A BRIDAL MEASURE

Come, essay a sprightly measure, Tuned to some light song of pleasure. Maidens, let your brows be crowned As we foot this merry round.

From the ground a voice is singing, From the sod a soul is springing. Who shall say 't is but a clod Quick'ning upward toward its God?

Who shall say it? Who may know it, That the clod is not a poet Waiting but a gleam to waken In a spirit music-shaken?

Phyllis, Phyllis, why be waiting? In the woods the birds are mating. From the tree beside the wall, Hear the am'rous robin call.

Listen to yon thrush's trilling; Phyllis, Phyllis, are you willing, When love speaks from cave and tree, Only we should silent be?

When the year, itself renewing, All the world with flowers is strewing, Then through Youth's Arcadian land, Love and song go hand in hand.

Come, unfold your vocal treasure, Sing with me a nuptial measure,— Let this springtime gambol be Bridal dance for you and me.

VENGEANCE IS SWEET

When I was young I longed for Love, And held his glory far above All other earthly things. I cried: "Come, Love, dear Love, with me abide;" And with my subtlest art I wooed, And eagerly the wight pursued. But Love was gay and Love was shy, He laughed at me and passed me by.

Well, I grew old and I grew gray, When Wealth came wending down my way. I took his golden hand with glee, And comrades from that day were we. Then Love came back with doleful face, And prayed that I would give him place. But, though his eyes with tears were dim, I turned my back and laughed at him.

A HYMN

AFTER READING "LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT."

Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For oh, my steps are weak, And ever as I go, Some soothing sentence speak;

That I may turn my face Through doubt's obscurity Toward thine abiding-place, E'en tho' I cannot see.

For lo, the way is dark; Through mist and cloud I grope, Save for that fitful spark, The little flame of hope.

Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For fear that I may fall; I know not where to go Unless I hear thy call.

My fainting soul doth yearn For thy green hills afar; So let thy mercy burn— My greater, guiding star!

JUST WHISTLE A BIT

Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark, And the sky be overcast: If mute be the voice of the piping lark, Why, pipe your own small blast.

And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky-track The truant warbler comes stealing back. But why need he come? for your soul's at rest, And the song in the heart,—ah, that is best.

Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear And the stars refuse to shine: And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear Within you glows benign.

Till the dearth of light in the glooming skies Is lost to the sight of your soul-lit eyes. What matters the absence of moon or star? The light within is the best by far.

Just whistle a bit, if there 's work to do, With the mind or in the soil. And your note will turn out a talisman true To exorcise grim Toil.

It will lighten your burden and make you feel That there 's nothing like work as a sauce for a meal. And with song in your heart and the meal in—its place, There 'll be joy in your bosom and light in your face.

Just whistle a bit, if your heart be sore; 'Tis a wonderful balm for pain. Just pipe some old melody o'er and o'er Till it soothes like summer rain.

And perhaps 't would be best in a later day, When Death comes stalking down the way, To knock at your bosom and see if you 're fit, Then, as you wait calmly, just whistle a bit.

THE BARRIER

The Midnight wooed the Morning-Star, And prayed her: "Love come nearer; Your swinging coldly there afar To me but makes you dearer!"

The Morning-Star was pale with dole As said she, low replying: "Oh, lover mine, soul of my soul, For you I too am sighing.

"But One ordained when we were born, In spite of Love's insistence, That Night might only view the Morn Adoring at a distance."

But as she spoke the jealous Sun Across the heavens panted. "Oh, whining fools," he cried, "have done; Your wishes shall be granted!"

He hurled his flaming lances far; The twain stood unaffrighted— And Midnight and the Morning-Star Lay down in death united!

DREAMS

Dream on, for dreams are sweet: Do not awaken! Dream on, and at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken.

Who likeneth the youth Of life to morning? 'Tis like the night in truth, Rose-coloured dreams adorning.

The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber!

In Lethe's soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream. Oh, weep when thou awakest!

THE DREAMER

Temples he built and palaces of air, And, with the artist's parent-pride aglow, His fancy saw his vague ideals grow Into creations marvellously fair;

He set his foot upon Fame's nether stair. But ah, his dream,—it had entranced him so He could not move. He could no farther go; But paused in joy that he was even there!

He did not wake until one day there gleamed Thro' his dark consciousness a light that racked His being till he rose, alert to act. But lo! what he had dreamed, the while he dreamed, Another, wedding action unto thought, Into the living, pulsing world had brought.

WAITING

The sun has slipped his tether And galloped down the west. (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) The little bird is sleeping In the softness of its nest. Night follows day, day follows dawn, And so the time has come and gone: And it's weary, weary waiting, love.

The cruel wind is rising With a whistle and a wail. (And it's weary, weary waiting, love.) My eyes are seaward straining For the coming of a sail; But void the sea, and void the beach Far and beyond where gaze can reach! And it's weary, weary waiting, love.

I heard the bell-buoy ringing— How long ago it seems! (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) And ever still, its knelling Crashes in upon my dreams. The banns were read, my frock was sewn; Since then two seasons' winds have blown— And it's weary, weary waiting, love.

The stretches of the ocean Are bare and bleak to-day. (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) My eyes are growing dimmer— Is it tears, or age, or spray? But I will stay till you come home. Strange ships come in across the foam! But it's weary, weary waiting, love.

THE END OF THE CHAPTER

Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day; We even lay the book away; But oh, how sweet the moments sped Before the final page was read!

We tried to read between the lines The Author's deep-concealed designs; But scant reward such search secures; You saw my heart and I saw yours.

The Master,—He who penned the page And bade us read it,—He is sage: And what he orders, you and I Can but obey, nor question why.

We read together and forgot The world about us. Time was not. Unheeded and unfelt, it fled. We read and hardly knew we read.

Until beneath a sadder sun, We came to know the book was done. Then, as our minds were but new lit, It dawned upon us what was writ;

And we were startled. In our eyes, Looked forth the light of great surprise. Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls, A voice spoke forth: "Behold your souls!"

I do, I do. I cannot look Into your eyes: so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this!

SYMPATHY

I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting— I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings— I know why the caged bird sings!

LOVE AND GRIEF

Out of my heart, one treach'rous winter's day, I locked young Love and threw the key away. Grief, wandering widely, found the key, And hastened with it, straightway, back to me, With Love beside him. He unlocked the door And bade Love enter with him there and stay. And so the twain abide for evermore.

LOVE'S CHASTENING

Once Love grew bold and arrogant of air, Proud of the youth that made him fresh and fair; So unto Grief he spake, "What right hast thou To part or parcel of this heart?" Grief's brow Was darkened with the storm of inward strife; Thrice smote he Love as only he might dare, And Love, pride purged, was chastened all his life.

MORTALITY

Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lust? What of his passion, what of his pain? What of his poverty, what of his pride? Earth, the great mother, has called him again: Deeply he sleeps, the world's verdict defied. Shall he be tried again? Shall he go free? Who shall the court convene? Where shall it be? No answer on the land, none from the sea. Only we know that as he did, we must: You with your theories, you with your trust,— Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust!

LOVE

A life was mine full of the close concern Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast; Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past. A present came equipped with lore to learn. Art, science, letters, in their turn, Each one allured me with its treasures vast; And I staked all for wisdom, till at last Thou cam'st and taught my soul anew to yearn. I had not dreamed that I could turn away From all that men with brush and pen had wrought; But ever since that memorable day When to my heart the truth of love was brought, I have been wholly yielded to its sway, And had no room for any other thought.

