But hit did seem so't o' funny Aftah waitin' fu' a week Dat de people kep' on shoutin' So de man des could n't speak; De ho'ns dey blared a little, Den dey let loose on de drums,—. Some one toll me dey was playin' "See de conkerin' hero comes."

"Well," says I, "you all is white folks, But you 's sutny actin' queer, What's de use of heroes comin' Ef dey cain't talk w'en dey's here?" Aftah while dey let him open, An' dat man he waded in, An' he fit de wahs all ovah Winnin' victeries lak sin.

Wen he come down to de present, Den he made de feathahs fly. He des waded in on money, An' he played de ta'iff high. An' he said de colah question, Hit was ovah, solved, an' done, Dat de dahky was his brothah, Evah blessed mothah's son.

Well he settled all de trouble Dat's been pesterin' de lan', Den he set down mid de cheerin' An' de playin' of de ban'. I was feelin' moughty happy 'Twell I hyeahed somebody speak, "Well, dat's his side of de bus'ness, But you wait for Jones nex' week."

BLACK SAMSON OF BRANDYWINE

"In the fight at Brandywine, Black Samson, a giant negro armed with a scythe, sweeps his way through the red ranks...." C. M. Skinner's "Myths and Legends of Our Own Land."

Gray are the pages of record, Dim are the volumes of eld; Else had old Delaware told us More that her history held. Told us with pride in the story, Honest and noble and fine, More of the tale of my hero, Black Samson of Brandywine.

Sing of your chiefs and your nobles, Saxon and Celt and Gaul, Breath of mine ever shall join you, Highly I honor them all. Give to them all of their glory, But for this noble of mine, Lend him a tithe of your tribute, Black Samson of Brandywine.

There in the heat of the battle, There in the stir of the fight, Loomed he, an ebony giant, Black as the pinions of night. Swinging his scythe like a mower Over a field of grain, Needless the care of the gleaners, Where he had passed amain.

Straight through the human harvest, Cutting a bloody swath, Woe to you, soldier of Briton! Death is abroad in his path. Flee from the scythe of the reaper, Flee while the moment is thine, None may with safety withstand him, Black Samson of Brandywine.

Was he a freeman or bondman? Was he a man or a thing? What does it matter? His brav'ry Renders him royal—a king. If he was only a chattel, Honor the ransom may pay Of the royal, the loyal black giant Who fought for his country that day.

Noble and bright is the story, Worthy the touch of the lyre, Sculptor or poet should find it Full of the stuff to inspire. Beat it in brass and in copper, Tell it in storied line, So that the world may remember Black Samson of Brandywine.

THE LOOKING-GLASS

Dinah stan' befo' de glass, Lookin' moughty neat, An' huh purty shadder sass At huh haid an' feet. While she sasshay 'roun' an' bow, Smilin' den an' poutin' now, An' de lookin'-glass, I 'low, Say: "Now, ain't she sweet?"

All she do, de glass it see, Hit des see, no mo', Seems to me, hit ought to be Drappin' on de flo'. She go w'en huh time git slack, Kissin' han's an' smilin' back, Lawsy, how my lips go smack, Watchin' at de do'.

Wisht I was huh lookin'-glass, Wen she kissed huh han'; Does you t'ink I 'd let it pass, Settin' on de stan'? No; I'd des' fall down an' break, Kin' o' glad 't uz fu' huh sake; But de diffunce, dat whut make Lookin'-glass an' man.

A MISTY DAY

Heart of my heart, the day is chill, The mist hangs low o'er the wooded hill, The soft white mist and the heavy cloud The sun and the face of heaven shroud. The birds are thick in the dripping trees, That drop their pearls to the beggar breeze; No songs are rife where songs are wont, Each singer crouches in his haunt.

Heart of my heart, the day is chill, Whene'er thy loving voice is still, The cloud and mist hide the sky from me, Whene'er thy face I cannot see. My thoughts fly back from the chill without, My mind in the storm drops doubt on doubt, No songs arise. Without thee, love, My soul sinks down like a frightened dove.

LI'L' GAL

Oh, de weathah it is balmy an' de breeze is sighin' low. Li'l' gal, An' de mockin' bird is singin' in de locus' by de do', Li'l' gal; Dere 's a hummin' an' a bummin' in de lan' f'om eas' to wes', I 's a-sighin' fu' you, honey, an' I nevah know no res'. Fu' dey 's lots o' trouble brewin' an' a-stewin' in my breas', Li'l' gal.

Whut 's de mattah wid de weathah, whut's de mattah wid de breeze, Li'l' gal? Whut 's de mattah wid de locus' dat 's a-singin' in de trees, Li'l' gal? W'y dey knows dey ladies love 'em, an' dey knows dey love 'em true, An' dey love 'em back, I reckon, des' lak I 's a-lovin' you; Dat 's de reason dey 's a-weavin' an' a-sighin', thoo an' thoo, Li'l' gal.

Don't you let no da'ky fool you 'cause de clo'es he waihs is fine, Li'l' gal. Dey 's a hones' hea't a-beatin' unnerneaf dese rags o' mine, Li'l' gal. Cose dey ain' no use in mockin' whut de birds an' weathah do, But I 's so'y I cain't 'spress it w'en I knows I loves you true, Dat 's de reason I 's a-sighin' an' a-singin now fu' you, Li'l' gal.

DOUGLASS

Ah, Douglass, we have fall'n on evil days, Such days as thou, not even thou didst know, When thee, the eyes of that harsh long ago Saw, salient, at the cross of devious ways, And all the country heard thee with amaze. Not ended then, the passionate ebb and flow, The awful tide that battled to and fro; We ride amid a tempest of dispraise.

Now, when the waves of swift dissension swarm, And Honor, the strong pilot, lieth stark, Oh, for thy voice high-sounding o'er the storm, For thy strong arm to guide the shivering bark, The blast-defying power of thy form, To give us comfort through the lonely dark.

WHEN SAM'L SINGS

Hyeah dat singin' in de medders Whaih de folks is mekin' hay? Wo'k is pretty middlin' heavy Fu' a man to be so gay. You kin tell dey 's somep'n special F'om de canter o' de song; Somep'n sholy pleasin' Sam'l, W'en he singin' all day long.

Hyeahd him wa'blin' 'way dis mo'nin' 'Fo' 't was light enough to see. Seem lak music in de evenin' Allus good enough fu' me. But dat man commenced to hollah 'Fo' he 'd even washed his face; Would you b'lieve, de scan'lous rascal Woke de birds erroun' de place?

Sam'l took a trip a-Sad'day; Dressed hisse'f in all he had, Tuk a cane an' went a-strollin', Lookin' mighty pleased an' glad. Some folks don' know whut de mattah, But I do, you bet yo' life; Sam'l smilin' an' a-singin' 'Case he been to see his wife.

She live on de fu' plantation, Twenty miles erway er so; But huh man is mighty happy Wen he git de chanst to go. Walkin' allus ain' de nices'— Mo'nin' fin's him on de way— But he allus comes back smilin', Lak his pleasure was his pay.

Den he do a heap o' talkin', Do' he mos'ly kin' o' still, But de wo'ds, dey gits to runnin' Lak de watah fu' a mill. "Whut 's de use o' havin' trouble, Whut 's de use o' havin' strife?" Dat 's de way dis Sam'l preaches W'en he been to see his wife.

An' I reckon I git jealous, Fu' I laff an' joke an' sco'n, An' I say, "Oh, go on, Sam'l, Des go on, an' blow yo' ho'n." But I know dis comin' Sad'day, Dey 'll be brighter days in life; An' I 'll be ez glad ez Sam'l W'en I go to see my wife.

BOOKER T. WASHINGTON

The word is writ that he who runs may read. What is the passing breath of earthly fame? But to snatch glory from the hands of blame— That is to be, to live, to strive indeed. A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed, And from its dark and lowly door there came A peer of princes in the world's acclaim, A master spirit for the nation's need. Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind, The mark of rugged force on brow and lip, Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip; With one idea foremost in his mind, Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship.

THE MONK'S WALK

In this sombre garden close What has come and passed, who knows? What red passion, what white pain Haunted this dim walk in vain?

Underneath the ivied wall, Where the silent shadows fall, Lies the pathway chill and damp Where the world-quit dreamers tramp.

Just across, where sunlight burns, Smiling at the mourning ferns, Stand the roses, side by side, Nodding in their useless pride.

Ferns and roses, who shall say What you witness day by day? Covert smile or dropping eye, As the monks go pacing by.

Has the novice come to-day Here beneath the wall to pray? Has the young monk, lately chidden, Sung his lyric, sweet, forbidden?

Tell me, roses, did you note That pale father's throbbing throat? Did you hear him murmur, "Love!" As he kissed a faded glove?

Mourning ferns, pray tell me why Shook you with that passing sigh? Is it that you chanced to spy Something in the Abbot's eye?

Here no dream, nor thought of sin, Where no worlding enters in; Here no longing, no desire, Heat nor flame of earthly fire.

Branches waving green above, Whisper naught of life nor love; Softened winds that seem a breath, Perfumed, bring no fear of death.

Is it living thus to live? Has life nothing more to give? Ah, no more of smile or sigh— Life, the world, and love, good-bye.

Gray, and passionless, and dim, Echoing of the solemn hymn, Lies the walk, 'twixt fern and rose, Here within the garden close.

LOVE-SONG

If Death should claim me for her own to-day, And softly I should falter from your side, Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay, And would my image in your heart abide? Or should I be as some forgotten dream, That lives its little space, then fades entire? Should Time send o'er you its relentless stream, To cool your heart, and quench for aye love's fire?

I would not for the world, love, give you pain, Or ever compass what would cause you grief; And, oh, how well I know that tears are vain! But love is sweet, my dear, and life is brief; So if some day before you I should go Beyond the sound and sight of song and sea, 'T would give my spirit stronger wings to know That you remembered still and wept for me.

SLOW THROUGH THE DARK

Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race; Their footsteps drag far, far below the height, And, unprevailing by their utmost might, Seem faltering downward from each hard won place. No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we trace A devious way thro' dim, uncertain light,— Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight Of that our Captain's soul sees face to face. Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep, Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry? Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleep Or curseth that the storm obscures the sky? Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep; The clouds grow thickest when the summit's nigh.

THE MURDERED LOVER

Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother, Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it, Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother, Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.

Dark were her eyes as the sloe and they called me, Called me with voice independent of breath. God! how my heart beat; her beauty appalled me, Dazed me, and drew to the sea-brink of death.

