Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SIR BRUIN, by LEVI BISHOP


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SIR BRUIN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Sir bruin was a gallant lad
Last Line: "all in ""our best society."
Subject(s): Forests; Hunting; Railroads; Woods; Hunters; Railways; Trains


Sir Bruin was a gallant lad:
The truth of history we relate;
To fright the game a taste we had,
Tho' game did rarely compensate.

The herds now hied them home to rest,
The milkmaid sung her rural song;
The sun was blazing in the West,
His evening beams he poured along.

'Twas Indian Summer -- sweet November,
When fields were dry and leaves were yellow;
With gun, we ranged the copse and timber;
We met Sir Bruin -- gallant fellow!

It seems Sir Bruin was inclined
To leave his native forest home,
And take to city life refined,
No longer in the wilds to roam.

And, sister cities of the West,
Who rival greatness love to prate,
Sir Bruin's judgment gives the test,
He chose the "City of the Strait."

Nor was it freak, or done in haste;
His bearship gave it due reflection;
'Twas highly cultivated taste,
That wisely gave him this direction.

He came within a mile or two,
Where farm and forest then did meet;
He saw the city -- full in view,
The smoky air and dusty street.

He stopped and brushed his shaggy mane
From sense of due propriety;
Then gaily started on again
To join "Our Best Society."

'Twas near the Central Railroad track,
The route it ran in former day;
So Bruin thought to mount its back,
In hopes to find the better way.

Just then the pond'rous evening train,
With fire, and smoke, and dust, and din,
Came whirling, rushing on amain,
Came bounding, screaming, thund'ring in.

Doubt not, Sir Bruin, he had pluck,
For any ordinary plight;
For he could face the noblest buck,
And, as a pastime, give him fight.

A hundred crested gobblers gay,
Might strut and gobble in his track;
With beak and spur beset his way,
And he right soon would drive them back.

But what on earth could stand before
The fiery dragon in his wrath!
Enough, to gain his wilds once more,
With such a fury on his path!

As quick as thought he took to flight,
Nor took he well his bearings clear;
His brain it reeled; in such a fright,
He sprung for life, for life so dear!

He bounded on, as on a raid;
Beside the thundering train he went;
Forgetful of the course he made,
Directly for the city bent.

Fences he scaled, he swept the field,
As yet no slack was in his pace;
Nor would he to the fury yield,
In this his wild "two-forty" race.

The passengers all noted him,
As swift toward the goal he came;
A laurel crown they voted him,
With shouts, as in Olympic game.

Nimbly we raised our loaded gun;
How tempting was the prize, how fair!
Oh! could we hit him on the run!
If we could only bag a bear!

Too late; he's quickly out of range:
And now his erring course he sees;
He sweeps around, that course to change,
And all for life to forest flees.

And then the dogs the game espy;
An ill-bred and uncivil pack;
And such a wild, discordant cry!
Another fury on his track!

Sir Bruin to his forest flew,
With heart as light as paws were fleet;
Nor further dare the curs pursue;
It was a "masterly retreat."

And safe once more within his lair,
All foam and dust from such a strife,
He feels content to be a bear,
And seek no more for city life.

And yet, 'tis passing strange, I ween,
That such a great variety,
Of these Sir Bruins oft are seen,
All in "Our Best Society."





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