now?

The old rustic bridge is a wreck by the brook,
They’ve paid off the mortgage, I вео.
Whose trials and tears have filled many a book,
And cut down the old apple tree;
The old dry goods box at the grocery store
Is spilt into kindling at last,
The day of the Neighborhood Poet is o’er,
His verses are things of the past.

The old log and seat that was there by the creek
Has fallen down into the stream,
No more may wo sit there and pa- tiently seek1
To weave the old days in a dream;
The old attic bedroom’s a thing of the past,
The old fron pump is no more,
And here by the kitchen we stand quite aghast;
They’ve pulled up the old cellar door!

The old cottage organ is hopelessly lost,
The rain barrel’s gone in decay,
The old stepping stones we so fre-
quently crossed
Somebody has taken away.
They’ve rebuilt the house, so old-fashioned and queer,
And butchered the old brindle cow:
Ah, Muse, let us go! We are not wel- come here!
But what shall we now? write about
-J. W. Foley.