Lithe was her form like a willow. She beckoned, What could I do save to follow and follow, Nothing of right or result could be reckoned; Life without her was unworthy and hollow.

Ay, but I wronged thee, my brother, my brother; Ah, but I loved her, thy beautiful wife. Shade of our father, and soul of our mother, Have I not paid for my love with my life?

Dark was the night when, revengeful, I met you, Deep in the heart of a desolate land. Warm was the life-blood which angrily wet you Sharp was the knife that I felt from your hand.

Wept you, oh, wept you, alone by the river, When my stark carcass you secretly sank. Ha, now I see that you tremble and shiver; 'T was but my spirit that passed when you shrank!

Weep not, oh, weep not, 't is over, 't is over; Stir the dark weeds with the turn of the tide; Go, thou hast sent me forth, ever a rover, Rest and the sweet realm of heaven denied.

Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother, Say a mass for my soul, I need it. Sin of mine was it, and sin of no other, Mine was it all, but I pray you not heed it.

PHILOSOPHY

I been t'inkin' 'bout de preachah; whut he said de othah night, 'Bout hit bein' people's dooty, fu' to keep dey faces bright; How one ought to live so pleasant dat ouah tempah never riles, Meetin' evahbody roun' us wid ouah very nicest smiles.

Dat 's all right, I ain't a-sputin' not a t'ing dat soun's lak fac', But you don't ketch folks a-grinnin' wid a misery in de back; An' you don't fin' dem a-smilin' w'en dey 's hongry ez kin be, Leastways, dat 's how human natur' allus seems to 'pear to me.

We is mos' all putty likely fu' to have our little cares, An' I think we 'se doin' fus' rate w'en we jes' go long and bears, Widout breakin' up ouah faces in a sickly so't o' grin, W'en we knows dat in ouah innards we is p'intly mad ez sin.

Oh dey 's times fu' bein' pleasant an' fu' goin' smilin' roun', 'Cause I don't believe in people allus totin' roun' a frown, But it's easy 'nough to titter w'en de stew is smokin' hot, But hit's mighty ha'd to giggle w'en dey's nuffin' in de pot.

A PREFERENCE

Mastah drink his ol' Made'a, Missy drink huh sherry wine, Ovahseah lak his whiskey, But dat othah drink is mine, Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

Wen you git a steamin' hoe-cake On de table, go way, man! 'D ain but one t'ing to go wid it, 'Sides de gravy in de pan, Dat 's 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

W'en hit 's 'possum dat you eatin', 'Simmon beer is moughty sweet; But fu' evahday consumin' 'D ain't no mo'tal way to beat Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

W'y de bees is allus busy, An' ain' got no time to was'? Hit's beca'se dey knows de honey Dey 's a makin', gwine to tas' Lak 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

Oh, hit 's moughty mil' an' soothin', An' hit don' go to yo' haid; Dat 's de reason I 's a-backin' Up de othah wo'ds I said, "Des 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah."

THE DEBT

This is the debt I pay Just for one riotous day, Years of regret and grief, Sorrow without relief.

Pay it I will to the end— Until the grave, my friend, Gives me a true release— Gives me the clasp of peace.

Slight was the thing I bought, Small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best— God! but the interest!

ON THE DEDICATION OF DOROTHY HALL

TUSKEGEE, ALA., APRIL 22, 1901.

Not to the midnight of the gloomy past, Do we revert to-day; we look upon The golden present and the future vast Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn.

Nor shall the sorrows of departed years The sweetness of our tranquil souls annoy, The sunshine of our hopes dispels the tears, And clears our eyes to see this later joy.

Not ever in the years that God hath given Have we gone friendless down the thorny way, Always the clouds of pregnant black were riven By flashes from His own eternal day.

The women of a race should be its pride; We glory in the strength our mothers had, We glory that this strength was not denied To labor bravely, nobly, and be glad.

God give to these within this temple here, Clear vision of the dignity of toil, That virtue in them may its blossoms rear Unspotted, fragrant, from the lowly soil.

God bless the givers for their noble deed, Shine on them with the mercy of Thy face, Who come with open hearts to help and speed The striving women of a struggling race.

A ROADWAY

Let those who will stride on their barren roads And prick themselves to haste with self-made goads, Unheeding, as they struggle day by day, If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray: For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks, The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks, A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay, A pause to pick a flower beside the way.

BY RUGGED WAYS

By rugged ways and thro' the night We struggle blindly toward the light; And groping, stumbling, ever pray For sight of long delaying day. The cruel thorns beside the road Stretch eager points our steps to goad, And from the thickets all about Detaining hands reach threatening out.

"Deliver us, oh, Lord," we cry, Our hands uplifted to the sky. No answer save the thunder's peal, And onward, onward, still we reel. "Oh, give us now thy guiding light;" Our sole reply, the lightning's blight. "Vain, vain," cries one, "in vain we call;" But faith serene is over all.

Beside our way the streams are dried, And famine mates us side by side. Discouraged and reproachful eyes Seek once again the frowning skies. Yet shall there come, spite storm and shock, A Moses who shall smite the rock, Call manna from the Giver's hand, And lead us to the promised land!

The way is dark and cold and steep, And shapes of horror murder sleep, And hard the unrelenting years; But 'twixt our sighs and moans and tears, We still can smile, we still can sing, Despite the arduous journeying. For faith and hope their courage lend, And rest and light are at the end.

LOVE'S SEASONS

When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine And the summer days are in their bloom, Then my love is deepest, oh, dearest heart of mine, When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine.

When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray, And the land is dim with winter gloom, Then for thee, my darling, love will have its way, When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray.

In the vernal dawning with the starting of the leaf, In the merry-chanting time of spring, Love steals all my senses, oh, the happy-hearted thief! In the vernal morning with the starting of the leaf.

Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear, When the days are sighing out their grief, Thou art still my darling, dearest of the dear, Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear.

TO A DEAD FRIEND

It is as if a silver chord Were suddenly grown mute, And life's song with its rhythm warred Against a silver lute.

It is as if a silence fell Where bides the garnered sheaf, And voices murmuring, "It is well," Are stifled by our grief.

It is as if the gloom of night Had hid a summer's day, And willows, sighing at their plight, Bent low beside the way.

For he was part of all the best That Nature loves and gives, And ever more on Memory's breast He lies and laughs and lives.

TO THE SOUTH

ON ITS NEW SLAVERY

Heart of the Southland, heed me pleading now, Who bearest, unashamed, upon my brow The long kiss of the loving tropic sun, And yet, whose veins with thy red current run.

Borne on the bitter winds from every hand, Strange tales are flying over all the land, And Condemnation, with his pinions foul, Glooms in the place where broods the midnight owl.

What art thou, that the world should point at thee, And vaunt and chide the weakness that they see? There was a time they were not wont to chide; Where is thy old, uncompromising pride?

Blood-washed, thou shouldst lift up thine honored head, White with the sorrow for thy loyal dead Who lie on every plain, on every hill, And whose high spirit walks the Southland still:

Whose infancy our mother's hands have nursed. Thy manhood, gone to battle unaccursed, Our fathers left to till th' reluctant field, To rape the soil for what she would not yield;

Wooing for aye, the cold unam'rous sod, Whose growth for them still meant a master's rod; Tearing her bosom for the wealth that gave The strength that made the toiler still a slave.

Too long we hear the deep impassioned cry That echoes vainly to the heedless sky; Too long, too long, the Macedonian call Falls fainting far beyond the outward wall,

Within whose sweep, beneath the shadowing trees, A slumbering nation takes its dangerous ease; Too long the rumors of thy hatred go For those who loved thee and thy children so.

Thou must arise forthwith, and strong, thou must Throw off the smirching of this baser dust, Lay by the practice of this later creed, And be thine honest self again indeed.

There was a time when even slavery's chain Held in some joys to alternate with pain, Some little light to give the night relief, Some little smiles to take the place of grief.

There was a time when, jocund as the day, The toiler hoed his row and sung his lay, Found something gleeful in the very air, And solace for his toiling everywhere.

Now all is changed, within the rude stockade, A bondsman whom the greed of men has made Almost too brutish to deplore his plight, Toils hopeless on from joyless morn till night.

For him no more the cabin's quiet rest, The homely joys that gave to labor zest; No more for him the merry banjo's sound, Nor trip of lightsome dances footing round.

For him no more the lamp shall glow at eve, Nor chubby children pluck him by the sleeve; No more for him the master's eyes be bright,— He has nor freedom's nor a slave's delight.

What, was it all for naught, those awful years That drenched a groaning land with blood and tears? Was it to leave this sly convenient hell, That brother fighting his own brother fell?

When that great struggle held the world in awe, And all the nations blanched at what they saw, Did Sanctioned Slavery bow its conquered head That this unsanctioned crime might rise instead?

Is it for this we all have felt the flame,— This newer bondage and this deeper shame? Nay, not for this, a nation's heroes bled, And North and South with tears beheld their dead.

Oh, Mother South, hast thou forgot thy ways, Forgot the glory of thine ancient days, Forgot the honor that once made thee great, And stooped to this unhallowed estate?

It cannot last, thou wilt come forth in might, A warrior queen full armored for the fight; And thou wilt take, e'en with thy spear in rest, Thy dusky children to thy saving breast.

Till then, no more, no more the gladsome song, Strike only deeper chords, the notes of wrong; Till then, the sigh, the tear, the oath, the moan, Till thou, oh, South, and thine, come to thine own.

THE HAUNTED OAK

Pray why are you so bare, so bare, Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; And why, when I go through the shade you throw, Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow, And sap ran free in my veins, But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird A guiltless victim's pains.

I bent me down to hear his sigh; I shook with his gurgling moan, And I trembled sore when they rode away, And left him here alone.

They 'd charged him with the old, old crime, And set him fast in jail: Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, And why does the night wind wail?

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, And he raised his hand to the sky; But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night, Over the moonlit road? And what is the spur that keeps the pace, What is the galling goad?

And now they beat at the prison door, "Ho, keeper, do not stay! We are friends of him whom you hold within, And we fain would take him away

"From those who ride fast on our heels With mind to do him wrong; They have no care for his innocence, And the rope they bear is long."

They have fooled the jailer with lying words, They have fooled the man with lies; The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, And the great door open flies.

Now they have taken him from the jail, And hard and fast they ride, And the leader laughs low down in his throat, As they halt my trunk beside.

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, And the doctor one of white, And the minister, with his oldest son, Was curiously bedight.

