Come driving down the tide, sir.
“Therefore prepare for bloody war,
The kegs must all be routed,
Or surely we despised shall be,
And British courage doubted.”
The royal band now ready stand,
All ranged in dead array, sir,
With stomach stout to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore,
The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began I’m sure no man
E’er saw so strange a battle.
The rebel dales, the rebel vales,
With rebel trees surrounded,
The distant woods, the hills and floods,
With rebel echoes sounded.
The fish below swam to and fro,
Attacked from every quarter;
Why sure, thought they, the devil’s to pay
’Mongst folks above the water.
The kegs, ’tis said, though strongly made
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,
Could not oppose their powerful foes,
And conquering British troops, sir.
From morn to night these men of might
Displayed amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retired to sup their porridge.
A hundred men with each a pen,
Or more, upon my word, sir,
It is most true would be too few,
Their valor to record, sir.
Such feats did they perform that day,
Against these wicked kegs, sir,
That, years to come, if they get home,
They’ll make their boasts and brags, sir.
—Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings.
Элизабет Грэм Фергюсон, одна из первых писательниц нашей страны, как и многие ее современники, сохраняла стиль и манеру английской поэзии. Ее строки о сельском пасторе демонстрируют тонкую сатирическую жилку.
СЕЛЬСКИЙ ПАСТОР
How happy is the country parson’s lot!
Forgetting bishops, as by them forgot;
Tranquil of spirit, with an easy mind,
To all his vestry’s votes he sits resigned:
Of manners gentle, and of temper even,
He jogs his flocks, with easy pace, to heaven.
In Greek and Latin, pious books he keeps;
And, while his clerk sings psalms, he—soundly sleeps.
His garden fronts the sun’s sweet orient beams,
And fat church-wardens prompt his golden dreams.
The earliest fruit, in his fair orchard, blooms;
And cleanly pipes pour out tobacco’s fumes.
From rustic bridegroom oft he takes the ring;
And hears the milkmaid plaintive ballads sing.
Back-gammon cheats whole winter nights away,
And Pilgrim’s Progress helps a rainy day.
Президент Джон Куинси Адамс настолько отступал от своего политического достоинства, что писал легкие стихи.
СЭЛЛИ
The man in righteousness arrayed,
A pure and blameless liver,
Needs not the keen Toledo blade,
Nor venom-freighted quiver.
What though he winds his toilsome way
O’er regions wild and weary—
Through Zara’s burning desert stray,
Or Asia’s jungles dreary:
What though he plough the billowy deep
By lunar light, or solar,
Meet the resistless Simoon’s sweep,
Or iceberg circumpolar!
In bog or quagmire deep and dank
His foot shall never settle;
He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc,
Or Popocatapetl.
On Chimborazo’s breathless height
He treads o’er burning lava;
Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight,
The deathful plant of Java.
Through every peril he shall pass,
By Virtue’s shield protected;
And still by Truth’s unerring glass
His path shall be directed.
Else wherefore was it, Thursday last,
While strolling down the valley,
Defenceless, musing as I passed
A canzonet to Sally,
A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout,
Forth from the thicket bounded—
I clapped my hands and raised a shout—
He heard—and fled—confounded.
Tangier nor Tunis never bred
An animal more crabbed;
Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed
A monster half so rabid;
Nor Ararat so fierce a beast
Has seen since days of Noah;
Nor stronger, eager for a feast,
The fell constrictor boa.
Oh! place me where the solar beam
Has scorched all verdure vernal;
Or on the polar verge extreme,
Blocked up with ice eternal—
Still shall my voice’s tender lays
Of love remain unbroken;
And still my charming Sally praise,
Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.
Примерно в это время Клемент К. Мур написал рождественскую историю, которая с тех пор стала национальным классическим произведением.
ВИЗИТ СВЯТОГО НИКОЛАЯ
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
Вашингтон Ирвинг, хотя его работы и пересыпаны юмором, не может быть процитирован в полном объеме.
Приводится отрывок из его веселых стихов.
НЕКОЯ ЮНАЯ ЛЕДИ
There’s a certain young lady,
Who’s just in her heyday,
And full of all mischief, I ween;
So teasing! so pleasing!
Capricious! delicious!
And you know very well whom I mean.
With an eye dark as night,
Yet than noonday more bright,
Was ever a black eye so keen?
It can thrill with a glance,
With a beam can entrance,
And you know very well whom I mean.
With a stately step—such as
You’d expect in a duchess—
And a brow might distinguish a queen,
With a mighty proud air,
That says “touch me who dare,”
And you know very well whom I mean.
With a toss of the head
That strikes one quite dead,
But a smile to revive one again;
That toss so appalling!
That smile so enthralling!
And you know very well whom I mean.
Confound her! devil take her!—
A cruel heart-breaker—
But hold! see that smile so serene.
God love her! God bless her!
May nothing distress her!
You know very well whom I mean.
Heaven help the adorer
Who happens to bore her,
The lover who wakens her spleen;
But too blest for a sinner
Is he who shall win her,
And you know very well whom I mean.
Уильям Каллен Брайант, как и большинство поэтов Новой Англии, не часто был юмористичен в своих работах. Пожалуй, ближе всего он подошел к этому в своих «Строках к комару».
К КОМАРУ
Fair insect! that with threadlike legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about,
In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need?
Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,
Full angrily men harken to thy plaint;
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,
For saying thou art gaunt and starved and faint.
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.
I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth—
Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,
The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy.
Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,
And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,
Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,
Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;
The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.
At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway—
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;
And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.
Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty’s light,
As if it brought the memory of pain.
Thou art a wayward being—well—come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.
What say’st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick,
Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood.
Go! ’Twas a just reward that met thy crime—
But shun the sacrilege another time.
