Back to Sweet Clark County

One of the most rec­og­nized vers­es of poet­ry ever writ­ten about Kentucky came from the pen of Judge James H. Mulligan.  Here is the clos­ing verse with its famous last lines:

The song birds are the sweet­est
     In Kentucky;
The thor­ough­breds are fleetest
     In Kentucky;
Mountains tow­er proud­est,
Thunder peals the loud­est,
The land­scape is the grand­est —
And pol­i­tics — the damnedest
     In Kentucky.

In 1902 Mulligan read the entire poem at the close of a ban­quet for the Kentucky leg­is­la­ture at the Phoenix Hotel in Lexington.

James Hillary Mulligan (1844−1915) received his law degree from Kentucky University (now Transylvania) and entered the Lexington firm of John B. Huston and W. S. Downey, late­ly removed from Winchester.  At var­i­ous times Mulligan served as an edi­tor, lawyer, local judge, state rep­re­sen­ta­tive and state sen­a­tor.  He was a not­ed ora­tor and author of poetry. 

Judge Mulligan scratched out the sev­en vers­es of “In Kentucky” at his desk in the library at Maxwell Place, his home on Rose Street in Lexington.  Built in 1870, the home has been the offi­cial res­i­dence of the pres­i­dent of the University of Kentucky since 1917.

In November 1905, William M. Beckner invit­ed his friend Mulligan to speak at the Winchester Commercial Club.  The occa­sion was their annu­al meet­ing held in the McEldowney Building.  He pre­pared an ode for the ban­quet called “Back to Sweet Clark County.”  It is one of three known poems attrib­uted to Mulligan.  Here it is for the record:

I’m weary of the wan­der­ing.
The wait­ing and the pon­der­ing;
The shad­ows kind­ly length­en out their warn­ing,
And I’ve come to the con­clu­sion,
Inspiration or illu­sion,
And I’m back to sweet Clark coun­ty in the morning.

The years loi­ter still and drea­ry,
Musing voic­es hale and cheery,
Old mem­o­ries around my heart are storm­ing;
And the sad­dened days for­lorn,
But length­en out the cheer­less morn,
And I’m off to sweet Clark coun­ty in the morning.

And though the years a many be,
A scene comes often back to me,
A home­stead quaint and land­scape fair adorn­ing;
Yet an incense floats too often,
And this makes the heart to soft­en,
And I’m off to sweet Clark coun­ty in the morning.

Wandering wide in stranger lands,
I’ve felt the clasp of kind­ly hands,
And while no thrill of friend­ship puls­es scorn­ing:
Of a truth, in noth­ing vaunt­ing,
Other than I’ve a some­thing want­i­ng,
And I’m off to sweet Clark coun­ty in the morning.