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? 'Tis but a little space, And the time will come when these shall dread The mem'ry of your face.

I feel the rope against my bark, And the weight of him in my grain, I feel in the throe of his final woe The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth On a bough that bears the ban; I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, From the curse of a guiltless man.

And ever the judge rides by, rides by, And goes to hunt the deer, And ever another rides his soul In the guise of a mortal fear.

And ever the man he rides me hard, And never a night stays he; For I feel his curse as a haunted bough, On the trunk of a haunted tree.

WELTSCHMERTZ

You ask why I am sad to-day, I have no cares, no griefs, you say? Ah, yes, 't is true, I have no grief— But—is there not the falling leaf?

The bare tree there is mourning left With all of autumn's gray bereft; It is not what has happened me, Think of the bare, dismantled tree.

The birds go South along the sky, I hear their lingering, long good-bye. Who goes reluctant from my breast? And yet—the lone and wind-swept nest.

The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by, Why does a tear come to my eye? Is it the March rain blowing wild? I have no dead, I know no child.

I am no widow by the bier Of him I held supremely dear. I have not seen the choicest one Sink down as sinks the westering sun.

Faith unto faith have I beheld, For me, few solemn notes have swelled; Love bekoned me out to the dawn, And happily I followed on.

And yet my heart goes out to them Whose sorrow is their diadem; The falling leaf, the crying bird, The voice to be, all lost, unheard—

Not mine, not mine, and yet too much The thrilling power of human touch, While all the world looks on and scorns I wear another's crown of thorns.

Count me a priest who understands The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands; Count me a comrade of the thief Hot driven into late belief.

Oh, mother's tear, oh, father's sigh, Oh, mourning sweetheart's last good-bye, I yet have known no mourning save Beside some brother's brother's grave.

ROBERT GOULD SHAW

Why was it that the thunder voice of Fate Should call thee, studious, from the classic groves, Where calm-eyed Pallas with still footstep roves, And charge thee seek the turmoil of the state? What bade thee hear the voice and rise elate, Leave home and kindred and thy spicy loaves, To lead th' unlettered and despised droves To manhood's home and thunder at the gate?

Far better the slow blaze of Learning's light, The cool and quiet of her dearer fane, Than this hot terror of a hopeless fight, This cold endurance of the final pain,— Since thou and those who with thee died for right Have died, the Present teaches, but in vain!

ROSES

Oh, wind of the spring-time, oh, free wind of May, When blossoms and bird-song are rife; Oh, joy for the season, and joy for the day, That gave me the roses of life, of life, That gave me the roses of life.

Oh, wind of the summer, sing loud in the night, When flutters my heart like a dove; One came from thy kingdom, thy realm of delight, And gave me the roses of love, of love, And gave me the roses of love.

Oh, wind of the winter, sigh low in thy grief, I hear thy compassionate breath; I wither, I fall, like the autumn-kissed leaf, He gave me the roses of death, of death, He gave me the roses of death.

A LOVE SONG

Ah, love, my love is like a cry in the night, A long, loud cry to the empty sky, The cry of a man alone in the desert, With hands uplifted, with parching lips,

Oh, rescue me, rescue me, Thy form to mine arms, The dew of thy lips to my mouth, Dost thou hear me?—my call thro' the night?

Darling, I hear thee and answer, Thy fountain am I, All of the love of my soul will I bring to thee, All of the pains of my being shall wring to thee, Deep and forever the song of my loving shall sing to thee, Ever and ever thro' day and thro' night shall I cling to thee. Hearest thou the answer? Darling, I come, I come.

ITCHING HEELS

Fu' de peace o' my eachin' heels, set down; Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'. Don' you see how dat melody stuhs me up An' baigs me to tek to de flo'? You knows I 's a Christian, good an' strong; I wusship f'om June to June; My pra'ahs dey ah loud an' my hymns ah long: I baig you don' fiddle dat chune.

I 's a crick in my back an' a misery hyeah Whaih de j'ints 's gittin' ol' an' stiff, But hit seems lak you brings me de bref o' my youf; W'y, I 's suttain I noticed a w'iff. Don' fiddle dat chune no mo', my chile, Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'; I 'll git up an' taih up dis groun' fu' a mile, An' den I 'll be chu'ched fu' it, sho'.

Oh, fiddle dat chune some mo', I say, An' fiddle it loud an' fas': I's a youngstah ergin in de mi'st o' my sin; De p'esent 's gone back to de pas'. I 'll dance to dat chune, so des fiddle erway; I knows how de backslidah feels; So fiddle it on 'twell de break o' de day Fu' de sake o' my eachin' heels.

TO AN INGRATE

This is to-day, a golden summer's day And yet—and yet My vengeful soul will not forget The past, forever now forgot, you say.

From that half height where I had sadly climbed, I stretched my hand, I lone in all that land, Down there, where, helpless, you were limed.

Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace, You struggled up. It is a bitter Cup, That now for naught, you turn away your face.

I shall remember this for aye and aye. Whate'er may come, Although my lips are dumb, My spirit holds you to that yesterday.

IN THE TENTS OF AKBAR

In the tents of Akbar Are dole and grief to-day, For the flower of all the Indies Has gone the silent way.

In the tents of Akbar Are emptiness and gloom, And where the dancers gather, The silence of the tomb.

Across the yellow desert, Across the burning sands, Old Akbar wanders madly, And wrings his fevered hands.

And ever makes his moaning To the unanswering sky, For Sutna, lovely Sutna, Who was so fair to die.

For Sutna danced at morning, And Sutna danced at eve; Her dusky eyes half hidden Behind her silken sleeve.

Her pearly teeth out-glancing Between her coral lips, The tremulous rhythm of passion Marked by her quivering hips.

As lovely as a jewel Of fire and dewdrop blent, So danced the maiden Sutna In gallant Akbar's tent.

And one who saw her dancing, Saw her bosom's fall and rise Put all his body's yearning Into his lovelit eyes.

Then Akbar came and drove him— A jackal—from his door, And bade him wander far and look On Sutna's face no more.

Some day the sea disgorges, The wilderness gives back, Those half-dead who have wandered, Aimless, across its track.

And he returned—the lover, Haggard of brow and spent; He found fair Sutna standing Before her master's tent.

"Not mine, nor Akbar's, Sutna!" He cried and closely pressed, And drove his craven dagger Straight to the maiden's breast.

Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna, So young, so dear, so fair, Her face is gray and silent Beneath her dusky hair.

And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar, Who walks the desert sands, Crying aloud for Sutna, Wringing his fevered hands.

In the tents of Akbar The tears of sorrow run, But the corpse of Sutna's slayer, Lies rotting in the sun.

THE FOUNT OF TEARS

All hot and grimy from the road, Dust gray from arduous years, I sat me down and eased my load Beside the Fount of Tears.

The waters sparkled to my eye, Calm, crystal-like, and cool, And breathing there a restful sigh, I bent me to the pool.

When, lo! a voice cried: "Pilgrim, rise, Harsh tho' the sentence be, And on to other lands and skies— This fount is not for thee.

"Pass on, but calm thy needless fears, Some may not love or sin, An angel guards the Fount of Tears; All may not bathe therein."

Then with my burden on my back I turned to gaze awhile, First at the uninviting track, Then at the water's smile.

And so I go upon my way, Thro'out the sultry years, But pause no more, by night, by day, Beside the Fount of Tears.

LIFE'S TRAGEDY

It may be misery not to sing at all And to go silent through the brimming day. It may be sorrow never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way.

To have come near to sing the perfect song And only by a half-tone lost the key, There is the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of life's tragedy.

To have just missed the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lays aside its vanity And gives thee, for thy trusting worship, truth—

This, this it is to be accursed indeed; For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by the things we have, But by what kept us from the perfect thing.

DE WAY T'INGS COME

De way t'ings come, hit seems to me, Is des' one monst'ous mystery; De way hit seem to strike a man, Dey ain't no sense, dey ain't no plan; Ef trouble sta'ts a pilin' down, It ain't no use to rage er frown, It ain't no use to strive er pray, Hit's mortal boun' to come dat way.

Now, ef you 's hongry, an' yo' plate Des' keep on sayin' to you, "Wait," Don't mek no diffunce how you feel, 'T won't do no good to hunt a meal, Fu' dat ah meal des' boun' to hide Ontwell de devil's satisfied, An' 'twell dey's some'p'n by to cyave You 's got to ease yo'se'f an' sta've.

But ef dey 's co'n meal on de she'f You need n't bothah 'roun' yo'se'f, Somebody's boun' to amble in An' 'vite you to dey co'n meal bin; An' ef you 's stuffed up to be froat Wid co'n er middlin', fowl er shoat, Des' look out an' you 'll see fu' sho A 'possum faint befo' yo' do'.

De way t'ings happen, huhuh, chile, Dis worl' 's done puzzled me one w'ile; I 's mighty skeered I 'll fall in doubt, I des' won't try to reason out De reason why folks strive an' plan A dinnah fu' a full-fed man, An' shet de do' an' cross de street F'om one dat raaly needs to eat.

NOON

Shadder in de valley Sunlight on de hill, Sut'ny wish dat locus' Knowed how to be still. Don't de heat already Mek a body hum, 'Dout dat insec' sayin' Hottah days to come?

Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller Wid de bendin' grain, Guinea hen a callin', Now's de time fu' rain; Shet yo' mouf, you rascal, Wha' 's de use to cry? You do' see no rain clouds Up dah in de sky.

Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in' Down my face sence dawn; Ain't hit time we 's hyeahin' Dat ah dinnah ho'n? Go on, Ben an' Jaspah, Lif yo' feet an' fly, Hit out fu' de shadder Fo' I drap an' die.

Hongry, lawd a' mussy, Hongry as a baih, Seems lak I hyeah dinnah Callin' evahwhaih; Daih 's de ho'n a blowin'! Let dat cradle swing, One mo' sweep, den da'kies, Beat me to de spring!

AT THE TAVERN

A lilt and a swing, And a ditty to sing, Or ever the night grow old; The wine is within, And I 'm sure 't were a sin For a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear, For a soldier to choose to be cold.

We 're right for a spell, But the fever is—well, No thing to be braved, at least; So bring me the wine; No low fever in mine, For a drink is more kind than a priest, my dear, For a drink is more kind than a priest.

DEATH

Storm and strife and stress, Lost in a wilderness, Groping to find a way, Forth to the haunts of day

Sudden a vista peeps, Out of the tangled deeps, Only a point—the ray But at the end is day.

