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SAMSON ALLEN, by                    
First Line: There was the drum he played so poorly
Last Line: Just how the lightning made wrong right!


THERE was the drum he played so poorly,
Though all his days he prayed for skill.
Never in life would he beat it surely,
Even if the stars in heaven stood still.

There was the village band renewing
Always his ancient ache to play.
It was the sum of his soul's undoing,
And never he knew would it wear away.

Little the village found amusing,
With no more than one straggling street,
So that without so much as choosing
It turned to him as its jest complete.

Thus in a humor quite bucolic
It clutched at him as its lawful prey;
Would it not add to the county's frolic
If he should lead the band that day?

Mindful he of the vain, balked playing
Could not take such a crown to wear;
But he would were there no gainsaying
Beat the drum for the county fair.

With the event well worth the coming —
All the village was there to laugh —
No matter if the clouds urged homing,
Should not rain write his epitaph?

Here they come with piccoli shrilling,
He, head high, with the raised sticks dumb —
Now the silence that will break thrilling
In the crash of the rolling drum.

All the years of his patient failing
Shrouded are by a blinding light,
For none sees, since they all are quailing,
Just how the lightning made wrong right!





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