A Barren “Idealty.”
This song that I sing—
It is not of a spring,
Nor yet of a silvery stream—
But of a vision bright
Which came last night
In the garb of a blissful dream—
When I thought, as I lay,
It was Thanksgiving Day,
And I was invited to dine
Where a table stood
On which everything good
Spread a feast that was almost divine!
Where the savors arose,
Right under my nose,
From turkey—and pumpkin pies;
And from jolly roast pig
Were slices as big
As some of the campaign lies!
And celery so white
’Twas a thing of delight
To bite the crisp stalks in two.
And the cranberry sauce—
Oh, I tell you ’twas boss—
And flanked by an oyster stew!
Where the bread and the cake—
The best they can bake—
Were cut into slices heroic.
And the amber ice cream
Melted into my dream
Like love to the heart of a ‘poet’;
And they heaped up my plate,
And I sat there and ate
Till I awoke with a yell,
And a shiver and shake
And a pain and an ache
That rudely my dream did dispel!
But dreams, as you know,
By contraries go,
And thus I fear if it will be
With the one of delight
That came last night
When I feasted so heartily;
And Thanksgiving Day
In the usual way
Will come to me, don’t you see,
And the dinner I had
And the ache that was bad
Prove a——barren “idealty”!