An’ it seems we’re so nigh heaben
We kin hyeah de angels sing
When de music o’ dat banjo
Sets my cabin all er-ring.

An’ my wife an’ all de othahs,—
Male an’ female, small an’ big,—
Even up to gray-haired granny,
Seem jes’ boun’ to do a jig;
’Twell I change de style o’ music,
Change de movement an’ de time,
An’ de ringin’ little banjo
Plays an ol’ hea’t-feelin’ hime.

An’ somehow my th’oat gits choky,
An’ a lump keeps tryin’ to rise
Lak it wan’ed to ketch de water
Dat was flowin’ to my eyes;
An’ I feel dat I could sorter
Knock de socks clean off o’ sin
Ez I hyeah my po’ ol’ granny
Wif huh tremblin’ voice jine in.

Den we all th’ow in our voices
Fu’ to he’p de chune out too,
Lak a big camp-meetin’ choiry
Tryin’ to sing a mou’nah th’oo.
An’ our th’oahts let out de music,
Sweet an’ solemn, loud an’ free,
’Twell de raftahs o’ my cabin
Echo wif de melody.

Oh, de music o’ de banjo,
Quick an’ deb’lish, solemn, slow,
Is de greates’ joy an’ solace
Dat a weary slave kin know!
So jes’ let me hyeah it ringin’,
Dough de chune be po’ an’ rough,
It’s a pleasure; an’ de pleasures
O’ dis life is few enough.

Now, de blessed little angels
Up in heaben, we are told,
Don’t do nothin’ all dere lifetime
’Ceptin’ play on ha’ps o’ gold.
Now I think heaben’d be mo’ homelike
Ef we’d hyeah some music fall
F’om a real ol’-fashioned banjo,
Like dat one upon de wall.

A Career

“Break me my bounds, and let me fly
To regions vast of boundless sky;
Nor I, like piteous Daphne, be
Root-bound. Ah, no! I would be free
As yon same bird that in its flight
Outstrips the range of mortal sight;
Free as the mountain streams that gush
From bubbling springs, and downward rush
Across the serrate mountain’s side,—
The rocks o’erwhelmed, their banks defied,—
And like the passions in the soul,
Swell into torrents as they roll.
Oh, circumscribe me not by rules
That serve to lead the minds of fools!
But give me pow’r to work my will,
And at my deeds the world shall thrill.
My words shall rouse the slumb’ring zest
That hardly stirs in manhood’s breast;
And as the sun feeds lesser lights,
As planets have their satellites,
So round about me will I bind
The men who prize a master mind!”

He lived a silent life alone,
And laid him down when it was done;
And at his head was placed a stone
On which was carved a name unknown!

Columbian Ode

I

Four hundred years ago a tangled waste
Lay sleeping on the west Atlantic’s side;
Their devious ways the Old World’s millions traced
Content, and loved, and labored, dared and died,
While students still believed the charts they conned,
And revelled in their thriftless ignorance,
Nor dreamed of other lands that lay beyond
Old Ocean’s dense, indefinite expanse.

II

But deep within her heart old Nature knew
That she had once arrayed, at Earth’s behest,
Another offspring, fine and fair to view,—
The chosen suckling of the mother’s breast.
The child was wrapped in vestments soft and fine,
Each fold a work of Nature’s matchless art;
The mother looked on it with love divine,
And strained the loved one closely to her heart.
And there it lay, and with the warmth grew strong
And hearty, by the salt sea breezes fanned,
Till Time with mellowing touches passed along,
And changed the infant to a mighty land.

III

But men knew naught of this, till there arose
That mighty mariner, the Genoese,
Who dared to try, in spite of fears and foes,
The unknown fortunes of unsounded seas.
O noblest of Italia’s sons, thy bark
Went not alone into that shrouding night!
O dauntless darer of the rayless dark,
The world sailed with thee to eternal light!

The deer-haunts that with game were crowded then
To-day are tilled and cultivated lands;
The schoolhouse tow’rs where Bruin had his den,
And where the wigwam stood the chapel stands;
The place that nurtured men of savage mien
Now teems with men of Nature’s noblest types;
Where moved the forest-foliage banner green,
Now flutters in the breeze the stars and stripes!

James Whitcomb Riley (From a Westerner’s Point of View.)

No matter what you call it,
Whether genius, or art,
He sings the simple songs that come
The closest to your heart.
Fur trim an’ skillful phrases,
I do not keer a jot;
’Tain’t the words alone, but feelin’s,
That tech the tender spot.
An’ that’s jest why I love him,—
Why, he’s got sech human feelin’,
An’ in ev’ry song he gives us,
You kin see it creepin’, stealin’.
Through the core the tears go tricklin’,
But the edge is bright an’ smiley;
I never saw a poet
Like that poet Whitcomb Riley.

His heart keeps beatin’ time with our’n
In measures fast or slow;
He tells us jest the same ol’ things
Our souls have learned to know.
He paints our joys an’ sorrers
In a way so stric’ly true,
That a body can’t help knowin’
That he has felt them too.
If there’s a lesson to be taught,
He never fears to teach it,
An’ he puts the food so good an’ low
That the humblest one kin reach it.
Now in our time, when poets rhyme
For money, fun, or fashion,
’Tis good to hear one voice so clear
That thrills with honest passion.
So let the others build their songs,
An’ strive to polish highly,—
There’s none of them kin tech the heart
Like our own Whitcomb Riley.

Life

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,
A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,
A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,
And never a laugh but the moans come double;
And that is life!

A crust and a corner that love makes precious,
With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;
And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,
And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter;
And that is life!

Lullaby

Bedtime’s come fu’ little boys.
Po’ little lamb.
Too tiahed out to make a noise,
Po’ little lamb.
You gwine t’ have to-morrer sho’?
Yes, you tole me dat befo’,
Don’t you fool me, chile, no mo’,
Po’ little lamb.

You been bad de livelong day,
Po’ little lamb.
Th’owin’ stones an’ runnin’ ’way,
Po’ little lamb.
My, but you’s a-runnin’ wil’,
Look jes’ lak some po’ folks chile;
Mam’ gwine whup you atter while,
Po’ little lamb.

Come hyeah! you mos’ tiahed to def,
Po’ little lamb.
Played yo’se’f clean out o’ bref,
Po’ little lamb.
See dem han’s now—sich a sight!
Would you evah b’lieve dey’s white?
Stan’ still twell I wash ’em right,
Po’ little lamb.

Jes’ cain’t hol’ yo’ haid up straight,
Po’ little lamb.
Hadn’t oughter played so late,
Po’ little lamb.
Mammy do’ know whut she’d do,
Ef de chillun’s all lak you;
You’s a caution now fu’ true,
Po’ little lamb.

Lay yo’ haid down in my lap,
Po’ little lamb.
Y’ ought to have a right good slap,
Po’ little lamb.
You been runnin’ roun’ a heap.
Shet dem eyes an’ don’t you peep,
Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
Po’ little lamb.

Melancholia

Silently without my window,
Tapping gently at the pane,
Falls the rain.
Through the trees sighs the breeze
Like a soul in pain.