Selected Poems Read Online

There are gallant men in the losing fight,
And as gallant deeds are done
As ever graced the captured height
Or the battle grandly won.

We sit at life’s board with our nerves highstrung,
And we play for the stake of Fame,
And our odes are sung and our banners hung
For the man who wins the game.
But I have a song of another kind
Than breathes in these fame-wrought gales,—
An ode to the noble heart and mind
Of the gallant man who fails!

The man who is strong to fight his fight,
And whose will no front can daunt,
If the truth be truth and the right be right,
Is the man that the ages want.
Tho’ he fail and die in grim defeat,
Yet he has not fled the strife,
And the house of Earth will seem more sweet
For the perfume of his life.

Harriet Beecher Stowe

She told the story, and the whole world wept
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
But for this fearless woman’s voice alone.
She spoke to consciences that long had slept:
Her message, Freedom’s clear reveille, swept
From heedless hovel to complacent throne.
Command and prophecy were in the tone
And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.
Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,
But both came forth transfigured from the flame.
Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,
And blest be she who in our weakness came—
Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gave
A race to freedom and herself to fame.

The Warrior’s Prayer

Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
“Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
Ever from war and strife keep me away,
My battles fight!”

I know not if I play the Pharisee,
And if my brother after all be right;
But mine shall be the warrior’s plea to thee—
Strength for the fight.

I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,
And drive the warring foeman from my sight;
I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,
Strength for the fight!

When foes upon me press, let me not quail
Nor think to turn me into coward flight.
I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,
Strength for the fight!

Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,
Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;
And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,
Strength for the fight!

And when, at eventide, the fray is done,
My soul to Death’s bedchamber do thou light,
And give me, be the field or lost or won,
Rest from the fight!

The Voice of the Banjo

In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic’s way,

Sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face, and hair of gray,

And beside him on the table, battered, old, and worn as he,

Lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody:

“Night is closing in upon us, friend of mine, but don’t be sad;

Let us think of all the pleasures and the joys that we have had.

Let us keep a merry visage, and be happy till the last,

Let the future still be sweetened with the honey of the past.

“For I speak to you of summer nights upon the yellow sand,

When the Southern moon was sailing high and silvering all the land;

And if love tales were not sacred, there’s a tale that I could tell

Of your many nightly wanderings with a dusk and lovely belle.

“And I speak to you of care-free songs when labour’s hour was o’er,

And a woman waiting for your step outside the cabin door,

And of something roly-poly that you took upon your lap,

While you listened for the stumbling, hesitating words, ‘Pap, pap.’

“I could tell you of a ’possum hunt across the wooded grounds,

I could call to mind the sweetness of the baying of the hounds,

You could lift me up and smelling of the timber that’s in me,

Build again a whole green forest with the mem’ry of a tree.

“So the future cannot hurt us while we keep the past in mind,

What care I for trembling fingers,—what care you that you are blind?

Time may leave us poor and stranded, circumstance may make us bend;

But they’ll only find us mellower, won’t they, comrade?—in the end.”

A Choice

They please me not—these solemn songs
That hint of sermons covered up.
’Tis true the world should heed its wrongs,
But in a poem let me sup,
Not simples brewed to cure or ease
Humanity’s confessed disease,
But the spirit-wine of a singing line,
Or a dew-drop in a honey cup!

The Real Question

Folks is talkin’ ’bout de money, ’bout de silvah an’ de gold;

All de time de season’s changin’ an’ de days is gittin’ cold.

An’ dey’s wond’rin’ ’bout de metals, whethah we’ll have one er two.

While de price o’ coal is risin’ an’ dey’s two months’ rent dat’s due.

Some folks says dat gold’s de only money dat is wuff de name,

Den de othahs rise an’ tell ’em dat dey ought to be ashame,

An’ dat silvah is de only thing to save us f’om de powah

Of de gold-bug ragin’ ’roun’ an’ seekin’ who he may de vowah.