SHE GAVE ME A ROSE

She gave a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it. I love her, she knows, And my action confessed it. She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it.

Ah, how my heart glows, Could I ever have guessed it? It is fair to suppose That I might have repressed it: She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it.

'T was a rhyme in life's prose That uplifted and blest it. Man's nature, who knows Until love comes to test it? She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it.

DREAM SONG I

Long years ago, within a distant clime, Ere Love had touched me with his wand sublime, I dreamed of one to make my life's calm May The panting passion of a summer's day. And ever since, in almost sad suspense, I have been waiting with a soul intense To greet and take unto myself the beams, Of her, my star, the lady of my dreams.

O Love, still longed and looked for, come to me, Be thy far home by mountain, vale, or sea. My yearning heart may never find its rest Until thou liest rapt upon my breast. The wind may bring its perfume from the south, Is it so sweet as breath from my love's mouth? Oh, naught that surely is, and naught that seems May turn me from the lady of my dreams.

DREAM SONG II

Pray, what can dreams avail To make love or to mar? The child within the cradle rail Lies dreaming of the star. But is the star by this beguiled To leave its place and seek the child?

The poor plucked rose within its glass Still dreameth of the bee; But, tho' the lagging moments pass, Her Love she may not see. If dream of child and flower fail, Why should a maiden's dreams prevail?

CHRISTMAS IN THE HEART

The snow lies deep upon the ground, And winter's brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest sere, With jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hill With some new spirit seems to thrill; And all the temple bells achime. Ring out the glee of Christmas time.

In happy homes the brown oak-bough Vies with the red-gemmed holly now; And here and there, like pearls, there show The berries of the mistletoe. A sprig upon the chandelier Says to the maidens, "Come not here!" Even the pauper of the earth Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth!

Within his chamber, dim and cold, There sits a grasping miser old. He has no thought save one of gain,— To grind and gather and grasp and drain. A peal of bells, a merry shout Assail his ear: he gazes out Upon a world to him all gray, And snarls, "Why, this is Christmas Day!"

No, man of ice,—for shame, for shame! For "Christmas Day" is no mere name. No, not for you this ringing cheer, This festal season of the year. And not for you the chime of bells From holy temple rolls and swells. In day and deed he has no part— Who holds not Christmas in his heart!

THE KING IS DEAD

Aye, lay him in his grave, the old dead year! His life is lived—fulfilled his destiny. Have you for him no sad, regretful tear To drop beside the cold, unfollowed bier? Can you not pay the tribute of a sigh?

Was he not kind to you, this dead old year? Did he not give enough of earthly store? Enough of love, and laughter, and good cheer? Have not the skies you scanned sometimes been clear? How, then, of him who dies, could you ask more?

It is not well to hate him for the pain He brought you, and the sorrows manifold. To pardon him these hurts still I am fain; For in the panting period of his reign, He brought me new wounds, but he healed the old.

One little sigh for thee, my poor, dead friend— One little sigh while my companions sing. Thou art so soon forgotten in the end; We cry e'en as thy footsteps downward tend: "The king is dead! long live the king!"

THEOLOGY

There is a heaven, for ever, day by day, The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so. There is a hell, I 'm quite as sure; for pray, If there were not, where would my neighbours go?

RESIGNATION

Long had I grieved at what I deemed abuse; But now I am as grain within the mill. If so be thou must crush me for thy use, Grind on, O potent God, and do thy will!

LOVE'S HUMILITY

As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth, Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far, So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth Look longing up to thee as to a star.

PRECEDENT

The poor man went to the rich man's doors, "I come as Lazarus came," he said. The rich man turned with humble head,— "I will send my dogs to lick your sores!"

SHE TOLD HER BEADS

She told her beads with down-cast eyes, Within the ancient chapel dim; And ever as her fingers slim Slipt o'er th' insensate ivories, My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise. Ah, many were the beads she wore; But as she told them o'er and o'er, They did not number all my sighs. My heart was filled with unvoiced cries And prayers and pleadings unexpressed; But while I burned with Love's unrest, She told her beads with down-cast eyes.

LITTLE LUCY LANDMAN

Oh, the day has set me dreaming In a strange, half solemn way Of the feelings I experienced On another long past day,— Of the way my heart made music When the buds began to blow, And o' little Lucy Landman Whom I loved long years ago.

It 's in spring, the poet tells us, That we turn to thoughts of love, And our hearts go out a-wooing With the lapwing and the dove. But whene'er the soul goes seeking Its twin-soul, upon the wing, I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry, That it's love that makes the spring.

I have heard a robin singing When the boughs were brown and bare, And the chilling hand of winter Scattered jewels through the air. And in spite of dates and seasons, It was always spring, I know, When I loved Lucy Landman In the days of long ago.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman, I remember you as well As if 't were only yesterday I strove your thoughts to tell,— When I tilted back your bonnet, Looked into your eyes so true, Just to see if you were loving Me as I was loving you.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman It is true it was denied You should see a fuller summer And an autumn by my side. But the glance of love's sweet sunlight Which your eyes that morning gave Has kept spring within my bosom, Though you lie within the grave.

THE GOURD

In the heavy earth the miner Toiled and laboured day by day, Wrenching from the miser mountain Brilliant treasure where it lay. And the artist worn and weary Wrought with labour manifold That the king might drink his nectar From a goblet made of gold.

On the prince's groaning table Mid the silver gleaming bright Mirroring the happy faces Giving back the flaming light, Shine the cups of priceless crystal Chased with many a lovely line, Glowing now with warmer colour, Crimsoned by the ruby wine.

In a valley sweet with sunlight, Fertile with the dew and rain, Without miner's daily labour, Without artist's nightly pain, There there grows the cup I drink from, Summer's sweetness in it stored, And my lips pronounce a blessing As they touch an old brown gourd.

Why, the miracle at Cana In the land of Galilee, Tho' it puzzles all the scholars, Is no longer strange to me. For the poorest and the humblest Could a priceless wine afford, If they 'd only dip up water With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.

So a health to my old comrade, And a song of praise to sing When he rests inviting kisses In his place beside the spring. Give the king his golden goblets, Give the prince his crystal hoard; But for me the sparkling water From a brown and brimming gourd!

THE KNIGHT

Our good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on (And he wields it well, I ween); He 's on his steed, and away has gone To the fight for king and queen. What tho' no edge the broadsword hath? What tho' the blade be made of lath? 'T is a valiant hand That wields the brand, So, foeman, clear the path!

He prances off at a goodly pace; 'T is a noble steed he rides, That bears as well in the speedy race As he bears in battle-tides. What tho' 't is but a rocking-chair That prances with this stately air? 'T is a warrior bold The reins doth hold, Who bids all foes beware!

THOU ART MY LUTE

Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,— My being is attuned to thee. Thou settest all my words a-wing, And meltest me to melody.

Thou art my life, by thee I live, From thee proceed the joys I know; Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give The meed of love—the cup of woe.

Thou art my love, by thee I lead My soul the paths of light along, From vale to vale, from mead to mead, And home it in the hills of song.

My song, my soul, my life, my all, Why need I pray or make my plea, Since my petition cannot fall; For I 'm already one with thee!

THE PHANTOM KISS

One night in my room, still and beamless, With will and with thought in eclipse, I rested in sleep that was dreamless; When softly there fell on my lips

A touch, as of lips that were pressing Mine own with the message of bliss— A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing, A breath like a maiden's first kiss.