Dark is the dawn and chill, Daylight is on the hill, Night is the flitting breath, Day rides the hills of death.

NIGHT, DIM NIGHT

Night, dim night, and it rains, my love, it rains, (Art thou dreaming of me, I wonder) The trees are sad, and the wind complains, Outside the rolling of the thunder, And the beat against the panes.

Heart, my heart, thou art mournful in the rain, (Are thy redolent lips a-quiver?) My soul seeks thine, doth it seek in vain? My love goes surging like a river, Shall its tide bear naught save pain?



LYRICS OF LOVE AND SORROW

I

Love is the light of the world, my dear, Heigho, but the world is gloomy; The light has failed and the lamp down hurled, Leaves only darkness to me.

Love is the light of the world, my dear, Ah me, but the world is dreary; The night is down, and my curtain furled But I cannot sleep, though weary.

Love is the light of the world, my dear, Alas for a hopeless hoping, When the flame went out in the breeze that swirled, And a soul went blindly groping.

II

The light was on the golden sands, A glimmer on the sea; My soul spoke clearly to thy soul, Thy spirit answered me.

Since then the light that gilds the sands, And glimmers on the sea, But vainly struggles to reflect The radiant soul of thee.

III

The sea speaks to me of you All the day long; Still as I sit by its side You are its song.

The sea sings to me of you Loud on the reef; Always it moans as it sings, Voicing my grief.

IV

My dear love died last night; Shall I clothe her in white? My passionate love is dead, Shall I robe her in red? But nay, she was all untrue, She shall not go drest in blue; Still my desolate love was brave, Unrobed let her go to her grave.

V

There are brilliant heights of sorrow That only the few may know; And the lesser woes of the world, like waves, Break noiselessly, far below. I hold for my own possessing, A mount that is lone and still— The great high place of a hopeless grief, And I call it my "Heart-break Hill." And once on a winter's midnight I found its highest crown, And there in the gloom, my soul and I, Weeping, we sat us down.

But now when I seek that summit We are two ghosts that go; Only two shades of a thing that died, Once in the long ago. So I sit me down in the silence, And say to my soul, "Be still," So the world may not know we died that night, From weeping on "Heart-break Hill."



LYRICS OF SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

A BOY'S SUMMER SONG

'Tis fine to play In the fragrant hay, And romp on the golden load; To ride old Jack To the barn and back, Or tramp by a shady road. To pause and drink, At a mossy brink; Ah, that is the best of joy, And so I say On a summer's day, What's so fine as being a boy? Ha, Ha!

With line and hook By a babbling brook, The fisherman's sport we ply; And list the song Of the feathered throng That flit in the branches nigh. At last we strip For a quiet dip; Ah, that is the best of joy. For this I say On a summer's day, What's so fine as being a boy? Ha, Ha!

THE SAND-MAN

I know a man With face of tan, But who is ever kind; Whom girls and boys Leaves games and toys Each eventide to find.

When day grows dim, They watch for him, He comes to place his claim; He wears the crown Of Dreaming-town; The sand-man is his name.

When sparkling eyes Troop sleepywise And busy lips grow dumb; When little heads Nod toward the beds, We know the sand-man's come.

JOHNNY SPEAKS

The sand-man he's a jolly old fellow, His face is kind and his voice is mellow, But he makes your eyelids as heavy as lead, And then you got to go off to bed; I don't think I like the sand-man.

But I've been playing this livelong day; It does make a fellow so tired to play! Oh, my, I'm a-yawning right here before ma, I'm the sleepiest fellow that ever you saw. I think I do like the sand-man.

WINTER-SONG

Oh, who would be sad tho' the sky be a-graying, And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare; For softly and merrily now there come playing, The little white birds thro' the winter-kissed air.

The squirrel's enjoying the rest of the thrifty, He munches his store in the old hollow tree; Tho' cold is the blast and the snow-flakes are drifty He fears the white flock not a whit more than we.

Chorus:

Then heigho for the flying snow! Over the whitened roads we go, With pulses that tingle, And sleigh-bells a-jingle For winter's white birds here's a cheery heigho!

A CHRISTMAS FOLKSONG

De win' is blowin' wahmah, An hit's blowin' f'om de bay; Dey's a so't o' mist a-risin' All erlong de meddah way; Dey ain't a hint o' frostin' On de groun' ner in de sky, An' dey ain't no use in hopin' Dat de snow'll 'mence to fly. It's goin' to be a green Christmas, An' sad de day fu' me. I wish dis was de las' one Dat evah I should see.

Dey's dancin' in de cabin, Dey's spahkin' by de tree; But dancin' times an' spahkin' Are all done pas' fur me. Dey's feastin' in de big house, Wid all de windahs wide— Is dat de way fu' people To meet de Christmas-tide? It's goin' to be a green Christmas, No mattah what you say. Dey's us dat will remembah An' grieve de comin' day.

Dey's des a bref o' dampness A-clingin' to my cheek; De aih's been dahk an' heavy An' threatenin' fu' a week, But not wid signs o' wintah, Dough wintah'd seem so deah— De wintah's out o' season, An' Christmas eve is heah. It's goin' to be a green Christmas, An' oh, how sad de day! Go ax de hongry chu'chya'd, An' see what hit will say.

Dey's Allen on de hillside, An' Marfy in de plain; Fu' Christmas was like springtime, An' come wid sun an' rain. Dey's Ca'line, John, an' Susie, Wid only dis one lef': An' now de curse is comin' Wid murder in hits bref. It's goin' to be a green Christmas— Des hyeah my words an' see: Befo' de summah beckons Dey's many 'll weep wid me.

THE FOREST GREETING

Good hunting!—aye, good hunting, Wherever the forests call; But ever a heart beats hot with fear, And what of the birds that fall?

Good hunting!—aye, good hunting, Wherever the north winds blow; But what of the stag that calls for his mate? And what of the wounded doe?

Good hunting!—aye, good hunting; And ah! we are bold and strong; But our triumph call through the forest hall Is a brother's funeral song.

For we are brothers ever, Panther and bird and bear; Man and the weakest that fear his face, Born to the nest or lair.

Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us? Hunters and game are we; But who gave the right for me to smite? Who boasts when he smiteth me?

Good hunting!—aye, good hunting, And dim is the forest track; But the sportsman Death comes striding on: Brothers, the way is black.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY

Sweetest of the flowers a-blooming In the fragrant vernal days Is the Lily of the Valley With its soft, retiring ways.

Well, you chose this humble blossom As the nurse's emblem flower, Who grows more like her ideal Every day and every hour.

Like the Lily of the Valley In her honesty and worth, Ah, she blooms in truth and virtue In the quiet nooks of earth.

Tho' she stands erect in honor When the heart of mankind bleeds, Still she hides her own deserving In the beauty of her deeds.

In the silence of the darkness Where no eye may see and know, There her footsteps shod with mercy, And fleet kindness come and go.

Not amid the sounds of plaudits, Nor before the garish day, Does she shed her soul's sweet perfume, Does she take her gentle way.

But alike her ideal flower, With its honey-laden breath, Still her heart blooms forth its beauty In the valley shades of death.

ENCOURAGED

Because you love me I have much achieved, Had you despised me then I must have failed, But since I knew you trusted and believed, I could not disappoint you and so prevailed.

TO J. Q.

What are the things that make life bright? A star gleam in the night. What hearts us for the coming fray? The dawn tints of the day. What helps to speed the weary mile? A brother's friendly smile. What turns o' gold the evening gray? A flower beside the way.

DIPLOMACY

Tell your love where the roses blow, And the hearts of the lilies quiver, Not in the city's gleam and glow, But down by a half-sunned river. Not in the crowded ball-room's glare, That would be fatal, Marie, Marie, How can she answer you then and there? So come then and stroll with me, my dear, Down where the birds call, Marie, Marie.

SCAMP

Ain't it nice to have a mammy W'en you kin' o' tiahed out Wid a-playin' in de meddah, An' a-runnin' roun' about Till hit's made you mighty hongry, An' yo' nose hit gits to know What de smell means dat 's a-comin' F'om de open cabin do'? She wash yo' face, An' mek yo' place, You's hongry as a tramp; Den hit's eat you suppah right away, You sta'vin' little scamp.

W'en you's full o' braid an' bacon, An' dey ain't no mo' to eat, An' de lasses dat's a-stickin' On yo' face ta'se kin' o' sweet, Don' you t'ink hit's kin' o' pleasin' Fu' to have som'body neah Dat'll wipe yo' han's an' kiss you Fo' dey lif' you f'om you' cheah? To smile so sweet, An' wash yo' feet, An' leave 'em co'l an' damp; Den hit's come let me undress you, now You lazy little scamp.

Don' yo' eyes git awful heavy, An' yo' lip git awful slack, Ain't dey som'p'n' kin' o' weaknin' In de backbone of yo' back? Don' yo' knees feel kin' o' trimbly, An' yo' head go bobbin' roun', W'en you says yo' "Now I lay me," An' is sno'in on de "down"? She kiss yo' nose, She kiss yo' toes, An' den tu'n out de lamp, Den hit's creep into yo' trunnel baid, You sleepy little scamp.

WADIN' IN DE CRICK

Days git wa'm an' wa'mah, School gits mighty dull, Seems lak dese hyeah teachahs Mus' feel mussiful. Hookey's wrong, I know it Ain't no gent'man's trick; But de aih's a-callin', "Come on to de crick."

Dah de watah's gu'glin' Ovah shiny stones, Des hit's ve'y singin' Seems to soothe yo' bones. Wat's de use o' waitin' Go on good an' quick: Dain't no fun lak dis hyeah Wadin' in de crick.

W'at dat jay-b'ud sayin'? Bettah shet yo' haid, Fus' t'ing dat you fin' out, You'll be layin' daid. Jay-bu'ds sich a tattlah, Des seem lak his trick Fu' to tell on folkses Wadin' in de crick.

Wilier boughs a-bendin' Hidin' of de sky, Wavin' kin' o' frien'ly Ez de win' go by, Elum trees a-shinin', Dahk an' green an' thick, Seem to say, "I see yo' Wadin' in de crick."

But de trees don' chattah, Dey des look an' sigh Lak hit's kin' o' peaceful Des a-bein' nigh, An' yo' t'ank yo' Mastah Dat dey trunks is thick W'en yo' mammy fin's you Wadin' in de crick.

Den yo' run behin' dem Lak yo' scaihed to def, Mammy come a-flyin', Mos' nigh out o' bref; But she set down gentle An' she drap huh stick,— An' fus' t'ing, dey's mammy Wadin' in de crick.