Well, you folks kin keep on shoutin’ wif yo’ gold er silvah cry, But I tell you people hams is sceerce an’ fowls is roostin’ high. An’ hit ain’t de so’t o’ money dat is pesterin’ my min’, But de question I want answehed’s how to get at any kin’!

Jilted

Lucy done gone back on me,
Dat’s de way wif life.
Evaht’ing was movin’ free,
T’ought I had my wife.
Den some dahky comes along,
Sings my gal a little song,
Since den, evaht’ing’s gone wrong,
Evah day dey’s strife.

Didn’t answeh me to-day,
W’en I called huh name,
Would you t’ink she’d ac’ dat way
W’en I ain’t to blame?
Dat’s de way dese women do,
W’en dey fin’s a fellow true,
Den dey ’buse him thoo an’ thoo;
Well, hit’s all de same.

Somep’n’s wrong erbout my lung,
An’ I’s glad hit’s so.
Doctah says ’at I’ll die young,
Well, I wants to go!
Whut’s de use o’ livin’ hyeah,
W’en de gal you loves so deah,
Goes back on you clean an’ cleah—
I sh’d like to know?

Chrismus on the Plantation

It was Chrismus Eve, I mind hit fu’ a mighty gloomy day—

Bofe de weathah an’ de people—not a one of us was gay;

Cose you’ll t’ink dat’s mighty funny ’twell I try to mek hit cleah,

Fu’ a da’ky’s allus happy when de holidays is neah.

But we wasn’t, fu’ dat mo’nin’ Mastah’d tol’ us we mus’ go,

He’d been payin’ us sence freedom, but he couldn’t pay no mo’;

He wa’n’t nevah used to plannin’ ’fo’ he got so po’ an’ ol’,

So he gwine to give up tryin’, an’ de homestead mus’ be sol’.

I kin see him stan’in’ now erpon de step ez cleah ez day,

Wid de win’ a-kind o’ fondlin’ thoo his haih all thin an’ gray;

An’ I ’membah how he trimbled when he said, “It’s ha’d fu’ me,

Not to mek yo’ Chrismus brightah, but I ’low it wa’n’t to be.”

All de women was a-cryin’, an’ de men, too, on de sly,

An’ I noticed somep’n shinin’ even in ol’ Mastah’s eye.

But we all stood still to listen ez ol’ Ben come f’om de crowd

An’ spoke up, a-try’n’ to steady down his voice and mek it loud:—

“Look hyeah, Mastah, I’s been servin’ you fu’ lo! dese many yeahs,

An’ now, sence we’s got freedom an’ you’s kind o’ po’, hit ’pears

Dat you want us all to leave you ’cause you don’t t’ink you can pay.

Ef my membry hasn’t fooled me, seem dat whut I hyead you say.

“Er in othah wo’ds, you wants us to fu’git dat you’s been kin’,

An’ ez soon ez you is he’pless, we’s to leave you hyeah behin’.

Well, ef dat’s de way dis freedom ac’s on people, white er black,

You kin jes’ tell Mistah Lincum fu’ to tek his freedom back.

“We gwine wo’k dis ol’ plantation fu’ whatevah we kin git,

Fu’ I know hit did suppo’t us, an’ de place kin do it yit.

Now de land is yo’s, de hands is ouahs, an’ I reckon we’ll be brave,

An’ we’ll bah ez much ez you do w’en we has to scrape an’ save.”

Ol’ Mastah stood dah trimblin’, but a-smilin’ thoo his teahs,

An’ den hit seemed jes’ nachul-like, de place fah rung wid cheahs,

An’ soon ez dey was quiet, some one sta’ted sof’ an’ low:

“Praise God,” an’ den we all jined in, “from whom all blessin’s flow!”