I woke-and the scoffer may doubt me— I peered in surprise through the gloom; But nothing and none were about me, And I was alone in my room.

Perhaps 't was the wind that caressed me And touched me with dew-laden breath; Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed me The low-winging Angel of Death.

Some sceptic may choose to disdain it, Or one feign to read it aright; Or wisdom may seek to explain it— This mystical kiss in the night.

But rather let fancy thus clear it: That, thinking of me here alone, The miles were made naught, and, in spirit, Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.

COMMUNION

In the silence of my heart, I will spend an hour with thee, When my love shall rend apart All the veil of mystery:

All that dim and misty veil That shut in between our souls When Death cried, "Ho, maiden, hail!" And your barque sped on the shoals.

On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said. On the breeze of Death that sweeps Far from life, thy soul has sped Out into unsounded deeps.

I shall take an hour and come Sailing, darling, to thy side. Wind nor sea may keep me from Soft communings with my bride.

I shall rest my head on thee As I did long days of yore, When a calm, untroubled sea Rocked thy vessel at the shore.

I shall take thy hand in mine, And live o'er the olden days When thy smile to me was wine,— Golden wine thy word of praise,

For the carols I had wrought In my soul's simplicity; For the petty beads of thought Which thine eyes alone could see.

Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen For my welfare and my weal! Tho' the grave-door shut between, Still their love-lights o'er me steal.

I can see thee thro' my tears, As thro' rain we see the sun. What tho' cold and cooling years Shall their bitter courses run,—

I shall see thee still and be Thy true lover evermore, And thy face shall be to me Dear and helpful as before.

Death may vaunt and Death may boast, But we laugh his pow'r to scorn; He is but a slave at most,— Night that heralds coming morn.

I shall spend an hour with thee Day by day, my little bride. True love laughs at mystery, Crying, "Doors of Death, fly wide."

MARE RUBRUM

In Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet, And wait the sound of that sustaining word Which long ago the men of Israel heard, When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet, Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat. Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?— That struggling faith may die of hope deferred? Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?

The billows swirl above my trembling limbs, And almost chill my anxious heart to doubt And disbelief, long conquered and defied. But tho' the music of my hopeful hymns Is drowned by curses of the raging rout, No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide!

IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN

In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene: The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green, The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray, The waving branches with the wind at play, The slight and tremulous blooms that show between, Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth lean Toward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.

Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze. But e'en among such soothing sights as these, I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes. Of all the longings that our hearts wot of, There is no hunger like the want of love!

THE CRISIS

A man of low degree was sore oppressed, Fate held him under iron-handed sway, And ever, those who saw him thus distressed Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray. But he, strong in himself and obdurate, Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.

Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp, Or took it not at all; and Poverty, That bruised his body with relentless grasp, Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free. But though with helpless hands he beat the air, His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.

Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate, Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet; Those who had scorned forgave and called him great— His friends found out that friendship still was sweet. But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head In prayer, and trembling with its import, said:

"Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown; So I prevailed, for human strength was mine; But from the killing pow'r of great renown, Naught may protect me save a strength divine. Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause; I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause!"

THE CONQUERORS

THE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBA

Round the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won, Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun, Goes the word. Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun. Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun, The world heard.

Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray, Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray From the fight. Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay, Owning you fit for the light of her day, Men of night.

Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come, There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb, Out of fear. And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum, Truth shall rise over the militant drum, Loud and clear.

Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows, All for their love of you, not for your woes, There shall lie Tears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose; Afterward thanks, that the present yet knows Not to ply!

ALEXANDER CRUMMELL—DEAD

Back to the breast of thy mother, Child of the earth! E'en her caress can not smother What thou hast done. Follow the trail of the westering sun Over the earth. Thy light and his were as one— Sun, in thy worth. Unto a nation whose sky was as night, Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light: And the dawn came, In it thy fame Flashed up in a flame.

Back to the breast of thy mother— To rest. Long hast thou striven; Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven; Go now, pure shriven. Who shall come after thee, out of the clay— Learned one and leader to show us the way? Who shall rise up when the world gives the test? Think thou no more of this— Rest!

WHEN ALL IS DONE

When all is done, and my last word is said, And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead," Let no one weep, for fear that I should know, And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.

When all is done and in the oozing clay, Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away, Pray not for me, for, after long despair, The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.

For I have suffered loss and grievous pain, The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain, And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure, Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.

When all is done, say not my day is o'er, And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore: Say rather that my morn has just begun,— I greet the dawn and not a setting sun, When all is done.

THE POET AND THE BABY

How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,— How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,— When a-toddling on the floor Is the muse he must adore, And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?

Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows, One must always be as quiet as a mouse; But to write one seems to me Quite superfluous to be, When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.

Just a dainty little poem, true and fine, That is full of love and life in every line, Earnest, delicate, and sweet, Altogether so complete That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.

DISTINCTION

"I am but clay," the sinner plead, Who fed each vain desire. "Not only clay," another said, "But worse, for thou art mire."

THE SUM

A little dreaming by the way, A little toiling day by day; A little pain, a little strife, A little joy,—and that is life.

A little short-lived summer's morn, When joy seems all so newly born, When one day's sky is blue above, And one bird sings,—and that is love.

A little sickening of the years, The tribute of a few hot tears Two folded hands, the failing breath, And peace at last,—and that is death.

Just dreaming, loving, dying so, The actors in the drama go— A flitting picture on a wall, Love, Death, the themes; but is that all?

SONNET

ON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVES

Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire, No finger ever traced thy yellow page Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre Dost thou suggest. Nay,—impotent in age, Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage And ceasest even dumbly to aspire.

How different was the thought of him that writ. What promised he to love of ease and wealth, When men should read and kindle at his wit. But here decay eats up the book by stealth, While it, like some old maiden, solemnly, Hugs its incongruous virginity!

ON THE SEA WALL

I sit upon the old sea wall, And watch the shimmering sea, Where soft and white the moonbeams fall, Till, in a fantasy, Some pure white maiden's funeral pall The strange light seems to me.

The waters break upon the shore And shiver at my feet, While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er, And dim old scenes repeat; Tho' all have dreamed the same before, They still seem new and sweet.

The waves still sing the same old song That knew an elder time; The breakers' beat is not more strong, Their music more sublime; And poets thro' the ages long Have set these notes to rhyme.

But this shall not deter my lyre, Nor check my simple strain; If I have not the old-time fire, I know the ancient pain: The hurt of unfulfilled desire,— The ember quenched by rain.

I know the softly shining sea That rolls this gentle swell Has snarled and licked its tongues at me And bared its fangs as well; That 'neath its smile so heavenly, There lurks the scowl of hell!

But what of that? I strike my string (For songs in youth are sweet); I 'll wait and hear the waters bring Their loud resounding beat; Then, in her own bold numbers sing The Ocean's dear deceit!

TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARP

Thy tones are silver melted into sound, And as I dream I see no walls around, But seem to hear A gondolier Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.

Italian skies—that I have never seen— I see above. (Ah, play again, my queen; Thy fingers white Fly swift and light And weave for me the golden mesh of love.)

Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes And soft dark hair, 'T is thou that mak'st my skies So swift to change To far and strange: But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.

Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee As one who drowns In floods of melody. Still in thy art Give me this part, Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.

CONFESSIONAL

Search thou my heart; If there be guile, It shall depart Before thy smile.