THE QUILTING

Dolly sits a-quilting by her mother, stich by stitch, Gracious, how my pulses throb, how my fingers itch, While I note her dainty waist and her slender hand, As she matches this and that, she stitches strand by strand. And I long to tell her Life's a quilt and I'm a patch; Love will do the stitching if she'll only be my match.

PARTED

She wrapped her soul in a lace of lies, With a prime deceit to pin it; And I thought I was gaining a fearsome prize, So I staked my soul to win it.

We wed and parted on her complaint, And both were a bit of barter, Tho' I'll confess that I'm no saint, I'll swear that she's no martyr.

FOREVER

I had not known before Forever was so long a word. The slow stroke of the clock of time I had not heard.

'Tis hard to learn so late; It seems no sad heart really learns, But hopes and trusts and doubts and fears, And bleeds and burns.

The night is not all dark, Nor is the day all it seems, But each may bring me this relief— My dreams and dreams.

I had not known before That Never was so sad a word, So wrap me in forgetfulness— I have not heard.

THE PLANTATION CHILD'S LULLABY

Wintah time hit comin' Stealin' thoo de night; Wake up in the mo'nin' Evah t'ing is white; Cabin lookin' lonesome Stannin' in de snow, Meks you kin' o' nervous, Wen de win' hit blow.

Trompin' back from feedin', Col' an' wet an' blue, Homespun jacket ragged, Win' a-blowin' thoo. Cabin lookin' cheerful, Unnerneaf de do', Yet you kin' o' keerful Wen de win' hit blow.

Hickory log a-blazin' Light a-lookin' red, Faith o' eyes o' peepin' 'Rom a trun'le bed, Little feet a-patterin' Cleak across de flo'; Bettah had be keerful Wen de win' hit blow.

Suppah done an' ovah, Evah t'ing is still; Listen to de snowman Slippin' down de hill. Ashes on de fiah, Keep it wa'm but low. What's de use o' keerin' Ef de win' do blow?

Smoke house full o' bacon, Brown an' sweet an' good; Taters in de cellah, 'Possum roam de wood; Little baby snoozin' Des ez ef he know. What's de use o' keerin' Ef de win' do blow?

TWILIGHT

'Twixt a smile and a tear, 'Twixt a song and a sigh, 'Twixt the day and the dark, When the night draweth nigh.

Ah, sunshine may fade From the heavens above, No twilight have we To the day of our love.

CURIOSITY

Mammy's in de kitchen, an' de do' is shet; All de pickaninnies climb an' tug an' sweat, Gittin' to de winder, stickin' dah lak flies, Evah one ermong us des all nose an' eyes.

"Whut's she cookin', Isaac?" "Whut's she cookin', Jake?" "Is it sweet pertaters? Is hit pie er cake?" But we couldn't mek out even whah we stood Whut was mammy cookin' dat could smell so good.

Mammy spread de winder, an' she frown an' frown, How de pickaninnies come a-tum-blin' down! Den she say: "Ef you-all keeps a-peepin' in, How I'se gwine to whup you, my! 't 'ill be a sin! Need n' come a-sniffin' an' a-nosin' hyeah, 'Ca'se I knows my business, nevah feah." Won't somebody tell us—how I wish dey would!— Whut is mammy cookin' dat it smells so good?

We know she means business, an' we dassent stay, Dough it's mighty tryin' fuh to go erway; But we goes a-troopin' down de ol' wood-track 'Twell dat steamin' kitchen brings us stealin' back, Climbin' an' a-peepin' so's to see inside. Whut on earf kin mammy be so sha'p to hide? I'd des up an' tell folks w'en I knowed I could, Ef I was a-cookin' t'ings dat smelt so good.

Mammy in de oven, an' I see huh smile; Moufs mus' be a-wat'rin' roun' hyeah fuh a mile; Den we almos' hollah ez we hu'ies down, 'Ca'se hit's apple dumplin's, big an' fat an' brown! W'en de do' is opened, solemn lak an' slow, Wisht you see us settin' all dah in a row Innercent an' p'opah, des lak chillun should W'en dey mammy's cookin' t'ings dat smell so good.

OPPORTUNITY

Granny's gone a-visitin', Seen huh git huh shawl W'en I was a-hidin' down Hime de gyahden wall. Seen huh put her bonnet on, Seen huh tie de strings, An' I'se gone to dreamin' now 'Bout dem cakes an' t'ings.

On de she'f behime de do'— Mussy, what a feas'! Soon ez she gits out o' sight, I kin eat in peace. I bin watchin' fu' a week Des fu' dis hyeah chance. Mussy, w'en I gits in daih, I'll des sholy dance.

Lemon pie an' gingah-cake, Let me set an' t'ink— Vinegah an' sugah, too, Dat'll mek a drink; Ef dey's one t'ing dat I loves Mos' pu'ticlahly, It is eatin' sweet t'ings an' A-drinkin' Sangaree.

Lawdy, won' po' granny raih W'en she see de she'f; W'en I t'ink erbout huh face, I's mos' 'shamed myse'f. Well, she gone, an 'hyeah I is, Back behime de do'— Look hyeah! gran' 's done 'spected me, Dain't no sweets no mo'.

Evah sweet is hid erway, Job des done up brown; Pusson t'ink dat someun t'ought Dey was t'eves erroun'; Dat des breaks my heart in two, Oh how bad I feel! Des to t'ink my own gramma B'lieved dat I 'u'd steal!

PUTTIN' THE BABY AWAY

Eight of 'em hyeah all tol' an' yet Dese eyes o' mine is wringin' wet; My haht's a-achin' ha'd an' so', De way hit nevah ached befo'; My soul's a-pleadin', "Lawd, give back Dis little lonesome baby black, Dis one, dis las' po' he'pless one Whose little race was too soon run."

Po' Little Jim, des fo' yeahs ol' A-layin' down so still an' col'. Somehow hit don' seem ha'dly faih, To have my baby lyin' daih Wi'dout a smile upon his face, Wi'dout a look erbout de place; He ust to be so full o' fun Hit don' seem right dat all's done, done.

Des eight in all but I don' caih, Dey wa'nt a single one to spaih; De worl' was big, so was my haht, An' dis hyeah baby owned hit's paht; De house was po', dey clothes was rough, But daih was meat an' meal enough; An' daih was room fu' little Jim; Oh! Lawd, what made you call fu' him?.

It do seem monst'ous ha'd to-day, To lay dis baby boy away; I'd learned to love his teasin' smile, He mought o' des been lef' erwhile; You wouldn't t'ought wid all de folks, Dat's roun' hyeah mixin' teahs an' jokes, De Lawd u'd had de time to see Dis chile an' tek him 'way f'om me.

But let it go, I reckon Jim, 'Ll des go right straight up to Him Dat took him f'om his mammy's nest An' lef dis achin' in my breas', An' lookin' in dat fathah's face An' 'memberin' dis lone sorrerin' place, He'll say, "Good Lawd, you ought to had Do sumpin' fu' to comfo't dad!"

THE FISHER CHILD'S LULLABY

The wind is out in its rage to-night, And your father is far at sea. The rime on the window is hard and white But dear, you are near to me. Heave ho, weave low, Waves of the briny deep; Seethe low and breathe low, But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

The little boat rocks in the cove no more, But the flying sea-gulls wail; I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore, For sight of a home set sail. Heave ho, weave low, Waves of the briny deep; Seethe low and breathe low, But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die In the gale that rides the sea, But we'll not believe it, not you and I, Who mind us of Galilee. Heave ho, weave low, Waves of the briny deep; Seethe low and breathe low, But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

FAITH

I's a-gittin' weary of de way dat people do, De folks dat's got dey 'ligion in dey fiah-place an' flue; Dey's allus somep'n comin' so de spit'll have to turn, An' hit tain't no p'oposition fu' to mek de hickory bu'n. Ef de sweet pertater fails us an' de go'geous yallah yam, We kin tek a bit o' comfo't f'om ouah sto' o' summah jam. W'en de snow hit git to flyin', dat's de Mastah's own desiah, De Lawd'll run de wintah an' yo' mammy'll run de fiah.

I ain' skeered because de win' hit staht to raih and blow, I ain't bothahed w'en he come er rattlin' at de do', Let him taih hisse'f an' shout, let him blow an' bawl,

Dat's de time de branches shek an' bresh-wood 'mence to fall. W'en de sto'm er railin' an' de shettahs blowin' 'bout, Dat de time de fiah-place crack hits welcome out. Tain' my livin' business fu' to trouble ner enquiah, De Lawd'll min' de wintah an' my mammy'll min' de fiah.

Ash-cake allus gits ez brown w'en February's hyeah Ez it does in bakin' any othah time o' yeah. De bacon smell ez callin'-like, de kittle rock an' sing, De same way in de wintah dat dey do it in de spring; Dey ain't no use in mopin' 'round an' lookin' mad an' glum Erbout de wintah season, fu' hit's des plumb boun' to come;

An' ef it comes to runnin' t'ings I's willin' to retiah, De Lawd'll min' de wintah an' my mammy'll min' de fiah.

THE FARM CHILD'S LULLABY

Oh, the little bird is rocking in the cradle of the wind, And it's bye, my little wee one, bye; The harvest all is gathered and the pippins all are binned; Bye, my little wee one, bye; The little rabbit's hiding in the golden shock of corn, The thrifty squirrel's laughing bunny's idleness to scorn; You are smiling with the angels in your slumber, smile till morn; So it's bye, my little wee one, bye.

There'll be plenty in the cellar, there'll be plenty on the shelf; Bye, my little wee one, bye; There'll be goodly store of sweetings for a dainty little elf; Bye, my little wee one, bye. The snow may be a-flying o'er the meadow and the hill, The ice has checked the chatter of the little laughing rill, But in your cosey cradle you are warm and happy still; So bye, my little wee one, bye.

Why, the Bob White thinks the snowflake is a brother to his song; Bye, my little wee one, bye; And the chimney sings the sweeter when the wind is blowing strong; Bye, my little wee one, bye; The granary's overflowing, full is cellar, crib, and bin, The wood has paid its tribute and the ax has ceased its din; The winter may not harm you when you're sheltered safe within; So bye, my little wee one, bye.

THE PLACE WHERE THE RAINBOW ENDS

There's a fabulous story Full of splendor and glory, That Arabian legends transcends; Of the wealth without measure, The coffers of treasure, At the place where the rainbow ends.