Well, dey wasn’t no use tryin’, ouah min’s was sot to stay,

An’ po’ ol’ Mastah could n’t plead ner baig, ner drive us ’way,

An’ all at once, hit seemed to us, de day was bright agin,

So evahone was gay dat night, an’ watched de Chrismus in.

Foolin’ wid de Seasons

Seems lak folks is mighty curus
In de way dey t’inks an’ ac’s.
Dey jes’ spen’s dey days a-mixin’
Up de t’ings in almanacs.
Now, I min’ my nex’ do’ neighbour,—
He’s a mighty likely man,
But he nevah t’inks o’ nuffin
’Ceptin’ jes’ to plot an’ plan.
All de wintah he was plannin’
How he’d gethah sassafras
Jes’ ez soon ez evah Springtime
Put some greenness in de grass.
An’ he ’lowed a little soonah
He could stan’ a coolah breeze
So’s to mek a little money
F’om de sugah-watah trees.

In de summah, he’d be waihin’
Out de linin’ of his soul,
Try ’n’ ca’ci’late an’ fashion
How he’d git his wintah coal;
An’ I b’lieve he got his jedgement
Jes’ so tuckahed out an’ thinned
Dat he t’ought a robin’s whistle
Was de whistle of de wind.

Why won’t folks gin up dey plannin’,
An’ jes’ be content to know
Dat dey’s gittin’ all dat’s fu’ dem
In de days dat come an’ go?
Why won’t folks quit movin’ forrard?
Ain’t hit bettah jes’ to stan’
An’ be satisfied wid livin’
In de season dat’s at han’?

Hit’s enough fu’ me to listen
W’en de birds is singin’ ’roun’,
’Dout a-guessin’ whut’ll happen
W’en de snow is on de groun’.
In de Springtime an’ de summah,
I lays sorrer on de she’f;
An’ I knows ol’ Mistah Wintah
Gwine to hustle fu’ hisse’f.
We been put hyeah fu’ a pu’pose,
But de questun dat has riz
An’ made lots o’ people diffah
Is jes’ whut dat pu’pose is.
Now, accordin’ to my reas’nin’,
Hyeah’s de p’int whaih I’s arriv,
Sence de Lawd put life into us,
We was put hyeah fu’ to live!

A Death Song

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass,
Whah de branch’ll go a-singin’ as it pass.
An’ w’en I’s a-layin’ low,
I kin hyeah it as it go
Singin’, “Sleep, my honey, tek yo’ res’ at las’.”

Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool,
An’ de watah stan’s so quiet lak an’ cool,
Whah de little birds in spring,
Ust to come an’ drink an’ sing,
An’ de chillen waded on dey way to school.

Let me settle w’en my shouldahs draps dey load
Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road;
Fu’ I t’ink de las’ long res’
Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes’
Ef I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s allus knowed.

Jealous

Hyeah come Cæsar Higgins,
Don’t he think he’s fine?
Look at dem new riggin’s
Ain’t he tryin’ to shine?
Got a standin’ collar
An’ a stove-pipe hat,
I’ll jes’ bet a dollar
Some one gin him dat.

Don’t one o’ you mention,
Nothin’ ’bout his cloes,
Don’t pay no attention,
Er let on you knows
Dat he’s got ’em on him,
Why, ’t’ll mek him sick,
Jes go on an’ sco’n him,
My, ain’t dis a trick!

Look hyeah, whut’s he doin’
Lookin’ t’ othah way?
Dat ere move’s a new one,
Some one call him, “Say!”
Can’t you see no pusson—
Puttin’ on you’ airs,
Sakes alive, you’s wuss’n
Dese hyeah millionaires.

Needn’t git so flighty,
Case you got dat suit.
Dem cloes ain’t so mighty,—
Second hand to boot,
I’s a-tryin’ to spite you!
Full of jealousy!
Look hyeah, man, I’ll fight you,
Don’t you fool wid me!

