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Updated: June 27, 2025
Impressions! and the strangest far Is that the bard's a clever fellow." A little later these lines appeared: "My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long, lithe lily-love, men may grin Say that I'm soft and supremely silly What care I, while you whisper still; What care I, while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, while you whisper 'Tis sweet to decay!
"Why, he didn't say much. Hinted around that maybe Bard had walked off with the piebald hoss he was ridin'." "That's a lie." "Lady," said the other a little coldly, "you say that like you was a friend of Bard's." "Me? There ain't nobody around these parts man enough to say to my face that I'm a friend of that tenderfoot." "I'm glad of that. My name's Ralph Boardman." "I'm Sally Fortune."
Afterward his gaze sought the dim summits of the Little Brothers, and a sad, great resolution grew up and hardened the lines of his sallow face. "You can camp with me if you want partner." A cough, hastily summoned, covered Bard's smile. "Thanks awfully, but I'm used to camping alone and rather like it that way."
'It is a gleeman, said the lay brother, 'who complains of the sods, of the bread, of the water in the jug, of the foot-water, and of the blanket. And now he is singing a bard's curse upon you, O brother abbot, and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and your grandmother, and upon all your relations. 'Is he cursing in rhyme?
From my thirteenth to my seventeenth year I was boy and clerk in a store at a distance of less than five rods from Bard's office. I saw him constantly. His denunciations of Christianity were so violent and unreasonable that many persons would revolt at the thought of accepting his theories.
"Behold three thousand gentlemen at least, Each safely mounted on his capering beast" what has become of that bard's inspired productions? They have gone the way of Donne and Cowley and Waller and Denham, and nobody cares very much. Take even the great Cham of literature, the good Johnson. His fame is undying, but his works would not have saved his reputation in vigour during so many generations.
Pray Heaven the little spirit of life within the aged bard's bosom may not be extinguished in the lustre of that hour! I have already had the honor of an introduction to him at the British Museum, where he was examining a collection of his own unpublished letters, interspersed with songs, which have escaped the notice of all his biographers. Poh! Nonsense! What am I thinking of?
In the very next entry in his commonplace book, after praising the old bards, and drawing a parallel between their sources of inspiration and his own, he shudders to think that his fate may be such as theirs. 'Oh mortifying to a bard's vanity, their very names are buried in the wreck of things that were!
'You may sleep, said Cumhal, 'I will sing a bard's curse on the abbot. 'And he set the tub upside down under the window, and stood upon it, and began to sing in a very loud voice. The singing awoke the abbot, so that he sat up in bed and blew a silver whistle until the lay brother came to him. 'I cannot get a wink of sleep with that noise, said the abbot. 'What is happening?
Finally Wilton Barnstable began to stroke his mustache, and a pleased smile stole over his plump and benign visage. Barton Ward also began to stroke his mustache and smile. But it was twenty seconds more before Watson Bard's corrugated brow relaxed and his eyes twinkled with the idea that had come so much more readily to the other two.
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