Oh, many have sought it, And all would have bought it, With the blood we so recklessly spend; But none has uncovered, The gold, nor discovered The spot at the rainbow's end.

They have sought it in battle, And e'en where the rattle Of dice with man's blasphemy blends; But howe'er persuasive, It still proves evasive, This place where the rainbow ends.

I own for my pleasure, I yearn not for treasure, Though gold has a power it lends; And I have a notion, To find without motion, The place where the rainbow ends.

The pot may hold pottage, The place be a cottage, That a humble contentment defends, Only joy fills its coffer, But spite of the scoffer, There's the place where the rainbow ends.

Where care shall be quiet, And love shall run riot, And I shall find wealth in my friends; Then truce to the story, Of riches and glory; There's the place where the rainbow ends.

HOPE

De dog go howlin' 'long de road, De night come shiverin' down; My back is tiahed of its load, I cain't be fu' f'om town. No mattah ef de way is long, My haht is swellin' wid a song, No mattah 'bout de frownin' skies, I'll soon be home to see my Lize.

My shadder staggah on de way, It's monstous col' to-night; But I kin hyeah my honey say "W'y bless me if de sight O' you ain't good fu' my so' eyes." (Dat talk's dis lak my lady Lize) I's so'y case de way was long But Lawd you bring me love an' song.

No mattah ef de way is long, An' ef I trimbles so' I knows de fiah's burnin' strong, Behime my Lizy's do'. An' daih my res' an' joy shell be, Whaih my ol' wife's awaitin' me— Why what I keer fu' stingin' blas', I see huh windah light at las'.

APPRECIATION

My muvver's ist the nicest one 'At ever lived wiz folks; She lets you have ze mostes' fun, An' laffs at all your jokes.

I got a ol' maid auntie, too, The worst you ever saw; Her eyes ist bore you through and through,— She ain't a bit like ma.

She's ist as slim, as slim can be, An' when you want to slide Down on ze balusters, w'y she Says 'at she's harrified.

She ain't as nice as Uncle Ben, What says 'at little boys Won't never grow to be big men Unless they're fond of noise.

But muvver's nicer zan 'em all, She calls you, "precious lamb," An' let's you roll your ten-pin ball, An' spreads your bread wiz jam.

An' when you're bad, she ist looks sad, You fink she's goin' to cry; An' when she don't you're awful glad, An' den you're good, Oh, my!

At night, she takes ze softest hand, An' lays it on your head, An' says "Be off to Sleepy-Land By way o' trundle-bed."

So when you fink what muvver knows An' aunts an' uncle tan't, It skeers a feller; ist suppose His muvver 'd been a aunt.

A SONG

On a summer's day as I sat by a stream, A dainty maid came by, And she blessed my sight like a rosy dream, And left me there to sigh, to sigh, And left me there to sigh, to sigh.

On another day as I sat by the stream, This maiden paused a while, Then I made me bold as I told my dream, She heard it with a smile, a smile, She heard it with a smile, a smile.

Oh, the months have fled and the autumn's red, The maid no more goes by: For my dream came true and the maid I wed, And now no more I sigh, I sigh, And now no more I sigh.

DAY

The gray dawn on the mountain top Is slow to pass away. Still lays him by in sluggish dreams, The golden God of day.

And then a light along the hills, Your laughter silvery gay; The Sun God wakes, a bluebird trills, You come and it is day.

TO DAN

Step me now a bridal measure, Work give way to love and leisure, Hearts be free and hearts be gay— Doctor Dan doth wed to-day.

Diagnosis, cease your squalling— Check that scalpel's senseless bawling, Put that ugly knife away— Doctor Dan doth wed to-day.

'Tis no time for things unsightly, Life's the day and life goes lightly; Science lays aside her sway— Love rules Dr. Dan to-day.

Gather, gentlemen and ladies, For the nuptial feast now made is, Swing your garlands, chant your lay For the pair who wed to-day.

Wish them happy days and many, Troubles few and griefs not any, Lift your brimming cups and say God bless them who wed to-day.

Then a cup to Cupid daring, Who for conquest ever faring, With his arrows dares assail E'en a doctor's coat of mail.

So with blithe and happy hymning And with harmless goblets brimming, Dance a step—musicians play— Doctor Dan doth wed to-day.

WHAT'S THE USE

What's the use o' folks a-frownin' When the way's a little rough? Frowns lay out the road fur smilin' You'll be wrinkled soon enough. What's the use?

What's the use o' folks a-sighin'? It's an awful waste o' breath, An' a body can't stand wastin' What he needs so bad in death. What's the use?

What's the use o' even weepin'? Might as well go long an' smile. Life, our longest, strongest arrow, Only lasts a little while. What's the use?

A LAZY DAY

The trees bend down along the stream, Where anchored swings my tiny boat. The day is one to drowse and dream And list the thrush's throttling note. When music from his bosom bleeds Among the river's rustling reeds.

No ripple stirs the placid pool, When my adventurous line is cast, A truce to sport, while clear and cool, The mirrored clouds slide softly past. The sky gives back a blue divine, And all the world's wide wealth is mine.

A pickerel leaps, a bow of light, The minnows shine from side to side. The first faint breeze comes up the tide— I pause with half uplifted oar, While night drifts down to claim the shore.

ADVICE

W'en you full o' worry 'Bout yo' wo'k an' sich, W'en you kind o' bothered Case you can't get rich, An' yo' neighboh p'ospah Past his jest desu'ts, An' de sneer of comerds Stuhes yo' heaht an' hu'ts, Des don' pet yo' worries, Lay 'em on de she'f, Tek a little trouble Brothah, wid yo'se'f.

Ef a frien' comes mou'nin' 'Bout his awful case, You know you don' grieve him Wid a gloomy face, But you wrassle wid him, Try to tek him in; Dough hit cracks yo' features, Law, you smile lak sin, Ain't you good ez he is? Don' you pine to def; Tek a little trouble Brothah, wid yo'se'f.

Ef de chillun pestahs, An' de baby's bad, Ef yo' wife gits narvous, An' you're gettin' mad, Des you grab yo' boot-strops, Hol' yo' body down, Stop a-tinkin' cuss-w'rds, Chase away de frown, Knock de haid o' worry, Twell dey ain' none lef'; Tek a little trouble, Brothah, wid yo'se'f.

LIMITATIONS

Ef you's only got de powah fe' to blow a little whistle, Keep ermong de people wid de whistles. Ef you don't, you'll fin' out sho'tly dat you's th'owed yo' fines' feelin' In a place dat's all a bed o' thistles. 'Tain't no use a-goin' now, ez sho's you bo'n, A-squeakin' of yo' whistle 'g'inst a gread big ho'n.

Ef you ain't got but a teenchy bit o' victuals on de table, Whut' de use a-claimin' hit's a feas'? Fe' de folks is mighty 'spicious, an' dey's ap' to come apeerin', Lookin' fe' de scraps you lef' at leas'. Wen de meal's a-hidin' f'om de meal-bin's top, You needn't talk to hide it; ef you sta'ts, des stop.

Ef yo' min' kin only carry half a pint o' common idees, Don' go roun' a-sayin' hit's a bar'l; 'Ca'se de people gwine to test you, an' dey'll fin' out you's a-lyin', Den dey'll twis' yo' sayin's in a snarl. Wuss t'ing in de country dat I evah hyahed— A crow dot sat a-squawkin', "I's a mockin'-bird."

A GOLDEN DAY

I found you and I lost you, All on a gleaming day. The day was rilled with sunshine, And the land was full of May.

A golden bird was singing Its melody divine, I found you and I loved you, And all the world was mine.

I found you and I lost you, All on a golden day, But when I dream of you, dear, It is always brimming May.

THE UNLUCKY APPLE

'Twas the apple that in Eden Caused our father's primal fall; And the Trojan War, remember— 'Twas an apple caused it all. So for weeks I've hesitated, You can guess the reason why, For I want to tell my darling She's the apple of my eye.

THE DISCOVERY

These are the days of elfs and fays: Who says that with the dreams of myth, These imps and elves disport themselves? Ah no, along the paths of song Do all the tiny folk belong.

Round all our homes, Kobolds and gnomes do daily cling, Then nightly fling their lanterns out. And shout on shout, they join the rout, And sing, and sing, within the sweet enchanted ring.

Where gleamed the guile of moonlight's smile, Once paused I, listening for a while, And heard the lay, unknown by day,— The fairies' dancing roundelay.

Queen Mab was there, her shimmering hair Each fairy prince's heart's despair. She smiled to see their sparkling glee, And once I ween, she smiled at me.

Since when, you may by night or day, Dispute the sway of elf-folk gay; But, hear me, stay! I've learned the way to find Queen Mab and elf and fay.

Where e'er by streams, the moonlight gleams, Or on a meadow softly beams, There, footing round on dew-lit ground, The fairy folk may all be found.

MORNING

The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The coquette rose awakes again Her lovely self adorning. The Wind is hiding in the trees, A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, Until the rose says "Kiss me, please," 'Tis morning, 'tis morning.

With staff in hand and careless-free, The wanderer fares right jauntily, For towns and houses are, thinks he, For scorning, for scorning. My soul is swift upon the wing, And in its deeps a song I bring; Come, Love, and we together sing, "'Tis morning, 'tis morning."

THE AWAKENING

I did not know that life could be so sweet, I did not know the hours could speed so fleet, Till I knew you, and life was sweet again. The days grew brief with love and lack of pain—

I was a slave a few short days ago, The powers of Kings and Princes now I know; I would not be again in bondage, save I had your smile, the liberty I crave.

LOVE'S DRAFT

The draft of love was cool and sweet You gave me in the cup, But, ah, love's fire is keen and fleet, And I am burning up.

Unless the tears I shed for you Shall quench this burning flame, It will consume me through and through, And leave but ash—a name.

A MUSICAL

Outside the rain upon the street, The sky all grim of hue, Inside, the music-painful sweet, And yet I heard but you.

As is a thrilling violin, So is your voice to me, And still above the other strains, It sang in ecstasy.

TWELL DE NIGHT IS PAS'

All de night long twell de moon goes down, Lovin' I set at huh feet, Den fu' de long jou'ney back f'om de town, Ha'd, but de dreams mek it sweet.

All de night long twell de break of de day, Dreamin' agin in my sleep, Mandy comes drivin' my sorrers away, Axin' me, "Wha' fu' you weep?"

All de day long twell de sun goes down, Smilin', I ben' to my hoe, Fu' dough de weddah git nasty an' frown, One place I know I kin go.

