Classic Poem

Playing hymn-tunes day and night
On a harp, may be all right
For the grown-ups; but for me
I do wish that Heaven could be
Sort o' like a circus, run
So a kid could have some fun!

There I'd not play harps, but horns
When I chased the unicorns:
Magic tubes with pistons greasy,
Slides that pushed and pulled out easy,
Cylinders of snaky brass
Where the fingers like to fuss,
Polished like a looking-glass,
Ending in a blunderbuss.

I would ride a horse of steel
Wound up with a rachet-wheel.
Every beast I'd put to rout
Like the man I read about.
I would singe the leopard's hair,
Stalk the vampire and the adder,
Drive the werewolf from his lair,
Make the mad gorilla madder.
Needle-guns my work would do;
But, if beasts got closer to,
I would pierce 'em to the marrow
With a barbed and poisoned arrow,
Or I'd whack 'em on the skull
Till my scimitar was dull.

If these weapons didn't work,
With a kris or bowie-knife,
Poniard, assegai or dirk
I would make 'em beg for life;
Spare 'em, though, if they'd be good
And guard me from what haunts the wood,
From those creepy, shuddery sights
That come 'round a fellow nights:
Imps that squeak and trolls that prowl,
Ghouls, the slimy devil-fowl,
Headless goblins with lassoes,
Scarlet witches worse than those,
Flying dragon-fish that bellow
So as most to scare a fellow. . . .

There, as nearly as I could,
I would live like Robin Hood,
Taking down the mean and haughty,
Getting plunder from the naughty
To reward all honest men
Who approached my outlaw's den.

When I'd wearied of these pleasures
I'd go seek for hidden treasures, —
In no ordinary way:
Pirates' luggers I'd waylay;
Board 'em from my sinking dory,
Wade through decks of gore and glory,
Drive the fiends, with blazing matchlock,
Down below, and snap the hatch-lock.

Next, I'd scud beneath the sky-land,
Sight the hills of Treasure Island,
Prowl and peer and prod and prise,
Till there burst upon my eyes
Just the proper pirates' freight:
Gold doubloons and pieces of eight!

Then — the very best of all —
Suddenly a stranger tall
Would appear, and I'd forget
That we hadn't ever met,
And with waving cap I'd greet him
(Turning from the plunder yellow),
And I'd hurry hard to meet him,
For he'd be the very fellow
Who, I think, invented fun —
Robert Louis Stevenson.