Parted

De breeze is blowin’ ’cross de bay.
My lady, my lady;
De ship hit teks me far away,
My lady, my lady;
Ole Mas’ done sol’ me down de stream;
Dey tell me ’tain’t so bad’s hit seem,
My lady, my lady.

O’ co’se I knows dat you’ll be true,
My lady, my lady;
But den I do’ know whut to do,
My lady, my lady;
I knowed some day we’d have to pa’t,
But den hit put’ nigh breaks my hea’t,
My lady, my lady.

De day is long, de night is black,
My lady, my lady;
I know you’ll wait twell I come back,
My lady, my lady;
I’ll stan’ de ship, I’ll stan’ de chain,
But I’ll come back, my darlin’ Jane,
My lady, my lady.

Jes’ wait, jes’ b’lieve in whut I say,
My lady, my lady;
D’ ain’t nothin’ dat kin keep me ’way,
My lady, my lady;
A man’s a man, an’ love is love;
God knows ouah hea’ts, my little dove;
He’ll he’p us f’om his th’one above,
My lady, my lady.

A Letter

Dear Miss Lucy: I been t’inkin’ dat I’d write you long fo’ dis,

But dis writin’ ’s mighty tejous, an’ you know jes’ how it is.

But I’s got a little lesure, so I teks my pen in han’

Fu’ to let you know my feelin’s since I retched dis furrin’ lan’.

I’s right well, I’s glad to tell you (dough dis climate ain’t to blame),

An’ I hopes w’en dese lines reach you, dat dey’ll fin’ yo’se’f de same.

Cose I’se feelin kin’ o’ homesick—dat’s ez nachul ez kin be,

W’en a feller’s mo’n th’ee thousand miles across dat awful sea.

(Don’t you let nobidy fool you ’bout de ocean bein’ gran’;

If you want to see de billers, you jes’ view dem f’om de lan’.)

’Bout de people? We been t’inkin’ dat all white folks was alak;

But dese Englishmen is diffunt, an’ dey’s curus fu’ a fac’.

Fust, dey’s heavier an’ redder in dey make-up an’ dey looks,

An’ dey don’t put salt nor pepper in a blessed t’ing dey cooks!

W’en dey gin you good ol’ tu’nips, ca’ots, pa’snips, beets, an’ sich,

Ef dey ain’t some one to tell you, you cain’t ’stinguish which is which.

W’en I t’ought I’s eatin’ chicken—you may b’lieve dis hyeah’s a lie—

But de waiter beat me down dat I was eatin’ rabbit pie.

An’ dey’d t’ink dat you was crazy—jes’ a reg’lar ravin’ loon,

Ef you’d speak erbout a ’possum or a piece o’ good ol’ coon.

O, hit’s mighty nice, dis trav’lin’, an’ I’s kin’ o’ glad I come.

But, I reckon, now I’s willin’ fu’ to tek my way back home.

I done see de Crystal Palace, an’ I’s hyeahd dey string-band play,

But I hasn’t seen no banjos layin’ nowhahs roun’ dis way.

Jes’ gin ol’ Jim Bowles a banjo, an’ he’d not go very fu’,

’Fo’ he’d outplayed all dese fiddlers, wif dey flourish and dey stir.

Evahbiddy dat I’s met wif has been monst’ous kin’ an’ good;

But I t’ink I’d lak it better to be down in Jones’s wood,

Where we ust to have sich frolics, Lucy, you an’ me an’ Nelse,

Dough my appetite ’ud call me, ef dey wasn’t nuffin else.

I’d jes’ lak to have some sweet-pertaters roasted in de skin;

I’s a-longin’ fu’ my chittlin’s an’ my mustard greens ergin;

I’s a-wishin’ fu’ some buttermilk, an’ co’n braid, good an’ brown,

An’ a drap o’ good ol’ bourbon fu’ to wash my feelin’s down!

An’ I’s comin’ back to see you jes’ as ehly as I kin,

So you better not go spa’kin’ wif dat wuffless scoun’el Quin!

