Ye Laye of Ye Woodpeckore
Picus Erythrocephalus:
O whither goest thou, pale studént
Within the wood so fur?
Art on the chokesome cherry bent?
Dost seek the chestnut burr?
Pale Studént:
O it is not for the mellow chestnut
That I so far am come,
Nor yet for puckery cherries, but
For Cypripediúm.
A blossom hangs the choke-cherry
And eke the chestnut burr,
And thou a silly fowl must be,
Thou red-head wood-peckére.
Picas Erythrocephalus:
Turn back, turn back, thou pale studént,
Nor in the forest go;
There lurks beneath his bosky tent
The deadly mosquitó,
And there the wooden-chuck doth tread,
And from the oak-tree’s top
The red, red squirrels on thy head
The frequent acorn drop.
Pale Studént:
The wooden-chuck is next of kin
Unto the wood-peckére:
I fear not thine ill-boding din,
And why should I fear her?
What though a score of acorns drop
And squirrels’ fur be red!
’Tis not so ruddy as thy top—
So scarlet as thy head.
O rarely blooms the Cypripe-
diúm upon its stalk;
And like a torch it shines to me
Adown the dark wood-walk.
O joy to pluck it from the ground,
To view the purple sac,
To touch the sessile stigma’s round—
And shall I then turn back?
Picus Erytbrocephalus:
O black and shining is the log
That feeds the sumptuous weed,
Nor stone is found nor bedded log
Where foot may well proceed.
Midmost it glimmers in the mire
Like Jack o’ Lanthorn’s spark,
Lighting, with phosphorescent fire,
The green umbrageous dark.
There while thy thirsty glances drink
The fair and baneful plant,
Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink
And eke thine either pant.
Pale Studént:
Give o’er, give o’er, thou wood-peckóre;
The bark upon the tree,
Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore
But peck and bore not me.
Full two long hours I’ve searched about
And ’t would in sooth be rum,
If I should now go back without
The Cypripediúm.
Picus Erythrocephalus:
Farewell! Farewell! But this I tell
To thee, thou pale studént,
Ere dews have fell, thou’lt rue it well
That woodward thou didst went:
Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose
And wip’st the pensive eye—
There where the sad symplocarpus foetidus grows,
Then think—O think of I!
Loud flouted there that student wight
Solche warnynge for to hear;
“I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might,
And eke thine ill grammére.”
“Go peck the lice (or green or red)
That swarm the bass-wood tree,
But wag no more thine addled head
Nor clack thy tongue at me.”
The wood-peck turned to whet her beak,
The student heard her drum,
As through the wood he went to seek
The Cypripediúm.
Alas! and for that pale studént:
The evening bell did ring,
And down the walk the Freshmen went
Unto the prayer-meetíng;
Upon the fence loud rose the song,
The weak, weak tea was o’er—
Ha! who is he that sneaks along
Into South Middle’s door?
The mud was on his shoon, and O!
The briar was in his thumb,
His staff was in his hand but no—
No Cypripediúm.
Henry A. Beers.