Classic Poem

A QUAINT old moke is John Aspinwall,
Who lives by the Dead-House gate,
And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all
Ever lurk in his woolly pate.
For he's old as the hills, is this old black man—
Thrice doubled with age is he;
And the days when his wanderings first began
Are shrouded in mystery.

Perhaps he was living when Morgan's crew
Came lusting for Spanish gold,
And drenched the Isthmus with bloody dew
In the brave, bold days of old.
Perhaps he was here when the pioneers
Of the days almost forgot
Made a trail o'er the land with their bitter tears
And the bones they left to rot.

Perhaps he was here when Totten came
And Baldwin and all the rest,
To build thro' the swamps their pathway to fame
From Chagres to Ancon's crest.
And many a night he has lain, no doubt,
By the side of some comrade ill,
Whose corpse, in the morn, he has carried out
To its rest on Monkey Hill.

For years upon years he has seen the tide
Of adventurers ebb and flow—
Success and improvidence, side by side,
Seen ceaselessly come and go.
He has seen the gamut of passion run,
Oh, thousands and thousands of times!
And witnessed the brightest, purest sun
Uncover the darkest of crimes.

Yet never a word will he answer me
Whenever he passes by,
Though often a curious light I see
In his fathomless, coal-black eye.
Oh, a quaint old moke is John Aspinwall,
Who lives by the Dead-House gate;
And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all
Ever lurk in his woolly pate!