Well, I reckon, I mus’ close now; write ez soon ’s dis reaches you;

Gi’ my love to Sister Mandy an’ to Uncle Isham, too.

Tell de folks I sen’ ’em howdy; gin a kiss to pap an’ mam;

Closin’ I is, deah Miss Lucy, Still Yo’ Own True-Lovin’ SAM.

P.S. Ef you cain’t mek out dis letter, lay it by erpon de she’f,

An’ when I git home, I’ll read it, darlin’, to you my own se’f.

At Candle-Lightin’ Time

When I come in f’om de co’n-fiel’ aftah wo’kin’ ha’d all day,

It’s amazin’ nice to fin’ my suppah all erpon de way;

An’ it’s nice to smell de coffee bubblin’ ovah in de pot,

An’ it’s fine to see de meat a-sizzlin’ teasin’-lak an’ hot.

But when suppah-time is ovah, an’ de t’ings is cleahed away;

Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes’ of de day.

When my co’ncob pipe is sta’ted, an’ de smoke is drawin’ prime,

My ole ’ooman says, “I reckon, Ike, it’s candle-lightin’ time.”

Den de chillun snuggle up to me, an’ all commence to call,

“Oh, say, daddy, now it’s time to mek de shadders on de wall.”

So I puts my han’s togethah—evah daddy knows de way,—

An’ de chillun snuggle closer roun’ ez I begin to say:—

“Fus’ thing, hyeah come Mistah Rabbit; don’ you see him wo’k his eahs?

Huh, uh! dis mus’ be a donkey,—look, how innercent he ’pears!

Dah’s de ole black swan a-swimmin’—ain’t she got a’ awful neck?

Who’s dis feller dat’s a-comin’? Why, dat’s ole dog Tray, I ’spec’!”

Dat’s de way I run on, tryin’ fu’ to please ’em all I can;

Den I hollahs, “Now be keerful—dis hyeah las’ ’s de buga-man!”

An’ dey runs an’ hides dey faces; dey ain’t skeered—dey’s let-tin’ on:

But de play ain’t raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone.

So I jes’ teks up my banjo, an’ I plays a little chune,

An’ you see dem haids come peepin’ out to listen mighty soon.

Den my wife says, “Sich a pappy fu’ to give you sich a fright!

Jes, you go to baid, an’ leave him: say yo’ prayers an’ say good-night.”

How Lucy Backslid

De times is mighty stirrin’ ’mong de people up ouah way,

Dey ’sputin’ an’ dey argyin’ an’ fussin’ night an’ day;

An’ all dis monst’ous trouble dat hit meks me tiahed to tell

Is ’bout dat Lucy Jackson dat was sich a mighty belle.

She was de preachah’s favoured, an’ he tol’ de chu’ch one night

Dat she travelled thoo de cloud o’ sin a-bearin’ of a light;

But, now, I ’low he t’inkin’ dat she mus’ ’a’ los’ huh lamp,

Case Lucy done backslided an’ dey trouble in de camp.

Huh daddy wants to beat huh, but huh mammy daihs him to,

Fu’ she lookin’ at de question f’om a ’ooman’s pint o’ view;

An’ she say dat now she wouldn’t have it diff’ent ef she could;

Dat huh darter only acted jes’ lak any othah would.

Cose you know w’en women argy, dey is mighty easy led

By dey hea’ts an’ don’t go foolin’ ’bout de reasons of de haid.

So huh mammy laid de law down (she ain’ reckernizin’ wrong),

But you got to mek erlowance fu’ de cause dat go along.

Now de cause dat made Miss Lucy fu’ to th’ow huh grace away

I’s afeard won’t baih no ’spection w’en hit come to jedgement day;

Do’ de same t’ing been a-wo’kin’ evah sence de worl’ began,—

De ’ooman disobeyin’ fu’ to ’tice along a man.

