England flavor:
JOSHUA’S COURTSHIP.
A NEW ENGLAND BALLAD.
Stout Joshua was a farmer’s son,
And a pondering he sat
One night when the fagots crackling burned,
And purred the tabby cat.
Joshua was a well-grown youth,
As one might plainly see
By the sleeves that vainly tried to reach
His hands upon his knee.
His splay-feet stood all parrot-toed
In cowhide shoes arrayed,
And his hair seemed cut across his brow
By rule and plummet laid.
And what was Joshua pondering on,
With his widely staring eyes,
And his nostrils opening sensibly
To ease his frequent sighs?
Not often will a lover’s lips
The tender secret tell,
But out he spoke before he thought,
“My gracious! Nancy Bell!”
His mother at her spinning-wheel,
Good woman, stood and spun,
“And what,” says she, “is come o’er you,
Is’t
Then Joshua gave a cunning look,
Half bashful and half sporting,
“Now what did father do,” says he,
“When first he came a courting?”
“Why, Josh, the first thing that he did,”
With a knowing wink, said she,
“He dressed up of a Sunday night,
And
Josh said no more, but straight went out
And sought a butcher’s pen,
Where twelve fat sheep, for market bound,
Had lately slaughtered been.
He bargained with a lover’s zeal,
Obtained the wished-for prize,
And filled his pockets fore and aft
With twice twelve bloody eyes.
The next night was the happy time
When all New England sparks,
Drest in their best, go out to court,
As spruce and gay as larks.
When floors are nicely sanded o’er,
When tins and pewter shine,
And milk-pans by the kitchen wall
Display their dainty line;
While the new ribbon decks the waist
Of many a waiting lass,
Who steals a conscious look of pride
Toward her answering glass.
In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell;
Of Joshua thought not she,
But of a hearty sailor lad
Across the distant sea.
Her arm upon the table rests,
Her hand supports her head,
When Joshua enters with a scrape,
And somewhat bashful tread.
No word he spake, but down he sat,
And heaved a doleful sigh,
Then at the table took his aim
