S.! i iI li y^m^s^^^^'^- ;3£T ' LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ' ©l^jt. ^ Snii^# In. rWTED STATES OF AMERICA. Don Maguire's POEMS. ^. V , -TO879.TO y NEW YORK: TROWS PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING CO., 205-213 East i2TH Street. 1879. If by Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, DON MAGUIRE, at Washington. In the Office of the Librarian of Congress ll^itbnHxrit TO THOSE BRIGHT, VANISHED HOURS, WHOSE DURATION WAS THE PERIOD ^ OF MY DEAREST JOYS ON EARTH ; TO THOSE HOPES THAT WERE SO NEAR BEING REALIZED; TO THOSE FRIENDS THAT WERE TRIED, AND FOUND TRUE ; TO THAT FAIR CALIFORNIAN WHOM I SHALL NEVER MORE SEE ; AND TO HER WHO, VET UNKNOWN, BUT WHO, IN THE DIM AND DISTANT TWILIGHT OF THE FUTURE, IS PREPARING HERSELF TO BECOME THE MEEK AND LOVING SHARER OF MY HUMBLE FORTUNES, THESE POEMS ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS PAGE Erlinda. A Tale of Spanish California 9 The Marriage of Nancy Todd 46 The Cock and the Monkey 67 Condemn Me not 72 Farewell to Nevada 75 The Pride of Bill William's Fork 77 Down in Arizona 80 The Loss of Big Kasock 83 The Dying Arizonian S6 Paddy Whack and Trotter's Ghost. An Epic of Latter Days 92 Visions of the Midnight 124 Breeches on . 128 The Bashful Husband ; or, He went to Bed with His The Man that Lived on Bumble Bee. ^37 ^^4 To a Coyote , Emancipation ^"7 The Exile's Bride ^^9 The Children of Nature. A Tale of Nevada 191 210 A Vision of the Night 215 Written in Santa Barbara Churchyard. [Spanish Mission.] Nevada. 218 Limestone Dick. A Tale of the Early Days of White Pine, VI CONTENTS. PACK Death's Famous Trip to Cerro Gordo 23S Amelia. 236 Even so 238 The Kiss 240 Adieu to Granada 241 The Lonely Banks of the Dirty Devil 243 To a Xevadian Killed in a Mine 246 The Old Cock's Story ; or, Cock-Fighting Among the Gods 248 The Irish Sentinel 256 Battle of Corinth 259 Arkansas Courtship 262 On Grand River, Long Ago 268 Loch Erne Shore , 274 To a Moorish Beauty 275 The Warrior of Old Tybee 277 Lines 2S0 Musings 281 Angel from a Higher World 284 Despondency 285 To a Fair Italian 288 Merceda 289 Ode 1 292 Ode II 294 Ode III 297 Ode IV 300 Ode V 302 A Recipe for Arizona Whiskey 309 How True to Thee 309 CONTENTS. vii PAGE To Tom 310 Towser's Death-Letter to Fanny 311 To the Scolding Wife 317 To a Scolding Husband 320 Epistle , 322 The Complaint of the Ox 325 The Noble Heart may Beat with Woe, but the Wise Heart, Never. , 328 To * * * * * * 330 Address to the Deity , 331 A Lampoon 334 Old King Kod 337 The Hour of Melancholy 33S Angelus 342 The Ragged Adventurer 343 The Angel's Visit 346 Profit and Loss 347 Sir Richard Neathery 349 The Song of the Irish Harper 350 Banner Song 352 Impromptu Queries 354 The Voice of Genius 354 Written One Evening while in Low Spirits 355 O Lord, Protect the Brave 356 Lines 357 To * * * * * * 358 To * * * * ** 359 Reflections. 361 Lines Written on My Twenty-first Birthday 362 Vlli CONTENTS. PAGE Forsaken 363 Maggie—A Song 365 Come, Rest Thy Head 366 Address to the Saviour 367 An Epistle to H. Rock, of San Francisco 369 Bitter Sweet 371 Song 372 The Contented Man .373 Pike County People. Bill's Story 375 Pike County People. Nancy's Story 378 Solomon 382 Lines 385 Maxims and Aphorisms 387 Toasts 401 Fables 404 — DON MAGUIRE'S POEMS, ERLINDA. A TALE OF SPANISH CALIFORNIA. Where San Fernando' s mission walls Stand like a prison, frail and old, Where softly oft the moonlight falls Through cross-barred windows dank and cold, How dead the spot that once did hold Life in its beauty, seems to-night ! And yet, no tale was ever told Of what brought on this gloomy blight That comes like a spectre ' to the traveller's sight. Standing alone, a ruin in its woe, The Indian Mission '—sunny haunts for ghosts Calls to the mind the happy long ago. When a golden age,' of which History boasts For this western shore, worthy of our toasts. Was born and ended. I-,ook now at its roof, Time-worn and broken ! While the hot sun roasts The old crumbled fabric lonely and aloof. Time here has parted the warp from out the woof. ; ; lO DON MAGUIRE'S POEMS. A soft feeling reigns, yet 'tis one of sorrow And a sense of loneliness brings a sense of fear, Till we pray for grace