Search thou my soul; Be there deceit, 'T will vanish whole Before thee, sweet.

Upon my mind Turn thy pure lens; Naught shalt thou find Thou canst not cleanse.

If I should pray, I scarcely know In just what way My prayers would go.

So strong in me I feel love's leaven, I 'd bow to thee As soon as Heaven!

MISAPPREHENSION

Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song, With my heart's blood imbued, Instinct with passion, tremulously strong, With grief subdued; Breathing a fortitude Pain-bought. And one who claimed much love for what I wrought, Read and considered it, And spoke: "Ay, brother,—'t is well writ, But where's the joke?"

PROMETHEUS

Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea. He lit the vestal flames of poesy, Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.

Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven To lift men's souls above their low estate.

But judge you now, when poets wield the pen, Think you not well the wrong has been repaired? 'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared: The fire has been returned to Heaven again!

We have no singers like the ones whose note Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song. We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.

The measure of our songs is our desires: We tinkle where old poets used to storm. We lack their substance tho' we keep their form: We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.

LOVE'S PHASES

Love hath the wings of the butterfly, Oh, clasp him but gently, Pausing and dipping and fluttering by Inconsequently. Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh; Love hath the wings of the butterfly.

Love hath the wings of the eagle bold, Cling to him strongly— What if the look of the world be cold, And life go wrongly? Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold; Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.

Love hath the voice of the nightingale, Hearken his trilling— List to his song when the moonlight is pale,— Passionate, thrilling. Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail; Love hath the voice of the nightingale.

Love hath the voice of the storm at night, Wildly defiant. Hear him and yield up your soul to his might, Tenderly pliant. None shall regret him who heed him aright; Love hath the voice of the storm at night.

FOR THE MAN WHO FAILS

The world is a snob, and the man who wins Is the chap for its money's worth: And the lust for success causes half of the sins That are cursing this brave old earth. For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applause Is sweet to the mortal ear; But the man who fails in a noble cause Is a hero that 's no less dear.

'T is true enough that the laurel crown Twines but for the victor's brow; For many a hero has lain him down With naught but the cypress bough. 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.

VAGRANTS

Long time ago, we two set out, My soul and I. I know not why, For all our way was dim with doubt. I know not where We two may fare: Though still with every changing weather, We wander, groping on together.

We do not love, we are not friends, My soul and I. He lives a lie; Untruth lines every way he wends. A scoffer he Who jeers at me: And so, my comrade and my brother, We wander on and hate each other.

Ay, there be taverns and to spare, Beside the road; But some strange goad Lets me not stop to taste their fare. Knew I the goal Toward which my soul And I made way, hope made life fragrant: But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant!

A WINTER'S DAY

Across the hills and down the narrow ways, And up the valley where the free winds sweep, The earth is folded in an ermined sleep That mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays. Departed her disheartening duns and grays, And all her crusty black is covered deep. Dark streams are locked in Winter's donjon-keep, And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays. O icy mantle, and deceitful snow! What world-old liars in your hearts ye are! Are there not still the darkened seam and scar Beneath the brightness that you fain would show? Come from the cover with thy blot and blur, O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre!

MY LITTLE MARCH GIRL

Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart, There she is passing, the girl of my heart; See where she walks like a queen in the street, Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet. Tripping along with impetuous grace, Joy of her life beaming out of her face, Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl, Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.

Hint of the violet's delicate bloom, Hint of the rose's pervading perfume! How can the wind help from kissing her face,— Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace? But still serenely she laughs at his rout, She is the victor who wins in the bout. So may life's passions about her soul swirl, Leaving it placid,—my little March girl.

What self-possession looks out of her eyes! What are the wild winds, and what are the skies, Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life, Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife? Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now? What can you do with that innocent brow? Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl, But bring her to me, Wind,—my little March girl.

REMEMBERED

She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) The stars were out and the moon it grew From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue To a bird thro' the heavens winging.

She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,— (It was sweet, so sweet the singing.) As a dove just out of its fledgling nest, And, putting its wings to the first sweet test, Flutters homeward so wearily winging.

She sang and I said to my heart "That song, That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing, Shall live with us and inspire us long, And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong For the sake of those words a-winging."

The woman died and the song was still. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) But ever I hear the same low trill, Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill, And goes forever winging.

LOVE DESPOILED

As lone I sat one summer's day, With mien dejected, Love came by; His face distraught, his locks astray, So slow his gait, so sad his eye, I hailed him with a pitying cry:

"Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?" Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft; And see thy quiver hanging low,— What, not a single arrow left? Pray, who is guilty of this theft?"

Poor Love looked in my face and cried: "No thief were ever yet so bold To rob my quiver at my side. But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold, And all my goodly shafts are sold."

THE LAPSE

This poem must be done to-day; Then, I 'll e'en to it. I must not dream my time away,— I 'm sure to rue it. The day is rather bright, I know The Muse will pardon My half-defection, if I go Into the garden. It must be better working there,— I 'm sure it's sweeter: And something in the balmy air May clear my metre.

[In the Garden.]

Ah this is noble, what a sky! What breezes blowing! The very clouds, I know not why, Call one to rowing. The stream will be a paradise To-day, I 'll warrant. I know the tide that's on the rise Will seem a torrent; I know just how the leafy boughs Are all a-quiver; I know how many skiffs and scows Are on the river. I think I 'll just go out awhile Before I write it; When Nature shows us such a smile, We should n't slight it. For Nature always makes desire By giving pleasure; And so 't will help me put more fire Into my measure.

[On the River.]

The river's fine, I 'm glad I came, That poem 's teasing; But health is better far than fame, Though cheques are pleasing. I don't know what I did it for,— This air 's a poppy. I 'm sorry for my editor,— He 'll get no copy!

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!

FAREWELL TO ARCADY

With sombre mien, the Evening gray Comes nagging at the heels of Day, And driven faster and still faster Before the dusky-mantled Master, The light fades from her fearful eyes, She hastens, stumbles, falls, and dies.

Beside me Amaryllis weeps; The swelling tears obscure the deeps Of her dark eyes, as, mistily, The rushing rain conceals the sea. Here, lay my tuneless reed away,— I have no heart to tempt a lay.

I scent the perfume of the rose Which by my crystal fountain grows. In this sad time, are roses blowing? And thou, my fountain, art thou flowing,

While I who watched thy waters spring Am all too sad to smile or sing? Nay, give me back my pipe again, It yet shall breathe this single strain: Farewell to Arcady!

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."

THE STIRRUP CUP

Come, drink a stirrup cup with me, Before we close our rouse. You 're all aglow with wine, I know: The master of the house, Unmindful of our revelry, Has drowned the carking devil care, And slumbers in his chair.

Come, drink a cup before we start; We 've far to ride to-night. And Death may take the race we make, And check our gallant flight: But even he must play his part, And tho' the look he wears be grim, We 'll drink a toast to him!

For Death,—a swift old chap is he, And swift the steed He rides. He needs no chart o'er main or mart, For no direction bides. So, come, a final, cup with me, And let the soldiers' chorus swell,— To hell with care, to hell!

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!



HUMOUR AND DIALECT

THEN AND NOW

THEN

He loved her, and through many years, Had paid his fair devoted court, Until she wearied, and with sneers Turned all his ardent love to sport.

That night within his chamber lone, He long sat writing by his bed A note in which his heart made moan For love; the morning found him dead.

