BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860); _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, 1892).
[From _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, edited by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)]
_Lover._ Echo! mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made and what you are-- _Echo._ "Air!"
_Lover._ 'Mid airy cliffs, and places high, Sweet Echo! listening, love, you lie-- _Echo._ "You lie!"
_Lover._ You but resuscitate dead sounds-- Hark! how my voice revives, resounds! _Echo._ "Zounds!"
_Lover._ I'll question you before I go-- Come, answer me more apropos! _Echo._ "Poh! poh!"
_Lover._ Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw! _Echo._ "Pshaw!"
_Lover._ Say, what will win that frisking coney Into the toils of matrimony! _Echo._ "Money!"
_Lover._ Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow? Is it not white as pearl--as snow? _Echo._ "Ass, no!"
_Lover._ Her eyes! Was ever such a pair? Are the stars brighter than they are? _Echo._ "They are!"
_Lover._ Echo, you lie, but can't deceive me; Her eyes eclipse the stars, believe me-- _Echo._ "Leave me!"
_Lover._ But come, you saucy, pert romancer, Who is as fair as Phoebe? Answer. _Echo._ "Ann, sir!"
There is a strange, mysterious bird, Which few have seen, but all have heard: He sits upon a fallen tree, Through all the night, and thus sings he: Whippowil! Whippowil! Whippowil!
Despising show, and empty noise, The gaudy fluttering thing he flies: And in the echoing vale by night Thus sings the pensive anchorite: Whippowil!
Oh, had I but his voice and wings, I'd envy not a bird that sings; But gladly would I flit away, And join the wild nocturnal lay: Whippowil!
The school-boy, tripping home in haste, Impatient of the night's repast, Would stop to hear my whistle shrill, And answer me with mimic skill: Whippowil!
The rich man's scorn, the poor man's care, Folly in silk, and Wisdom bare, Virtue on foot, and Vice astride, No more should vex me while I cried: Whippowil!
How blest!--Nor loneliness nor state, Nor fame, nor wealth, nor love, nor hate, Nor av'rice, nor ambition vain, Should e'er disturb my tranquil strain: Whippowil! Whippowil! Whippowil!
The shores with acclamations rung, As in the flood the playful damsels sprung: Upon their beauteous bodies, with delight, The billows leapt. Oh, 'twas a pleasant sight To see the waters dimple round, for joy, Climb their white necks, and on their bosoms toy: Like snowy swans they vex'd the sparkling tide, Till little rainbows danced on every side. Some swam, some floated, some on pearly feet Stood sidelong, smiling, exquisitely sweet.