HA! Bully for me, again, when my turn for picket is over; | |
| And now for a smoke, as I lie, with the moonlight, out in the clover, | |
| My pipe, it’s only a knot from the root of the brier-wood tree; | |
| But it turns my heart to the northward—Harry gave it to me. | |
| And I’m but a rough, at best—bred up in the row and the riot, | 5 |
| But a softness comes over my heart when all are asleep and quiet. | |
| For many a time in the night strange things appear to my eye, | |
| As the breath from my brier-wood pipe sails up between me and the sky. | |
| Last night a beautiful spirit arose with the wisping smoke; | |
| O, I shook, but my heart felt good as it spread out its hands and spoke, | 10 |
| Saying, “I am the soul of the brier; we grew at the root of a tree, | |
| Where lovers would come in the twilight, two ever, for company; | |
| Where lovers would come in the morning, ever but two together; | |
| When the flowers were full in their blow, the birds in their song and feather; | |
| Where lovers would come in the noon-time, loitering, never but two: | 15 |
| Looking in each other’s eyes, like the pigeons that kiss and coo | |
| And O, the honeyed words that came when the lips were parted, | |
| And the passion that glowed in eyes, and the lightning looks that darted. | |
| Enough: love dwells in the pipe, so ever it glows with fire! | |
| I am the soul of the bush, and spirits call me ‘sweet-brier’.” | 20 |
| That’s what the brier-wood said, as nigh as my tongue can tell; | |
| And the words went straight to my heart, like the stroke of the fire bell! | |
| To-night I lie in the clover watching the blossoming smoke; | |
| I’m glad the boys are asleep, for I ain’t in the humor to joke. | |
| I lie in the hefty clover: between me and the moon | 25 |
| The smoke from my pipe arises: my heart will be quiet soon. | |
| My thoughts are back in the city. I’m everything I’ve been. | |
| I hear the bell from the tower, I run with the swift machine. | |
| I see the red shirts crowding around the engine-house door; | |
| The foreman’s hail through the trumpet comes with a sullen roar. | 30 |
| The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in the beer saloon, | |
| When I put in my licks at Big Paul, come between me and the moon. | |
| I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the cowskin boots; | |
| We are marching to the capital, the Fire Zouave recruits! | |
| White handkerchiefs move before me: O, but the sight is pretty! | 35 |
| On the white marble steps, as we march through the heart of the city, | |
| Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bid us good hap, | |
| And the splendid lady who gave me the havelock for my cap. | |
| O, up from my pipe-cloud rises, between me and the moon, | |
| A beautiful white-robed lady: my heart will be quiet soon. | 40 |
| The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I see, | |
| Who gave me the snow-white havelock—but what does she care for me? | |
| Look at my grimy features: mountains between us stand— | |
| I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her jewelled hand! | |
| What care I? The day that’s dawning may see me, when all is over, | 45 |
| With the red stream of my life-blood staining the hefty clover. | |
| Hark! the reveille sounding out on the morning air! | |
| Devils are we for the battle—will there be angels there? | |
| Kiss me again, sweet-brier! The touch of your lips to mine | |
| Brings back the white-robed lady, with hair like the golden wine! | 50 |
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