NOW

Like him, a man of later day Was jilted by the maid he sought, And from her presence turned away, Consumed by burning, bitter thought.

He sought his room to write—a curse Like him before and die, I ween. Ah no, he put his woes in verse, And sold them to a magazine.

AT CHESHIRE CHEESE

When first of wise old Johnson taught, My youthful mind its homage brought, And made the pond'rous crusty sage The object of a noble rage.

Nor did I think (How dense we are!) That any day, however far, Would find me holding, unrepelled, The place that Doctor Johnson held!

But change has come and time has moved, And now, applauded, unreproved, I hold, with pardonable pride, The place that Johnson occupied.

Conceit! Presumption! What is this? You surely read my words amiss; Like Johnson I,—a man of mind! How could you ever be so blind?

No. At the ancient "Cheshire Cheese," Blown hither by some vagrant breeze, To dignify my shallow wit, In Doctor Johnson's seat I sit!

MY CORN-COB PIPE

Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made cigars; But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine, And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine.

It 's as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom; It 's as dainty as the essence of the daintiest perfume; It 's as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe, With the sun's warm kiss upon them—is this corn-cob pipe.

Thro' the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form to trace, Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face; And my room is dim with vapour as a church when censers sway, As I clasp it to my bosom—in a figurative way.

It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress, And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success; So I hail it as a symbol, friendship's true and worthy type, And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.

IN AUGUST

When August days are hot an' dry, When burning copper is the sky, I 'd rather fish than feast or fly In airy realms serene and high.

I 'd take a suit not made for looks, Some easily digested books, Some flies, some lines, some bait, some hooks, Then would I seek the bays and brooks.

I would eschew mine every task, In Nature's smiles my soul should bask, And I methinks no more could ask, Except—perhaps—one little flask.

In case of accident, you know, Or should the wind come on to blow, Or I be chilled or capsized, so, A flask would be the only go.

Then could I spend a happy time,— A bit of sport, a bit of rhyme (A bit of lemon, or of lime, To make my bottle's contents prime).

When August days are hot an' dry, I won't sit by an' sigh or die, I 'll get my bottle (on the sly) And go ahead, and fish, and lie!

THE DISTURBER

Oh, what shall I do? I am wholly upset; I am sure I 'll be jailed for a lunatic yet. I 'll be out of a job—it's the thing to expect When I 'm letting my duty go by with neglect. You may judge the extent and degree of my plight When I 'm thinking all day and a-dreaming all night, And a-trying my hand at a rhyme on the sly, All on account of a sparkling eye.

There are those who say men should be strong, well-a-day! But what constitutes strength in a man? Who shall say? I am strong as the most when it comes to the arm. I have aye held my own on the playground or farm. And when I 've been tempted, I haven't been weak; But now—why, I tremble to hear a maid speak. I used to be bold, but now I 've grown shy, And all on account of a sparkling eye.

There once was a time when my heart was devout, But now my religion is open to doubt. When parson is earnestly preaching of grace, My fancy is busy with drawing a face, Thro' the back of a bonnet most piously plain; 'I draw it, redraw it, and draw it again.' While the songs and the sermon unheeded go by,— All on account of a sparkling eye.

Oh, dear little conjurer, give o'er your wiles, It is easy for you, you're all blushes and smiles: But, love of my heart, I am sorely perplexed; I am smiling one minute and sighing the next; And if it goes on, I 'll drop hackle and flail, And go to the parson and tell him my tale. I warrant he 'll find me a cure for the sigh That you 're aye bringing forth with the glance of your eye.

EXPECTATION

You 'll be wonderin' whut 's de reason I 's a grinnin' all de time, An' I guess you t'ink my sperits Mus' be feelin' mighty prime. Well, I 'fess up, I is tickled As a puppy at his paws. But you need n't think I's crazy, I ain' laffin' 'dout a cause.

You's a wonderin' too, I reckon, Why I does n't seem to eat, An' I notice you a lookin' Lak you felt completely beat When I 'fuse to tek de bacon, An' don' settle on de ham. Don' you feel no feah erbout me, Jes' keep eatin', an' be ca'm.

Fu' I's waitin' an' I's watchin' 'Bout a little t'ing I see— D' othah night I's out a walkin' An' I passed a 'simmon tree. Now I's whettin' up my hongry, An' I's laffin' fit to kill, Fu' de fros' done turned de 'simmons, An' de possum 's eat his fill.

He done go'ged hisse'f owdacious, An' he stayin' by de tree! Don' you know, ol' Mistah Possum Dat you gittin' fat fu' me? 'T ain't no use to try to 'spute it, 'Case I knows you's gittin' sweet Wif dat 'simmon flavoh thoo you, So I's waitin' fu' yo' meat.

An' some ebenin' me an Towsah Gwine to come an' mek a call, We jes' drap in onexpected Fu' to shek yo' han', dat's all. Oh, I knows dat you 'll be tickled, Seems lak I kin see you smile, So pu'haps I mought pu'suade you Fu' to visit us a while.

LOVER'S LANE

Summah night an' sighin' breeze, 'Long de lovah's lane; Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, 'Long de lovah's lane. White folks' wo'k all done up gran'— Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' Struttin' lak we owned de lan', 'Long de lovah's lane.

Owl a-settin' 'side de road, 'Long de lovah's lane, Lookin' at us lak he knowed Dis uz lovah's lane. Go on, hoot yo' mou'nful tune, You ain' nevah loved in June, An' come hidin' f'om de moon Down in lovah's lane.

Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway, Down in lovah's lane, Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say 'Long de lovah's lane. But I whispahs low lak dis, An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss— Mistah Bush he shek his fis', Down in lovah's lane.

Whut I keer ef day is long, Down in lovah's lane. I kin allus sing a song 'Long de lovah's lane. An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say Meks up fu' de weary day Wen I's strollin' by de way, Down in lovah's lane.

An' dis t'ought will allus rise Down in lovah's lane; Wondah whethah in de skies Dey 's a lovah's lane. Ef dey ain't, I tell you true, 'Ligion do look mighty blue, 'Cause I do' know whut I 'd do 'Dout a lovah's lane.

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.

HYMN

O li'l' lamb out in de col', De Mastah call you to de fol', O li'l' lamb! He hyeah you bleatin' on de hill; Come hyeah an' keep yo' mou'nin' still, O li'l' lamb!

De Mastah sen' de Shepud fo'f; He wandah souf, he wandah no'f, O li'l' lamb! He wandah eas', he wandah wes'; De win' a-wrenchin' at his breas', O li'l' lamb!

Oh, tell de Shepud whaih you hide; He want you walkin' by his side, O li'l' lamb! He know you weak, he know you so'; But come, don' stay away no mo', O li'l' lamb!

An' af'ah while de lamb he hyeah De Shepud's voice a-callin' cleah— Sweet li'l' lamb! He answah f'om de brambles thick, "O Shepud, I's a-comin' quick"— O li'l' lamb!

LITTLE BROWN BABY

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee. What you been doin', suh—makin' san' pies? Look at dat bib—you's ez du'ty ez me. Look at dat mouf—dat's merlasses, I bet; Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his han's. Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, Bein' so sticky an sweet—goodness lan's!

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, Who's pappy's darlin' an' who 's pappy's chile? Who is it all de day nevah once tries Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile? Whah did you git dem teef? My, you 's a scamp! Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin? Pappy do' know you—I b'lieves you 's a tramp; Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in!

Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san', We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah; Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man; I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah. Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do', Hyeah 's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat. Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo', Swaller him down f'om his haid to his feet!

Dah, now, I t'ought dat you 'd hug me up close. Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy. He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se; He's pappy's pa'dner an' play-mate an' joy. Come to you' pallet now—go to yo' res; Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies; Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'— Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes!

TIME TO TINKER 'ROUN'!

Summah 's nice, wif sun a-shinin', Spring is good wif greens and grass, An' dey 's some t'ings nice 'bout wintah, Dough hit brings de freezin' blas; But de time dat is de fines', Whethah fiel's is green er brown, Is w'en de rain 's a-po'in' An' dey 's time to tinker 'roun.

Den you men's de mule's ol' ha'ness, An' you men's de broken chair. Hummin' all de time you 's wo'kin' Some ol' common kind o' air. Evah now an' then you looks out, Tryin' mighty ha'd to frown, But you cain't, you 's glad hit 's rainin', An' dey 's time to tinker 'roun'.

Oh, you 'ten's lak you so anxious Evah time it so't o' stops. W'en hit goes on, den you reckon Dat de wet 'll he'p de crops. But hit ain't de crops you 's aftah; You knows w'en de rain comes down Dat's hit's too wet out fu' wo'kin', An' dey 's time to tinker roun'.

Oh, dey 's fun inside de co'n-crib. An' dey 's laffin' at de ba'n; An' dey 's allus some one jokin', Er some one to tell a ya'n. Dah 's a quiet in yo' cabin, Only fu' de rain's sof soun'; So you 's mighty blessed happy W'en dey 's time to tinker 'roun'!

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 devowah.

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.

Did n't answeh me to-day, Wen I called huh name, Would you t'ink she 'd ac' dat way Wen I ain't to blame? Dat 's de way dese women do, Wen 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, Wen de gal you loves so deah, Goes back on you clean an' cleah— I sh'd like to know?

THE NEWS

Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me? Don't shut me out 'cause I 's ol' an' can't see. Somep'n's gone wrong dat 's a-causin' you dread,— Don't be afeared to tell—Whut! mastah dead?

Somebody brung de news early to-day,— One of de sojers he led, do you say? Did n't he foller whah ol' mastah lead? How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead?

Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed; I wants to t'ink,—hit ain't cleah in my head:— Killed while a-leadin' his men into fight,— Dat 's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right?

Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fiel'? Lif me up some,—dah, jes' so I kin kneel. I was too weak to go wid him, dey said, Well, now I 'll—fin' him—so—mastah is dead.

Yes, suh, I 's comin' ez fas' ez I kin,— Twas kin' o' da'k, but hit 's lightah agin: P'omised yo' pappy I 'd allus tek keer Of you,—yes, mastah,—I 's follerin',—hyeah!

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 has n'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 was n'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.

ANGELINA

When de fiddle gits to singin' out a ol' Vahginny reel, An' you 'mence to feel a ticklin' in yo' toe an' in yo' heel; Ef you t'ink you got 'uligion an' you wants to keep it, too, You jes' bettah tek a hint an' git yo'self clean out o' view. Case de time is mighty temptin' when de chune is in de swing, Fu' a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing. An' you could n't he'p f'om dancin' ef yo' feet was boun' wif twine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

Don't you know Miss Angelina? She 's de da'lin' of de place. W'y, dey ain't no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs an' sich grace. She kin move across de cabin, wif its planks all rough an' wo'; Jes' de same 's ef she was dancin' on ol' mistus' ball-room flo'. Fact is, you do' see no cabin—evaht'ing you see look grand, An' dat one ol' squeaky fiddle soun' to you jes' lak a ban'; Cotton britches look lak broadclof an' a linsey dress look fine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

Some folks say dat dancin 's sinful, an' de blessed Lawd, dey say, Gwine to punish us fu' steppin' w'en we hyeah de music play. But I tell you I don' b'lieve it, fu' de Lawd is wise and good, An' he made de banjo's metal an' he made de fiddle's wood, An' he made de music in dem, so I don' quite t'ink he 'll keer Ef our feet keeps time a little to de melodies we hyeah. W'y, dey's somep'n' downright holy in de way our faces shine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low, An' she lif huh sku't so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely show: An' dem teef o' huh'n a-shinin', ez she tek you by de han'— Go 'way, people, d' ain't anothah sich a lady in de lan'! When she 's movin' thoo de figgers er a-dancin' by huhse'f, Folks jes' stan' stock-still a-sta'in', an' dey mos' nigh hol's dey bref; An' de young mens, dey 's a-sayin', "I 's gwine mek dat damsel mine," When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

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!

MY SORT O' MAN

I don't believe in 'ristercrats An' never did, you see; The plain ol' homelike sorter folks Is good enough fur me. O' course, I don't desire a man To be too tarnal rough, But then, I think all folks should know When they air nice enough.

Now there is folks in this here world, From peasant up to king, Who want to be so awful nice They overdo the thing. That's jest the thing that makes me sick, An' quicker 'n a wink I set it down that them same folks Ain't half so good 's you think.

I like to see a man dress nice, In clothes becomin' too; I like to see a woman fix As women orter to do; An' boys an' gals I like to see Look fresh an' young an' spry.— We all must have our vanity An' pride before we die.

But I jedge no man by his clothes,— Nor gentleman nor tramp; The man that wears the finest suit May be the biggest scamp, An' he whose limbs air clad in rags That make a mournful sight, In life's great battle may have proved A hero in the fight.

I don't believe in 'ristercrats; I like the honest tan That lies upon the healthful cheek An' speaks the honest man; I like to grasp the brawny hand That labor's lips have kissed, For he who has not labored here Life's greatest pride has missed:

The pride to feel that yore own strength Has cleaved fur you the way To heights to which you were not born, But struggled day by day. What though the thousands sneer an' scoff, An' scorn yore humble birth? Kings are but puppets; you are king By right o' royal worth.

The man who simply sits an' waits Fur good to come along, Ain't worth the breath that one would take To tell him he is wrong. Fur good ain't flowin' round this world Fur every fool to sup; You 've got to put yore see-ers on, An' go an' hunt it up.

Good goes with honesty, I say, To honour an' to bless; To rich an' poor alike it brings A wealth o' happiness. The 'ristercrats ain't got it all, Fur much to their su'prise, That's one of earth's most blessed things They can't monopolize.

POSSUM

Ef dey 's anyt'ing dat riles me An' jes' gits me out o' hitch, Twell I want to tek my coat off, So 's to r'ar an' t'ar an' pitch, Hit's to see some ign'ant white man 'Mittin' dat owdacious sin— Wen he want to cook a possum Tekin' off de possum's skin.

W'y dey ain't no use in talkin', Hit jes' hu'ts me to de hea't Fu' to see dem foolish people Th'owin' 'way de fines' pa't. W'y, dat skin is jes' ez tendah An' ez juicy ez kin be; I knows all erbout de critter— Hide an' haih—don't talk to me!

Possum skin is jes lak shoat skin; Jes' you swinge an' scrope it down, Tek a good sha'p knife an' sco' it, Den you bake it good an' brown. Huh-uh! honey, you 's so happy Dat yo' thoughts is 'mos' a sin When you 's settin' dah a-chawin' On dat possum's cracklin' skin.

White folks t'ink dey know 'bout eatin', An' I reckon dat dey do Sometimes git a little idee Of a middlin' dish er two; But dey ain't a t'ing dey knows of Dat I reckon cain't be beat Wen we set down at de table To a unskun possum's meat!

