MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS El Dorado, 1851 BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, 'N feelin' kind o' blue, I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch," "Here's whar yer get your doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make." I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, door A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, The bees wuz hummin' round the porch A patient form I seemed ter see, I almost thought I heard the words, But now it was the boss who spake: "Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make." Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 'N ez I've" struck pay gravel," I ruther think I'll pack my kit, Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel. I'll make the old folks jubilant, 'N if I don't mistake, I'll try some o' them doughnuts THE WANTS OF MAN BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS "Man wants but little here below, My wants are many and, if told, What first I want is daily bread And canvas-backs and wine -- And all the realms of nature spread Before me, when I dine. Four courses scarcely can provide My appetite to quell; With four choice cooks from France beside, To dress my dinner well. What next I want, at princely cost, Is elegant attire: Black sable furs for winter's frost, And silks for summer's fire, And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace My bosom's front to deck, And diamond rings my hands to grace, And rubies for my neck. I want (who does not want?) a wife, To solace all the woes of life, Of temper sweet, of yielding will, Of firm, yet placid mind, With all my faults to love me still And as Time's car incessant runs, I want a warm and faithful friend, A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me. I want the seals of power and place, Charged by the People's unbought grace Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask I want the voice of honest praise And to be thought in future days In choral union to the skies These are the Wants of mortal Man, · For life itself is but a span, And earthly bliss a song. My last great Want-absorbing all Is, when beneath the sod, And summoned to my final call, The Mercy of my God. ROCK ME TO SLEEP BY ELIZABETH ANN AKERS Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; |