Sonnets of a Budding Bard. Waterman Nixon

      Sometimes I get to wishin’ I might be

      A little lamb like Mary’s, fond and true,

      With Susan Sanderson as Mary, see?

      We’d play amidst the clover sweet with dew,

      And everywhere that she wast there’d be me,

      And if she wasn’t, I’dst be elsewhere, too

      I’ve just about madest up my mind to be

      A poet such as Shakespeare and the rest

      Of them big literary gents, and dressed

      In velvet clothes, write up the things I see

      In some grand style to show that Browning he

      Hast been done up! And when plain folks request

      My autograph, then, throwin’ out my chest,

      I’llst make them wish that they wast great like me!

      I’m tired dwellin’ midst surroundin’s where

      Cheap things art always waitin’ to be done:

      I’dst rather loaf and dream and have long hair

      Like all great poets dost: and, oh! what fun,

      To dash off lays and sell them, then and there,

      Whenever I’llst be needin’ any “mon.”

      Full oft I’ve read how Mary’s lamb didst go

      Where’er his kind and lovin’ mistress went,

      As if the little creature wast content

      If it couldst only be where she wast. Oh,

      I realize what madest it hanker so

      To be in school that day: it surely meant

      It loved her! Yet, that mean old teacher bent

      On bossin’ things – he didst not seem to know.

      Sometimes I get to wishin’ I might be

      A little lamb like Mary’s, fond and true,

      With Susan Sanderson as Mary, see?

      We’d play amidst the clover sweet with dew,

      And everywhere that she wast there’d be me,

      And if she wasn’t, I’dst be elsewhere, too.

      Whilst pa and ma art dressin’ up to go

      To church or somewhere, so I’ve heard ma tell

      The neighbor women, pa tears ’round pell-mell

      And turns things upside down, and wants to know

      Who hid his clothes! and makes ma stop and show

      Him where to find them. Ma she know’st full well

      They’re where he’s kept them since he earnest to dwell

      In our house: that’s been twenty years or so.

      And when ma’s donest her level best to try

      To help pa so he wilt not fuss and fret,

      And found his clothes, shoes, collar, cuffs and tie,

      And there ain’t nothin’ more for her to get,

      Pa looks at her and with an awful sigh

      Says: “Thunderation! Ain’t you ready yet?”

      Wise William Goat, familiarly addressed

      As “Billy!” Thou art an amusin’ brute,

      For thou hast some traits that are truly cute

      And others, still, so it must be confessed,

      That I hast learned in sorrow to detest.

      ’Tis fun to see thee, in thy manner mute,

      When boys dost tease thee, give some one a “beaut,”

      Yet, he who’s “it” deems thee a sorry jest.

      Yestreen I met some other boys, and we,

      At thy expense, wert havin’ much delight

      Till thou got’st ’round to where I didst not see

      That thou wast headed my way. Sorry plight!

      That’s why I write this standin’ – woe is me! —

      And slept’st upon my bosom all last night.

      O Adam and O Eve! How very nice

      It must have been to live where you wast at.

      No neighbors anywhere with whom to spat,

      Nor any one to give you free advice.

      Ma says she’d gladly pay ’most any price

      For such a lay-out. And she’s certain that

      Because there wert no servants in your flat

      Is how you camest to call it “Paradise.”

      And pa says that if Eve hadst dressed the way

      Our women do we shouldst have missed the fate

      Of goin’ forth into the world to stray,

      For she’d be somewhere, still, inside the gate

      Delayin’ things, as women dost to-day,

      A-tryin’ for to pin her hat on straight.

      O Washington! (O Reader, hast thou not

      In readin’ high-toned poems wrote for show,

      Observed how many of them start with “O?”

      Well, anyhow, there is an awful lot.)

      The noble deeds thou wrought’st are not forgot

      But serve to make thy name, where’er we go,

      A household word. If all they say is so

      Thou didst some mighty clever stunts. That’s what!

      And yet, thy fame belongest to thy dad;

      Thou shinest by reflected light, forsooth,

      For thou ’rt the only boy that ever had

      A pa who, when his son dared tell the truth

      About some kiddish prank didst not get mad

      And lamm him! O thou heaven-protected youth!

      When sister Maymie saidst she’d like to learn