ON THE ROAD

I 's boun' to see my gal to-night— Oh, lone de way, my dearie! De moon ain't out, de stars ain't bright— Oh, lone de way, my dearie! Dis hoss o' mine is pow'ful slow, But when I does git to yo' do' Yo' kiss 'll pay me back, an' mo', Dough lone de way, my dearie.

De night is skeery-lak an' still— Oh, lone de way, my dearie! 'Cept fu' dat mou'nful whippo'will— Oh, lone de way, my dearie! De way so long wif dis slow pace, 'T 'u'd seem to me lak savin' grace Ef you was on a nearer place, Fu' lone de way, my dearie.

I hyeah de hootin' of de owl— Oh, lone de way, my dearie! I wish dat watch-dog would n't howl:— Oh, lone de way, my dearie! An' evaht'ing, bofe right an' lef', Seem p'int'ly lak hit put itse'f In shape to skeer me half to def— Oh, lone de way, my dearie!

I whistles so's I won't be feared— Oh lone de way, my dearie! But anyhow I's kin' o' skeered, Fu' lone de way, my dearie. De sky been lookin' mighty glum, But you kin mek hit lighten some, Ef you 'll jes' say you's glad I come, Dough lone de way, my dearie.

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.

A BACK-LOG SONG

De axes has been ringin' in de woods de blessid day, An' de chips has been a-fallin' fa' an' thick; Dey has cut de bigges' hick'ry dat de mules kin tote away, An' dey's laid hit down and soaked it in de crik. Den dey tuk hit to de big house an' dey piled de wood erroun' In de fiah-place f'om ash-flo' to de flue, While ol' Ezry sta'ts de hymn dat evah yeah has got to soun' When de back-log fus' commence a-bu'nin' thoo.

Ol' Mastah is a-smilin' on de da'kies f'om de hall, Ol' Mistus is a-stannin' in de do', An' de young folks, males an' misses, is a-tryin', one an' all, Fu' to mek us feel hit 's Chrismus time fu' sho'. An' ouah hea'ts are full of pleasure, fu' we know de time is ouahs Fu' to dance er do jes' whut we wants to do. An' dey ain't no ovahseer an' no othah kind o' powahs Dat kin stop us while dat log is bu'nin thoo.

Dey 's a-wokin' in de qua'tahs a-preparin' fu' de feas', So de little pigs is feelin' kind o' shy. De chickens ain't so trus'ful ez dey was, to say de leas', An' de wise ol' hens is roostin' mighty high. You could n't git a gobblah fu' to look you in de face— I ain't sayin' whut de tu'ky 'spects is true; But hit's mighty dange'ous trav'lin' fu' de critters on de place F'om de time dat log commence a bu'nin' thoo.

Some one's tunin' up his fiddle dah, I hyeah a banjo's ring, An', bless me, dat's de tootin' of a ho'n! Now dey 'll evah one be runnin' dat has got a foot to fling, An' dey 'll dance an' frolic on f'om now 'twell mo'n. Plunk de banjo, scrap de fiddle, blow dat ho'n yo' level bes', Keep yo' min' erpon de chune an' step it true. Oh, dey ain't no time fu' stoppin' an' dey ain't no time fu' res', Fu' hit 's Chrismus an' de back-log 's bu'nin' thoo!

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. Had n'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.

THE PHOTOGRAPH

See dis pictyah in my han'? Dat's my gal; Ain't she purty? goodness lan'! Huh name Sal. Dat's de very way she be— Kin' o' tickles me to see Huh a-smilin' back at me.

She sont me dis photygraph Jes' las' week; An' aldough hit made me laugh— My black cheek Felt somethin' a-runnin' queer; Bless yo' soul, it was a tear Jes' f'om wishin' she was here.

Often when I 's all alone Layin' here, I git t'inkin' 'bout my own Sallie dear; How she say dat I 's huh beau, An' hit tickles me to know Dat de gal do love me so.

Some bright day I 's goin' back, Fo' de la! An' ez sho' 's my face is black, Ax huh pa Fu' de blessed little miss Who 's a-smilin' out o dis Pictyah, lak she wan'ed a kiss!

JEALOUS

Hyeah come Caesar 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.

Need n'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 't ain'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.

TEMPTATION

I done got 'uligion, honey, an' I 's happy ez a king; Evahthing I see erbout me 's jes' lak sunshine in de spring; An' it seems lak I do' want to do anothah blessid thing But jes' run an' tell de neighbours, an' to shout an' pray an' sing.

I done shuk my fis' at Satan, an' I 's gin de worl' my back; I do' want no hendrin' causes now a-both'rin' in my track; Fu' I 's on my way to glory, an' I feels too sho' to miss. Wy, dey ain't no use in sinnin' when 'uligion 's sweet ez dis.

Talk erbout a man backslidin' w'en he 's on de gospel way; No, suh, I done beat de debbil, an' Temptation 's los' de day. Gwine to keep my eyes right straight up, gwine to shet my eahs, an' see Whut ole projick Mistah Satan 's gwine to try to wuk on me.

Listen, whut dat soun' I hyeah dah? 'tain't no one commence to sing; It 's a fiddle; git erway dah! don' you hyeah dat blessid thing? W'y, dat's sweet ez drippin' honey, 'cause, you knows, I draws de bow, An' when music's sho' 'nough music, I 's de one dat's sho' to know.

W'y, I 's done de double shuffle, twell a body could n't res', Jes' a-hyeahin' Sam de fiddlah play dat chune his level bes'; I could cut a mighty caper, I could gin a mighty fling Jes' right now, I 's mo' dan suttain I could cut de pigeon wing.

Look hyeah, whut 's dis I 's been sayin'? whut on urf 's tuk holt o' me? Dat ole music come nigh runnin' my 'uligion up a tree! Cleah out wif dat dah ole fiddle, don' you try dat trick agin; Did n't think I could be tempted, but you lak to made me sin!

POSSUM TROT

I 've journeyed 'roun' consid'able, a-seein' men an' things, An' I 've learned a little of the sense that meetin' people brings; But in spite of all my travelling an' of all I think I know, I 've got one notion in my head, that I can't git to go; An' it is that the folks I meet in any other spot Ain't half so good as them I knowed back home in Possum Trot.

I know you 've never heerd the name, it ain't a famous place, An' I reckon ef you 'd search the map you could n't find a trace Of any sich locality as this I 've named to you; But never mind, I know the place, an' I love it dearly too. It don't make no pretensions to bein' great or fine, The circuses don't come that way, they ain't no railroad line. It ain't no great big city, where the schemers plan an' plot, But jest a little settlement, this place called Possum Trot.

But don't you think the folks that lived in that outlandish place Were ignorant of all the things that go for sense or grace. Why, there was Hannah Dyer, you may search this teemin' earth An' never find a sweeter girl, er one o' greater worth; An' Uncle Abner Williams, a-leanin' on his staff, It seems like I kin hear him talk, an' hear his hearty laugh. His heart was big an' cheery as a sunny acre lot, Why, that's the kind o' folks we had down there at Possum Trot.