Ef you ’tended de revivals which we held de wintah pas’,

You kin rickolec’ dat convuts was a-comin’ thick an’ fas’;

But dey ain’t no use in talkin’, dey was all lef’ in de lu’ch

W’en ol’ Mis’ Jackson’s dartah foun’ huh peace an’ tuk de chu’ch.

W’y, she shouted ovah evah inch of Ebenezah’s flo’;

Up into de preachah’s pulpit an’ f’om dah down to de do’;

Den she hugged an’ squeezed huh mammy, an’ she hugged an’ kissed huh dad,

An’ she struck out at huh sistah, people said, lak she was mad.

I has ’tended some revivals dat was lively in my day,

An’ I’s seed folks git ’uligion in mos’ evah kin’ o’ way;

But I tell you, an’ you b’lieve me dat I’s speakin’ true indeed,

Dat gal tuk huh ’ligion ha’dah dan de ha’dest yit I’s seed.

Well, f’om dat, ’t was “Sistah Jackson, won’t you please do dis er dat?”

She mus’ allus sta’t de singin’ w’en dey’d pass erroun’ de hat,

An’ hit seemed dey wasn’t nuffin’ in dat chu’ch dat could go by

’Dout sistah Lucy Jackson had a finger in de pie.

But de sayin’ mighty trufeful dat hit easiah to sail

W’en de sea is ca’m an’ gentle dan to weathah out a gale.

Dat’s whut made dis ’ooman’s trouble; ef de sto’m had kep’ away,

She’d ’a’ had enough ’uligion fu’ to lasted out huh day.

Lucy went wid ’Lishy Davis, but w’en she jined chu’ch, you know

Dah was lots o’ little places dat, of cose, she couldn’t go;

An’ she had to gin up dancin’ an’ huh singin’ an’ huh play.—

Now hit’s nachul dat sich goin’s-on ’u’d drive a man away.

So, w’en Lucy got so solemn, Ike he sta’ted fu’ to go

Wid a gal who was a sinnah an’ could mek a bettah show.

Lucy jes’ went on to meetin’ lak she didn’t keer a rap,

But my ’sperunce kep’ me t’inkin’ dah was somep’n’ gwine to drap.

Fu’ a gal won’t let ’uligion er no othah so’t o’ t’ing

Stop huh w’en she teks a notion dat she wants a weddin’ ring.

You kin p’omise huh de blessin’s of a happy aftah life

(An’ hit’s nice to be a angel), but she’d ravah be a wife.

So w’en Chrismus come an’ mastah gin a frolic on de lawn,

Didn’t ’sprise me not de littlest seein’ Lucy lookin’ on.

An’ I seed a wa’nin’ lightnin’ go a-flashin’ f’om huh eye

Jest ez ’Lishy an’ his new gal went a-gallivantin’ by.

An’ dat Tildy, umph! she giggled, an’ she gin huh dress a flirt

Lak de people she was passin’ was ez common ez de dirt;

An’ de minit she was dancin’, w’y dat gal put on mo’ aihs

Dan a cat a-tekin’ kittens up a paih o’ windin’ staihs.

She could ’fo’d to show huh sma’tness, fu’ she couldn’t he’p but know

Dat wid jes’ de present dancahs she was ownah of de flo’;

But I t’ink she’d kin’ o’ cooled down ef she happened on de sly

Fu’ to noticed dat ’ere lightnin’ dat I seed in Lucy’s eye.

An’ she wouldn’t been so ’stonished w’en de people gin a shout,

An’ Lucy th’owed huh mantle back an’ come a-glidin’ out.

Some ahms was dah to tek huh an’ she fluttahed down de flo’

Lak a feddah f’om a bedtick w’en de win’ commence to blow.

Soon ez Tildy see de trouble, she jes’ tu’n an’ toss huh haid,

But seem lak she los’ huh sperrit, all huh darin’ness was daid.

