Page 21 - Poetry-Family

For never a soul could his power withstand,
That bald-headed tyrant from No-man’s-land.
He ordered us here and he sent us there—
Though never a word could his small lips speak—
With his toothless gums and his vacant stare,
And his helpless limbs so frail and weak,
Till I cried, in a voice of stern command,
“Go up, thou baldhead from No-man’s-land!”
But his abject slaves they turned on me;
Like the bears in Scripture, they’d rend me there,
The while they worshiped with bended knee
This ruthless wretch with the missing hair;
For he rules them all with relentless hand,
This bald-beaded tyrant from No-man’s-land.
Then I searched for help in every clime,
For peace had fled from my dwelling now
Till I finally thought of old Father Time,
And low before him I made my bow.
“Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand,
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man’s-land?”
Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare,
And a smile came over his features grim.
“I’ll take the tyrant under my care:
Watch what my hour-glass does to him.
The veriest humbug that ever was planned
Is this same bald-head from No-man’s-land.”
Old Time is doing his work full well—
Much less of might does the tyrant wield;
But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell
And sad tears fall as I see him yield.
Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand,
I would keep the bald-head from No-man’s-land.

For the loss of Peace I have ceased to care;
Like other vassals, I’ve learned, forsooth,
To love the wretch who forgot his hair
And hurried along without a tooth,
And he rules me too with his tiny hand,
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man’s-land.
— Mary E. Vandyne (Harper’s Monthly, 1876)

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