Good times? Well, now, to suit my taste,—an' I 'm some hard to suit,— There ain't been no sich pleasure sence, an' won't be none to boot, With huskin' bees in Harvest time, an' dances later on, An' singin' school, an taffy pulls, an' fun from night till dawn. Revivals come in winter time, baptizin's in the spring, You 'd ought to seen those people shout, an' heerd 'em pray an' sing; You 'd ought to 've heard ole Parson Brown a-throwin' gospel shot Among the saints an' sinners in the days of Possum Trot.

We live up in the city now, my wife was bound to come; I hear aroun' me day by day the endless stir an' hum. I reckon that it done me good, an' yet it done me harm, That oil was found so plentiful down there on my ole farm. We 've got a new-styled preacher, our church is new-styled too, An' I 've come down from what I knowed to rent a cushioned pew. But often when I 'm settin' there, it's foolish, like as not, To think of them ol' benches in the church at Possum Trot.

I know that I 'm ungrateful, an' sich thoughts must be a sin, But I find myself a wishin' that the times was back agin. With the huskin's an' the frolics, an' the joys' I used to know, When I lived at the settlement, a dozen years ago. I don't feel this way often, I 'm scarcely ever glum, For life has taught me how to take her chances as they come. But now an' then my mind goes back to that ol' buryin' plot, That holds the dust of some I loved, down there at Possum Trot.

DELY

Jes' lak toddy wahms you thoo' Sets yo' haid a reelin', Meks you ovah good and new, Dat 's de way I 's feelin'. Seems to me hit 's summah time, Dough hit 's wintah reely, I 's a feelin' jes' dat prime— An' huh name is Dely.

Dis hyeah love 's a cu'rus thing, Changes 'roun' de season, Meks you sad or meks you sing, 'Dout no urfly reason. Sometimes I go mopin' 'roun', Den agin I 's leapin'; Sperits allus up an' down Even when I 's sleepin'.

Fu' de dreams comes to me den, An' dey keeps me pitchin', Lak de apple dumplin's w'en Bilin' in de kitchen. Some one sot to do me hahm, Tryin' to ovahcome me, Ketchin' Dely by de ahm So 's to tek huh f'om me.

Mon, you bettah b'lieve I fights (Dough hit's on'y seemin'); I's a hittin' fu' my rights Even w'en I 's dreamin'. But I 'd let you have 'em all, Give 'em to you freely, Good an' bad ones, great an' small, So 's you leave me Dely.

Dely got dem meltin' eyes, Big an' black an' tendah. Dely jes' a lady-size, Delikit an' slendah. Dely brown ez brown kin be An' huh haih is curly; Oh, she look so sweet to me,— Bless de precious girlie!

Dely brown ez brown kin be, She ain' no mullatter; She pure cullud,—don' you see Dat 's jes' whut 's de mattah? Dat 's de why I love huh so, D' ain't no mix about huh, Soon 's you see huh face you know D' ain't no chanst to doubt huh.

Folks dey go to chu'ch an' pray So 's to git a blessin'. Oomph, dey bettah come my way, Dey could lu'n a lesson. Sabbaf day I don' go fu', Jes' to see my pigeon; I jes' sets an' looks at huh, Dat's enuff 'uligion.

BREAKING THE CHARM

Caught Susanner whistlin'; well, It's most nigh too good to tell. 'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see Ef it had n't b'en fur me, Comin' up so soft an' sly That she didn' hear me nigh. I was pokin' 'round that day, An' ez I come down the way, First her whistle strikes my ears,— Then her gingham dress appears; So with soft step up I slips. Oh, them dewy, rosy lips! Ripe ez cherries, red an' round, Puckered up to make the sound. She was lookin' in the spring, Whistlin' to beat anything,— "Kitty Dale" er "In the Sweet." I was jest so mortal beat That I can't quite ricoleck What the toon was, but I 'speck 'T was some hymn er other, fur Hymny things is jest like her. Well she went on fur awhile With her face all in a smile, An' I never moved, but stood Stiller 'n a piece o' wood— Would n't wink ner would n't stir, But a-gazin' right at her, Tell she turns an' sees me—my! Thought at first she 'd try to fly. But she blushed an' stood her ground. Then, a-slyly lookin' round, She says: "Did you hear me, Ben?" "Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen," Says I, lookin' awful stern. Then the red commenced to burn In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la! Reddest red you ever saw— Pineys wa'n't a circumstance. You 'd 'a' noticed in a glance She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart; But she looked so sweet an' peart, That a idee struck my head; So I up an' slowly said: "Woman whistlin' brings shore harm, Jest one thing 'll break the charm." "And what's that?" "Oh, my!" says I, "I don't like to tell you." "Why?" Says Susanner. "Well, you see It would kinder fall on me." Course I knowed that she 'd insist,— So I says: "You must be kissed By the man that heard you whistle; Everybody says that this 'll Break the charm and set you free From the threat'nin' penalty." She was blushin' fit to kill, But she answered, kinder still: "I don't want to have no harm, Please come, Ben, an' break the charm." Did I break that charm?—oh, well, There's some things I must n't tell. I remember, afterwhile, Her a-sayin' with a smile: "Oh, you quit,—you sassy dunce, You jest caught me whistlin' once." Ev'ry sence that when I hear Some one whistlin' kinder clear, I most break my neck to see Ef it 's Susy; but, dear me, I jest find I 've b'en to chase Some blamed boy about the place. Dad 's b'en noticin' my way, An' last night I heerd him say: "We must send fur Dr. Glenn, Mother; somethin 's wrong with Ben!"

HUNTING SONG

Tek a cool night, good an' cleah, Skiff o' snow upon de groun'; Jes' 'bout fall-time o' de yeah W'en de leaves is dry an brown; Tek a dog an' tek a axe, Tek a lantu'n in yo' han', Step light whah de switches cracks, Fu' dey 's huntin' in de lan'. Down thoo de valleys an' ovah de hills, Into de woods whah de 'simmon-tree grows, Wakin' an' skeerin' de po' whippo'wills, Huntin' fu' coon an' fu' 'possum we goes.

Blow dat ho'n dah loud an' strong, Call de dogs an' da'kies neah; Mek its music cleah an' long, So de folks at home kin hyeah. Blow it twell de hills an' trees Sen's de echoes tumblin' back; Blow it twell de back'ard breeze Tells de folks we 's on de track. Coons is a-ramblin' an' 'possums is out; Look at dat dog; you could set on his tail! Watch him now—steady,—min'—what you 's about, Bless me, dat animal's got on de trail!

Listen to him ba'kin now! Dat means bus'ness, sho 's you bo'n; Ef he's struck de scent I 'low Dat ere 'possum's sholy gone. Knowed dat dog fu' fo'teen yeahs, An' I nevah seed him fail Wen he sot dem flappin' eahs An' went off upon a trail. Run, Mistah 'Possum, an' run, Mistah Coon, No place is safe fu' yo' ramblin' to-night; Mas' gin' de lantu'n an' God gin de moon, An' a long hunt gins a good appetite.

Look hyeah, folks, you hyeah dat change? Dat ba'k is sha'per dan de res'. Dat ere soun' ain't nothin' strange,— Dat dog's talked his level bes'. Somep'n' 's treed, I know de soun'. Dah now,—wha 'd I tell you? see! Dat ere dog done run him down; Come hyeah, he'p cut down dis tree. Ah, Mistah 'Possum, we got you at las'— Need n't play daid, laying dah on de groun'; Fros' an' de 'simmons has made you grow fas',— Won't he be fine when he's roasted up brown!

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, Wen 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! Wen 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. Wen 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 has n'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 was n'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.