there he lay, serenely, and defied the powers to budge him,
Reposing like a baby, with his head upon a rail;
But Shamus seemed unhappy, and from time to time would nudge him,
Though his prods of protestation were without the least avail.
Then to that goatish mind, maybe, a sense of fell disaster
Came stealing like a spectre in the dim and dreary dawn;
For his bleat of warning blended with the snoring of his master
In a chorus of calamity — but Casey slumbered on.
Yet oh, that goat was troubled, for his efforts were redoubled;
Now he tugged at Casey’s whisker, now he nibbled at his ear;
Now he shook him by the shoulder, and with fear becoming bolder,
He bellowed like a foghorn, but the sleeper did not hear.
Then up and down the railway line he scampered for assistance;
But anxiously he hurried back and sought with tug and strain
To pull his master off the track … when sudden! in the distance
He heard the roar and rumble of the fast approaching train.
Did Shamus faint and falter? No, he stood there stark and splendid.
True, his tummy was distended, but he gave his horns a toss.
By them his goathood’s honour would be gallantly defended,
And if their valour failed him — he would perish with his boss.
So dauntlessly he lowered his head, and ever clearer, clearer,
He heard the throb and thunder of the Continental Mail.
He would face that mighty monster. It was coming nearer, nearer;
He would fight it, he would smite it, but he’d never show his tail.
Can you see that hirsute hero, standing there in tragic glory?
Can you hear the Pullman porters shrieking horror to the sky?
No, you can’t; because my story has no end so grim and gory,
For Shamus did not perish and his master did not die.
At this very present moment Casey swaggers hale and hearty,
And Shamus strolls beside him with a bright bell at his throat;
While the recent Missis Rooney is the gayest of the party,
For now she’s Missis Casey and she’s crazy for that goat.
You’re wondering what happened? Well, you know that truth is stranger
Than the wildest brand of fiction, so I’ll tell you without shame.…
There was Shamus and his master in the face of awful danger,
And the giant locomotive dashing down in smoke and flame.…
What power on earth could save them? Yet a golden inspiration
To gods and goats alike may come, so in that brutish brain
A thought was born — the ould red shawl.… Then rearing with elation,
Like lightning Shamus threw it up — AND FLAGGED AND STOPPED THE TRAIN.
My Rocking Chair
When I am old and worse for wear
I want to buy a rocking chair,
And set it on a porch where shine
The stars of morning glory vine;
With just beyond, a gleam of grass,
A shady street where people pass;
And some who come with time to spare,
To yarn beside my rocking chair.
Then I will light my corncob pipe
And dose and dream and rarely gripe.
My morning paper on my knee
I won’t allow to worry me.
For if I know the latest news
Is bad, — to read it I’ll refuse,
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