That bloom was made to look at—not to touch;
To worship—not approach—that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired—
Murmur’d thy admiration and retired.
Thou’rt welcome to the town—but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.
Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enrich’d by gen’rous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,
Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet.
Go to the men for whom, in ocean’s halls,
The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.
There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.
Фиц-Грин Халлек много писал в соавторстве с Джозефом Родманом Дрейком, и часто бывает трудно разделить их работы.
ОДА ФОРТУНЕ
Fair lady with the bandaged eye!
I’ll pardon all thy scurvy tricks,
So thou wilt cut me, and deny
Alike thy kisses and thy kicks:
I’m quite contented as I am,
Have cash to keep my duns at bay,
Can choose between beefsteaks and ham,
And drink Madeira every day.
My station is the middle rank,
My fortune—just a competence—
Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank,
And twenty in the six per cents;
No amorous chains my heart enthrall,
I neither borrow, lend, nor sell;
Fearless I roam the City Hall,
And bite my thumb at Sheriff Bell.
The horse that twice a week I ride
At Mother Dawson’s eats his fill;
My books at Goodrich’s abide,
My country-seat is Weehawk hill;
My morning lounge is Eastburn’s shop,
At Poppleton’s I take my lunch,
Niblo prepares my mutton-chop,
And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch.
When merry, I the hours amuse
By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls,
And when I’m troubled with the blues
Damn Clinton and abuse cards:
Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize,
At least preserve me from thy frown!
The man who don’t attempt to rise
’Twere cruelty to tumble down.
Альберт Гортон Грин также писал в манере своих английских предшественников; действительно, его «Старый Граймс» вполне созвучен Тому Гуду или Голдсмиту.
СТАРЫЕ ЗВОНЫ
Old Grimes is dead; that good old man
We never shall see more:
He used to wear a long, black coat,
All buttoned down before.
His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray—
He wore it in a queue.
Whene’er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn’d;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn’d.
Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design:
His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind.
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.
Unharm’d, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass’d securely o’er,
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.
But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune’s frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest—
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbors he did not abuse—
Was sociable and gay:
He wore large buckles on his shoes
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,
Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune’s chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturb’d by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.
Ральф Уолдо Эмерсон редко бывает юмористичен или даже склонен к легкому тону. Его басня о белке демонстрирует изящное остроумие.
БАСНЯ
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter “Little Prig”;
Bun replied,
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere,
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
Натаниэль Паркер Уиллис был популярным автором светской сатиры как в прозе, так и в стихах.
ЛЮБОВЬ В КОТТЕДЖЕ
They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine—
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half-divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier—
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mama too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies—
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease—
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady.
His foot’s an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp’d with a jewel
And shot from a silver string.
Сиба Смит, один из первых, кто отошел от английских традиций, писал под псевдонимом майор Джек Даунинг. Он был пионером в области диалектного письма и первым, кто начал высмеивать речь и манеры Новой Англии.
Ниже приводится часть его скетча под названием
МОЙ ПЕРВЫЙ ВИЗИТ В ПОРТЛЕНД
После того как я походил часа три или четыре, я подошел к верхней части города, где обнаружил лавки и магазины всех видов и размеров. И встретил я одного парня, и говорю:
— Что это за место?
— Ну, это, — говорит он, — Хаклерс-Роу.
— Что! — говорю я, — это те самые магазины, где держат торговцы в Хаклерс-Роу?
А он говорит: — Да.
— Ну что ж, — говорю я про себя, — у меня есть чертовски сильное желание зайти и попробовать потягаться с одним из этих ребят, посмотреть, смогут ли они вырвать мои зубы мудрости. Если они смогут обвести меня вокруг пальца, то они могут сделать то, чего не может сделать ни один человек в наших краях; и мне просто хотелось бы знать, из какого теста сделаны эти портлендские ребята. И я зашел в самый приличный на вид магазин. Вижу, на полке лежат сухари, и говорю:
— Мистер, почем вы продаете эти сухари за штуку?
— По центу за штуку, — говорит он.
— Ну, — говорю я, — я не дам вам столько, но если хотите, я дам вам два цента за три штуки, потому что я начинаю чувствовать, что не прочь перекусить.
— Ну, — говорит он, — я бы никому другому так не продал, но раз уж это вы, то я не против, забирайте.
Я знал, что он врет, потому что он никогда в жизни меня не видел. Ну, он подал сухари, я взял их и походил по магазину, чтобы посмотреть, что еще у него есть на продажу. Наконец я говорю:
— Мистер, у вас есть хороший сидр?
Он говорит: — Да, такой хороший, какого вы еще не видели.
— Ну, — говорю я, — почем вы продаете его за стакан?
— Два цента, — говорит он.
— Ну, — говорю я, — кажется, сейчас я больше хочу пить, чем есть. Не хотите ли вы забрать эти сухари обратно и дать мне стакан сидра? — и он говорит:
— Я не против.
Он взял их, положил обратно на полку и налил стакан сидра. Я взял стакан сидра, выпил его, и, по правде говоря, это был отличный сидр. Тогда я говорю:
— Полагаю, мне пора идти, — и направился к двери; но он вскакивает и говорит:
— Постойте, мистер, кажется, вы не заплатили мне за сидр.
— Не заплатил за сидр! — говорю я, — что вы имеете в виду? Разве сухари, которые я вам отдал, не стоили как раз этого сидра?
— О, а, верно! — говорит он.
Я снова собрался уходить, но не успел дойти до двери, как он говорит:
— Но постойте, мистер, вы не заплатили мне за сухари.
— Что! — говорю я, — вы хотите меня обмануть? Вы думаете, я заплачу вам за сухари и позволю вам оставить их себе? Разве они не лежат сейчас на вашей полке? Что вам еще нужно? Полагаю, сэр, вы меня так не проведете.