All my life long twell de night has pas' Let de wo'k come ez it will, So dat I fin' you, my honey, at las', Somewhaih des ovah de hill.

BLUE

Standin' at de winder, Feelin' kind o' glum, Listenin' to de raindrops Play de kettle drum, Lookin' crost de medders Swimmin' lak a sea; Lawd 'a' mussy on us, What's de good o' me?

Can't go out a-hoein', Wouldn't ef I could; Groun' too wet fu' huntin', Fishin' ain't no good. Too much noise fo' sleepin', No one hyeah to chat; Des mus' stan' an' listen To dat pit-a-pat.

Hills is gittin' misty,, Valley's gittin' dahk; Watch-dog's 'mence a-howlin', Rathah have 'em ba'k Dan a-moanin' solemn Somewhaih out o' sight; Rain-crow des a-chucklin'— Dis is his delight.

Mandy, bring my banjo, Bring de chillen in, Come in f'om de kitchen, I feel sick ez sin. Call in Uncle Isaac, Call Aunt Hannah, too, Tain't no use in talkin', Chile, I's sholy blue.

DREAMIN' TOWN

Come away to dreamin' town, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih de skies don' nevah frown, Mandy Lou; Whaih he streets is paved with gol', Whaih de days is nevah col', An' no sheep strays f'om de fol', Mandy Lou.

Ain't you tiahed of every day, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Tek my han' an' come away, Mandy Lou, To the place whaih dreams is King, Whaih my heart hol's everything, An' my soul can allus sing, Mandy Lou.

Come away to dream wid me, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih our hands an' hea'ts are free, Mandy Lou; Whaih de sands is shinin' white, Whaih de rivahs glistens bright, Mandy Lou.

Come away to dreamland town, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih de fruit is bendin' down, Des fu' you. Smooth your brow of lovin' brown, An' my love will be its crown; Come away to dreamin' town, Mandy Lou.

AT NIGHT

Whut time 'd dat clock strike? Nine? No—eight; I didn't think hit was so late. Aer chew! I must 'a' got a cough, I raally b'lieve I did doze off— Hit's mighty soothin' to de tiah, A-dozin' dis way by de fiah; Oo oom—hit feels so good to stretch I sutny is one weary wretch!

Look hyeah, dat boy done gone to sleep! He des ain't wo'th his boa'd an' keep; I des don't b'lieve he'd bat his eyes If Gab'el called him fo'm de skies! But sleepin's good dey ain't no doubt— Dis pipe o' mine is done gone out. Don't bu'n a minute, bless my soul, Des please to han' me dat ah coal.

You 'Lias git up now, my son, Seems lak my nap is des begun; You sutny mus' ma'k down de day Wen I treats comp'ny dis away! W'y, Brother Jones, dat drowse come on, An' laws! I dremp dat you was gone! You 'Lias, whaih yo' mannahs, suh, To hyeah me call an' nevah stuh!

To-morrer mo'nin' w'en I call Dat boy'll be sleepin' to beat all, Don't mek no diffunce how I roah, He'll des lay up an' sno' and sno'. Now boy, you done hyeahed whut I said, You bettah tek yo'se'f yo baid, Case ef you gits me good an' wrong I'll mek dat sno' a diffunt song.

Dis wood fiah is invitin' dho', Hit seems to wa'm de ve'y flo'— An' nuffin' ain't a whit ez sweet, Ez settin' toastin' of yo' feet. Hit mek you drowsy, too, but La! Hyeah, 'Lias, don't you hyeah yo' ma? Ef I gits sta'ted f'om dis cheah I' lay, you scamp, I'll mek you heah!

To-morrer mo'nin' I kin bawl Twell all de neighbohs hyeah me call; An' you'll be snoozin' des ez deep Ez if de day was made fu' sleep; Hit's funny when you got a cough Somehow yo' voice seems too fu' off— Can't wake dat boy fu' all I say, I reckon he'll sleep daih twell day!

KIDNAPED

I held my heart so far from harm, I let it wander far and free In mead and mart, without alarm, Assured it must come back to me.

And all went well till on a day, Learned Dr. Cupid wandered by A search along our sylvan way For some peculiar butterfly.

A flash of wings, a hurried dive, A flutter and a short-lived flit; This Scientist, as I am alive Had seen my heart and captured it.

Right tightly now 'tis held among The specimens that he has trapped, And sings (Oh, love is ever young), 'Tis passing sweet to be kidnaped.

COMPENSATION

Because I had loved so deeply, Because I had loved so long, God in His great compassion Gave me the gift of song.

Because I have loved so vainly, And sung with such faltering breath, The Master in infinite mercy Offers the boon of Death.

WINTER'S APPROACH

De sun hit shine an' de win' hit blow, Ol' Brer Rabbit be a-layin' low, He know dat de wintah time a-comin', De huntah man he walk an' wait, He walk right by Brer Rabbit's gate— He know—

De dog he lick his sliverin' chop, An' he tongue 'gin' his mouf go flop, flop— He— He rub his nose fu' to clah his scent So's to tell w'ich way dat cottontail went, He—

De huntah's wife she set an' spin A good wahm coat fu' to wrop him in She— She look at de skillet an' she smile, oh my! An' ol' Brer Rabbit got to sholy fly. Dey know.

ANCHORED

If thro' the sea of night which here surrounds me, I could swim out beyond the farthest star, Break every barrier of circumstance that bounds me, And greet the Sun of sweeter life afar,

Tho' near you there is passion, grief, and sorrow, And out there rest and joy and peace and all, I should renounce that beckoning for to-morrow, I could not choose to go beyond your call.

THE VETERAN

Underneath the autumn sky, Haltingly, the lines go by. Ah, would steps were blithe and gay, As when first they marched away, Smile on lip and curl on brow,— Only white-faced gray-beards now, Standing on life's outer verge, E'en the marches sound a dirge.

Blow, you bugles, play, you fife, Rattle, drums, for dearest life. Let the flags wave freely so, As the marching legions go, Shout, hurrah and laugh and jest, This is memory at its best. (Did you notice at your quip, That old comrade's quivering lip?)

Ah, I see them as they come, Stumbling with the rumbling drum; But a sight more sad to me E'en than these ranks could be Was that one with cane upraised Who stood by and gazed and gazed, Trembling, solemn, lips compressed, Longing to be with the rest.

Did he dream of old alarms, As he stood, "presented arms"? Did he think of field and camp And the unremitting tramp Mile on mile—the lonely guard When he kept his midnight ward? Did he dream of wounds and scars In that bitter war of wars?

What of that? He stood and stands In my memory—trembling hands, Whitened beard and cane and all As if waiting for the call Once again: "To arms, my sons," And his ears hear far-off guns, Roll of cannon and the tread Of the legions of the Dead!

YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW

Yesterday I held your hand, Reverently I pressed it, And its gentle yieldingness From my soul I blessed it.

But to-day I sit alone, Sad and sore repining; Must our gold forever know Flames for the refining?

Yesterday I walked with you, Could a day be sweeter? Life was all a lyric song Set to tricksy meter.

Ah, to-day is like a dirge,— Place my arms around you, Let me feel the same dear joy As when first I found you.

Let me once retrace my steps, From these roads unpleasant, Let my heart and mind and soul All ignore the present.

Yesterday the iron seared And to-day means sorrow. Pause, my soul, arise, arise, Look where gleams the morrow.

THE CHANGE

Love used to carry a bow, you know, But now he carries a taper; It is either a length of wax aglow, Or a twist of lighted paper.

I pondered a little about the scamp, And then I decided to follow His wandering journey to field and camp, Up hill, down dale or hollow.

I dogged the rollicking, gay, young blade In every species of weather; Till, leading me straight to the home of a maid He left us there together.

And then I saw it, oh, sweet surprise, The taper it set a-burning The love-light brimming my lady's eyes, And my heart with the fire of yearning.

THE CHASE

The wind told the little leaves to hurry, And chased them down the way, While the mother tree laughed loud in glee, For she thought her babes at play, The cruel wind and the rain laughed loudly, We'll bury them deep, they said, And the old tree grieves, and the little leaves Lie low, all chilled and dead.

SUPPOSE

If 'twere fair to suppose That your heart were not taken, That the dew from the rose Petals still were not shaken, I should pluck you, Howe'er you should thorn me and scorn me, And wear you for life as the green of the bower.

If 'twere fair to suppose That that road was for vagrants, That the wind and the rose, Counted all in their fragrance; Oh, my dear one, By love, I should take you and make you, The green of my life from the scintillant hour.

THE DEATH OF THE FIRST BORN

Cover him over with daisies white And eke with the poppies red, Sit with me here by his couch to-night, For the First-Born, Love, is dead.

Poor little fellow, he seemed so fair As he lay in my jealous arms; Silent and cold he is lying there Stripped of his darling charms.

Lusty and strong he had grown forsooth, Sweet with an infinite grace, Proud in the force of his conquering youth, Laughter alight in his face.

Oh, but the blast, it was cruel and keen, And ah, but the chill it was rare; The look of the winter-kissed flow'r you've seen When meadows and fields were bare.

Can you not wake from this white, cold sleep And speak to me once again? True that your slumber is deep, so deep, But deeper by far is my pain.

Cover him over with daisies white, And eke with the poppies red, Sit with me here by his couch to-night, For the First-Born, Love, is dead.

BEIN' BACK HOME

Home agin, an' home to stay— Yes, it's nice to be away. Plenty things to do an' see, But the old place seems to me Jest about the proper thing. Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling Closer 'round yore place o' birth 'N ary other spot on earth.

W'y it's nice jest settin' here, Lookin' out an' seein' clear, 'Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze In these sweet October days. What's as good as that there lane, Kind o' browned from last night's rain? 'Pears like home has got the start When the goal's a feller's heart.

What's as good as that there jay Screechin' up'ards towards the gray Skies? An' tell me, what's as fine As that full-leafed pumpkin vine? Tow'rin' buildin's—? yes, they're good; But in sight o' field and wood, Then a feller understan's 'Bout the house not made with han's.

Let the others rant an' roam When they git away from home; Jest gi' me my old settee An' my pipe beneath a tree; Sight o' medders green an' still, Now and then a gentle hill, Apple orchards, full o' fruit, Nigh a cider press to boot—

That's the thing jest done up brown; D'want to be too nigh to town; Want to have the smells an' sights, An' the dreams o' long still nights, With the friends you used to know In the keerless long ago— Same old cronies, same old folks, Same old cider, same old jokes.

