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James Whitcomb Riley - Donn Piatt Of Mac-O-Chee
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Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,--
  Not the one of History,
  Who, with flaming tongue and pen,
  Scathes the vanities of men;
  Not the one whose biting wit
  Cuts pretense and etches it
  On the brazen brow that dares
  Filch the laurel that it wears:
  Not the Donn Piatt whose praise
  Echoes in the noisy ways
  Of the faction, onward led
  By the statesman!--But, instead,
  Give the simple man to me,--
  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!


  II.

  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
  Branches of the old oak tree,
  Drape him royally in fine
  Purple shade and golden shine!
  Emerald plush of sloping lawn
  Be the throne he sits upon!
  And, O Summer sunset, thou
  Be his crown, and gild a brow
  Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed
  By the breezes, mellow-palmed
  As Erata`s white hand agleam
  On the forehead of a dream.--
  So forever rule o`er me,
  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!


  III.

  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee:
  Through a lilied memory
  Plays the wayward little creek
  Round thy home at hide-and-seek--
  As I see and hear it, still
  Romping round the wooded hill,
  Till its laugh-and-babble blends
  With the silence while it sends
  Glances back to kiss the sight,
  In its babyish delight,
  Ere it strays amid the gloom
  Of the glens that burst in bloom
  Of the rarest rhyme for thee,
  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!


  IV.

  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
  What a darling destiny
  Has been mine--to meet him there--
  Lolling in an easy chair
  On the terrace, while he told
  Reminiscences of old--
  Letting my cigar die out,
  Hearing poems talked about;
  And entranced to hear him say
  Gentle things of Thackeray,
  Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest,
  Known to him as host and guest--
  Known to him as he to me--
  Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
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