to guard until the morrow. Yet this is folly : for there is not near Any ghost of maiden or dead chiefs to leer At our intrusion, for all are dead as dead can be, Without wishing to turn up an anxious ear To hear strange voices ; and no eye doth see From those deep sockets a form like thee or me. Yes, over there, where the dead folk rest, Let us take a walk—they will never know it That we intrude above their honest breasts ; Or, if they do, let them rise and show it. it See ! yonder' s the spot, and still in below Are the cacti bushes loaded down with fruit. We'll pluck some to eat. See you how we do it But take care, my friend, or take the pricks to boot, For the little thorns from every quarter shoot. The fruit is fine—how I like its flavor ! No doubt 'tis nourished by a dead man's bones That gave up their marrow and its rich old savor, The loss of which did bring out some groans From the old dead miser away beneath the stones. Well, it's all right, the stones they did distil All poison from it ; so now make no moans, But take the fruit, and stop not till We have picked them o'er and you have ate your fill. Now all is light almost as day.* Far across the valley the owl he toots, Or chirrups his note, that doth betray. His own uneasiness as he onward shoots. ; — ; DON MAGUIRE'S POEMS. II Looking alway for the mole that roots His hole at this hour. And the little mouse Nibbles the leaves, watching old sly-boots For near, in the shadow of yon little house, The cat is watching his supper to arouse. The bright stars twinkle as they help the moon this illumination of Terror's In Old face ; And indeed, to us 'tis a precious boon, For now around us 'tis not hard to trace relics fallen The remains and of the race ; And which will aid me to point out to you Each spot, still sacred to this gloomy place, To prove this story that is alas as true As that these leaves are wet with falling dew. Within this valley, eighty years ago, The padres flourished with their hundred flocks, And ruled o'er the tribes ; taught to plow and sow. Those Indian tribes, once wild amongst the rocks, Just as nature made them. The very picture shocks. Of naked savages. Good Lord, how low Man may become, unless learning docks His rude, wild manners, and he is taught to know That all man's happiness is not placed below { Yes, here the padres, when they came from Spain, Laid the corner-stone of these adobe walls ; * Brought in the Indian, gave him oil and grain To appease his hunger, then built up these halls For the padre's use then some humble stalls For the Indian convert you know it was enough. For too much splendor the soul enthralls, And makes us tender when we should be tough ; And indeed, the lumble 's best when it 's not too rough. —— ;; — ;; 12 DON MAGUIRE S POEMS. Th^n they planted olives—those trees you see to-night Within that garden, along with cane and the prickly pear And in twenty years 'twas a lovely sight To behold this spot, that before was bare As the shanks of Death, for now there were flowers, fruits, Trees, and with many a sunny home j The padres proving that it was their care To make the red man happy, now no more to roam, But spend his days in sight that Moorish dome. Some there tended flocks, some there plowed the field Some there hewed the stone, or moulded brick from clay Others pressed the grape that its wine did yield, Some there dried the raisin in the Autumn's ray. Thus did they dwell while life it fled away, To them all happiness, for they did not know A want unsupplied from day to day. And they learned to bless the source whence all did flow The God of Creation, and lived without a woe. The bell in yon dome, cast in Lima far, Aroused them from slumber when the day did dawn And ere Apollo in his golden car Came from the east, its sound had drawn Them together for prayer while there went on The Mass—a sacrifice taught to them divine Not one unholy, as in ages gone, When man the laurel on the bull did twine But one all perfect, made in bread and wine. Then their frugal meal of tortejas, beef and beans, They gobbled up, and washed them down with wine From the native arbor ; and, unless 'twere greens. These were all they had. Their own tree and vine — — DON MAGUIRE'S POEMS.