Didn’t cut anothah capah nary time de blessid night;

But de othah one, hit looked lak couldn’t git enough delight.

W’en you keeps a colt a-stan’nin’ in de stable all along,

W’en he do git out hit’s nachul he’ll be pullin’ mighty strong.

Ef you will tie up yo’ feelin’s, hyeah’s de bes’ advice to tek,

Look out fu’ an awful loosin’ w’en de string dat hol’s ’em brek.

Lucy’s mammy groaned to see huh, an’ huh pappy sto’med an’ to’,

But she kep’ right on a-hol’in’ to de centah of de flo’.

So dey went an’ ast de pastoh ef he couldn’t mek huh quit,

But de tellin’ of de sto’y th’owed de preachah in a fit.

Tildy Taylor chewed huh hank’cher twell she’d chewed it in a hole,—

All de sinnahs was rejoicin’ ’cause a lamb had lef’ de fol’,

An’ de las’ I seed o’ Lucy, she an’ ’Lish was side an’ side:

I don’t blame de gal fu’ dancin’, an’ I couldn’t ef I tried.

Fu’ de men dat wants to ma’y ain’t a-growin’ ’roun’ on trees,

An’ de gal dat wants to git one sholy has to try to please.

Hit’s a ha’d t’ing fu’ a ’ooman fu’ to pray an’ jes’ set down,

An’ to sacafice a husban’ so’s to try to gain a crown.

Now, I don’ say she was justified in follerin’ huh plan;

But aldough she los’ huh ’ligion, yit she sholy got de man.

Latah on, w’en she is suttain dat de preachah’s made ’em fas’

She kin jes’ go back to chu’ch an’ ax fu’giveness fu’ de pas’!

Protest

Who say my hea’t ain’t true to you?
Dey bettah heish dey mouf.
I knows I loves you thoo an’ thoo
In watah time er drouf.
I wush dese people’d stop dey talkin’,
Don’t mean no mo’ dan chicken’s squawkin’:
I guess I knows which way I’s walkin’,
I knows de norf f’om souf.

I does not love Elizy Brown,
I guess I knows my min’.
You allus try to tek me down
Wid evaht’ing you fin’.
Ef dese hyeah folks will keep on fillin’
Yo’ haid wid nonsense, an’ you’s willin’
I bet some day dey’ll be a killin’
Somewhaih along de line.

O’cose I buys de gal ice-cream,
Whut else I gwine to do?
I knows jes’ how de t’ing ’u’d seem
Ef I’d be sho’t wid you.
On Sunday, you’s at chu’ch a-shoutin’,
Den all de week you go ’roun’ poutin’—
I’s mighty tiahed o’ all dis doubtin’,
I tell you cause I’s true.

FROM WHEN MALINDY SINGS 1903

When Malindy Sings

G’way an’ quit dat noise, Miss Lucy—
Put dat music book away;
What’s de use to keep on tryin’?
Ef you practise twell you’re gray,
You cain’t sta’t no notes a-flyin’
Lak de ones dat rants and rings
F’om de kitchen to de big woods
When Malindy sings.

You ain’t got de nachel o’gans
Fu’ to make de soun’ come right
You ain’t got de tu’ns an’ twistin’s
Fu’ to make it sweet an’ light.
Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,
An’ I’m tellin’ you fu’ true,
When hit comes to raal right singin’,
’Tain’t no easy thing to do.

Easy ’nough fu’ folks to hollah,
Lookin’ at de lines an’ dots,
When dey ain’t no one kin sence it,
An’ de chune comes in, in spots;
But fu’ real melojous music,
Dat jes’ strikes yo’ hea’t and clings,
Jes’ you stan’ an’ listen wif me
When Malindy sings.

Ain’t you nevah hyeahd Malindy?
Blessed soul, tek up de cross!
Look hyeah, ain’t you jokin’, honey?
Well, you don’t know whut you los’.