]
* * * * *
THE ALARM-BELLE AT RYE.
At Rye, Westchester County, a small town
Built near the Sound, but of a scant renown,
That always to its biggest size did run
At summer-time, beneath a blazing sun,
But rested as a _town_, as if to say,
"I'll pay no further taxes, come what may;"--
The ancient cobbler, JOHN, unknown to fame
(So many cobblers since have borne the name),
Owned the great belle of all that country place,
His daughter, with her tongue and lovely face,
Who took to soothing every kind of pain,
Tramped through the streets, dragging a muddy train.
With kerchief blowed her horn both, loud and long.
And talked incessantly of every wrong,
Kept her tongue wagging, until right was done.
Thus did the daughter of old cobbler John.
What mighty good this BERGH of that Burgh did.
While her tongue lasted, she had never hid:
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The fleshy tongue at length was worn away;
She mouthed it for a while, and people dreamed
Of golden days before this belle had screamed.
Loaded and beat their horses at their ease.
Drove thorn with, wounded backs and broken knees,
Turned turtles over, and e'en tortured clams.
Murdered trichinae, when they boiled their hams.
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