Classic Poem

SUPERINTENDENT OF MONTEAGLE ASSEMBLY, MONTEAGLE, TENN .

I've often thought, throughout the year,
Of you and of your “wifie” dear;
So I was glad once more to hear
 Your “Come again;”
And I'll be there, you needn't fear,
 By early train.

I'll bring along sweet Irving's dreams,
Yosemite's bright dashing streams,
The Trosachs wild where Katrine gleams;
 And I have knit
A lot of stories in the seams
 Of “Ready Wit.”

I think you'll like the bonnie crew,
The visions bright with morning dew,
The legends old, the stories new,
 Drawn up in line,
And greet them all with welcome true,
 For Auld Lang Syne.

I knew the topics must be grand
To fit your noble mountain-stand,
So I have looked on every hand
 For subjects high,
To suit your famed Monteagle-land
 So near the sky.

I'd like to come your opening day,
And would, if I could have my way;
But I'm a thousand miles away,
 With no balloon
To float me through the morning gray
 Like witch o' Doon.

I'd risk a Tam o' Shanter ride,
With Nannie flitting at my side,
Above the kirks and mountains wide,
 To see you all,
And leave my Meggie safely tied
 In Warren's stall.

But locomotion through the stars
On broomstick steeds and tilting bars
Has been transferred to dusty cars;
 The more's the pity:
The witches all were sent to Mars
 From Salem City.

So I must take the modern way—
Five cents a mile in Pullman's gay;
Or, better still, if you will, pray
 Please send a pass;
The witches had the deil to pay,
 With cheek of brass.

Since last I met you I have seen
A hundred hills in crystal sheen,
A thousand fields of waving green
 Bound up in sheaves,
And tints that crown Columbia queen
 Of golden leaves.

And now with news from Lakeside fair,
From bright Waseca's bracing air,
From Island Park, sweet nestled there
 In Hoosier State,
From Kansas fields, beyond compare,
 With promise great;

From Lake de Funiak's land of pine,
From sweet Monona's crystal shrine,—
All tendrils of Chautauqua's vine,
 And loving feast,
I come, Monteagle dear, to thine,
 Last, but not least:

To rich dessert in camp and hall,
The closing banquet of them all,
Before the Autumn curtains fall
 On Summer's life.

( POSTSCRIPT .)

This isn't writ to you at all,
 But to your wife.