Say, it's nice a-gittin' back, When yore pulse is growin' slack, An' yore breath begins to wheeze Like a fair-set valley breeze; Kind o' nice to set aroun' On the old familiar groun', Knowin' that when Death does come, That he'll find you right at home.

THE OLD CABIN

In de dead of night I sometimes, Git to t'inkin' of de pas' An' de days w'en slavery helt me In my mis'ry—ha'd an' fas'. Dough de time was mighty tryin', In dese houahs somehow hit seem Dat a brightah light come slippin' Thoo de kivahs of my dream.

An' my min' fu'gits de whuppins Draps de feah o' block an' lash An' flies straight to somep'n' joyful In a secon's lightnin' flash. Den hit seems I see a vision Of a dearah long ago Of de childern tumblin' roun' me By my rough ol' cabin do'.

Talk about yo' go'geous mansions An' yo' big house great an' gran', Des bring up de fines' palace Dat you know in all de lan'. But dey's somep'n' dearah to me, Somep'n' faihah to my eyes In dat cabin, less you bring me To yo' mansion in de skies.

I kin see de light a-shinin' Thoo de chinks atween de logs, I kin hyeah de way-off bayin' Of my mastah's huntin' dogs, An' de neighin' of de hosses Stampin' on de ol' bahn flo', But above dese soun's de laughin' At my deah ol' cabin do'.

We would gethah daih at evenin', All my frien's 'ud come erroun' An' hit wan't no time, twell, bless you, You could hyeah de banjo's soun'. You could see de dahkies dancin' Pigeon wing an' heel an' toe— Joyous times I tell you people Roun' dat same ol' cabin do'.

But at times my t'oughts gits saddah, Ez I riccolec' de folks, An' dey frolickin' an' talkin' Wid dey laughin' an dey jokes. An' hit hu'ts me w'en I membahs Dat I'll nevah see no mo' Dem ah faces gethered smilin' Roun' dat po' ol' cabin do'.

DESPAIR

Let me close the eyes of my soul That I may not see What stands between thee and me.

Let me shut the ears of my heart That I may not hear A voice that drowns yours, my dear.

Let me cut the cords of my life, Of my desolate being, Since cursed is my hearing and seeing.

CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES

Tim Murphy's gon' walkin' wid Maggie O'Neill, O chone! If I was her muther, I'd frown on sich foolin', O chone! I'm sure it's unmutherlike, darin' an' wrong To let a gyrul hear tell the sass an' the song Of every young felly that happens along, O chone!

An' Murphy, the things that's be'n sed of his doin', O chone! 'Tis a cud that no dacent folks wants to be chewin', O chone! If he came to my door wid his cane on a twirl, Fur to thry to make love to you, Biddy, my girl, Ah, wouldn't I send him away wid a whirl, O chone!

They say the gossoon is indecent and dirty, O chone! In spite of his dressin' so. O chone! Let him dress up ez foine ez a king or a queen, Let him put on more wrinkles than ever was seen, You'll be sure he's no match for my little colleen, O chone!

Faith the two is comin' back an' their walk is all over, O chone! 'Twas a pretty short walk fur to take wid a lover, O chone! Why, I believe that Tim Murphy's a kumin' this way, Ah, Biddy jest look at him steppin' so gay, I'd niver belave what the gossipers say, O chone!

He's turned in the gate an' he's coming a-caperin', O chone! Go, Biddy, go quick an' put on a clane apern, O chone! Be quick as ye kin fur he's right at the dure; Come in, master Tim, fur ye're welcome I'm shure. We were talkin' o' ye jest a minute before. O chone!

TILL THE WIND GETS RIGHT

Oh the breeze is blowin' balmy An the sun is in a haze; There's a cloud jest givin' coolness To the laziest of days. There are crowds upon the lakeside, But the fish refuse to bite, So I'll wait and go a-fishin' When the wind gets right.

Now my boat tugs at her anchor, Eager now to kiss the spray, While the little waves are callin' Drowsy sailor come away, There's a harbor for the happy, And its sheen is just in sight, But I won't set sail to get there, Till the wind gets right.

That's my trouble, too, I reckon, I've been waitin' all too long, Tho' the days were always Still the wind is always wrong. An' when Gabriel blows his trumpet, In the day o' in the night, I will still be found waitin', Till the wind gets right.

A SUMMER NIGHT

Summah is de lovin' time— Do' keer what you say. Night is allus peart an' prime, Bettah dan de day. Do de day is sweet an' good, Birds a-singin' fine, Pines a-smellin' in de wood,— But de night is mine.

Rivah whisperin' "howdy do," Ez it pass you by— Moon a-lookin' down at you, Winkin' on de sly. Frogs a-croakin' f'om de pon', Singin' bass dey fill, An' you listen way beyon' Ol' man whippo'will.

Hush up, honey, tek my han' Mek yo' footsteps light; Somep'n' kin' o' hol's de lan' On a summah night. Somep'n' dat you nevah sees An' you nevah hyeahs, But you feels it in de breeze, Somep'n' nigh to teahs.

Somep'n' nigh to teahs? dat's so; But hit's nigh to smiles. An' you feels it ez you go Down de shinin' miles. Tek my han', my little dove; Hush an' come erway— Summah is de time fu' love, Night-time beats de day!

AT SUNSET TIME

Adown the west a golden glow Sinks burning in the sea, And all the dreams of long ago Come flooding back to me. The past has writ a story strange Upon my aching heart, But time has wrought a subtle change, My wounds have ceased to smart.

No more the quick delight of youth, No more the sudden pain, I look no more for trust or truth Where greed may compass gain. What, was it I who bared my heart Through unrelenting years, And knew the sting of misery's dart, The tang of sorrow's tears?

'Tis better now, I do not weep, I do not laugh nor care; My soul and spirit half asleep Drift aimless everywhere. We float upon a sluggish stream, We ride no rapids mad, While life is all a tempered dream And every joy half sad.

NIGHT

Silence, and whirling worlds afar Through all encircling skies. What floods come o'er the spirit's bar, What wondrous thoughts arise.

The earth, a mantle falls away, And, winged, we leave the sod; Where shines in its eternal sway The majesty of God.

AT LOAFING-HOLT

Since I left the city's heat For this sylvan, cool retreat, High upon the hill-side here Where the air is clean and clear, I have lost the urban ways. Mine are calm and tranquil days, Sloping lawns of green are mine, Clustered treasures of the vine; Long forgotten plants I know, Where the best wild berries grow, Where the greens and grasses sprout, When the elders blossom out. Now I am grown weather-wise With the lore of winds and skies. Mine the song whose soft refrain Is the sigh of summer rain. Seek you where the woods are cool, Would you know the shady pool Where, throughout the lazy day, Speckled beauties drowse or play? Would you find in rest or peace Sorrow's permanent release?— Leave the city, grim and gray, Come with me, ah, come away. Do you fear the winter chill, Deeps of snow upon the hill? 'Tis a mantle, kind and warm, Shielding tender shoots from harm. Do you dread the ice-clad streams,— They are mirrors for your dreams. Here's a rouse, when summer's past To the raging winter's blast. Let him roar and let him rout, We are armored for the bout. How the logs are glowing, see! Who sings louder, they or he? Could the city be more gay? Burn your bridges! Come away!

WHEN A FELLER'S ITCHIN' TO BE SPANKED

W'en us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise, Gramma says, "There's certain times come to little boys W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;" She says "we're a-itchin' for a right good spank." An' she says, "Now thes you wait, It's a-comin'—soon or late, W'en a feller's itchin' fer a spank."

W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels, Gramma says we wriggle 'roun' like a lot o' eels. W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail. What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail? Gramma says, tho', "Thes you wait, It's a-comin'—soon or late, You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked."

Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl, Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl An' she says, "Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked." An' she says, "Now thes you wait, It's a-comin'—soon or late," When a feller's itchin' to be spanked.

Ef you fin' the days is gettin' awful hot in school An' you know a swimmin' place where it's nice and cool, Er you know a cat-fish hole brimmin' full o' fish, Whose a-goin' to set around school and wish? 'Tain't no use to hide your bait, It's a-comin,—soon or late, Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.

Ol' folks know most ever'thing 'bout the world, I guess, Gramma does, we wish she knowed thes a little less, But I alwus kind o' think it 'ud be as well Ef they wouldn't alwus have to up an' tell; We kids wish 'at they'd thes wait, It's a-comin'—soon or late, Wen a feller's itchin' to be spanked.

THE RIVER OF RUIN

Along by the river of ruin They dally—the thoughtless ones, They dance and they dream By the side of the stream, As long as the river runs.

It seems all so pleasant and cheery— No thought of the morrow is theirs, And their faces are bright With the sun of delight, And they dream of no night-brooding cares.

The women wear garlanded tresses, The men have rings on their hands, And they sing in their glee, For they think they are free— They that know not the treacherous sands.

Ah, but this be a venturesome journey, Forever those sands are ashift, And a step to one side Means a grasp of the tide, And the current is fearful and swift.

For once in the river of ruin, What boots it, to do or to dare, For down we must go In the turbulent flow, To the desolate sea of Despair.

TO HER

Your presence like a benison to me Wakes my sick soul to dreamful ecstasy, I fancy that some old Arabian night Saw you my houri and my heart's delight.

And wandering forth beneath the passionate moon, Your love-strung zither and my soul in tune, We knew the joy, the haunting of the pain That like a flame thrills through me now again.

To-night we sit where sweet the spice winds blow, A wind the northland lacks and ne'er shall know, With clasped hands and spirits all aglow As in Arabia in the long ago.

A LOVE LETTER

Oh, I des received a letter f'om de sweetest little gal; Oh, my; oh, my. She's my lovely little sweetheart an' her name is Sal: Oh, my; oh, my. She writes me dat she loves me an' she loves me true, She wonders ef I'll tell huh dat I loves huh, too; An' my heaht's so full o' music dat I do' know what to do; Oh, my; oh, my.

I got a man to read it an' he read it fine; Oh, my; oh, my. Dey ain' no use denying dat her love is mine; Oh, my; oh, my. But hyeah's de t'ing dat's puttin' me in such a awful plight, I t'ink of huh at mornin' an' I dream of huh at night; But how's I gwine to cou't huh w'en I do' know how to write? Oh, my; oh, my.

My heaht is bubblin' ovah wid de t'ings I want to say; Oh, my; oh, my. An' dey's lots of folks to copy what I tell 'em fu' de pay; Oh, my; oh, my. But dey's t'ings dat I's a-t'inkin' dat is only fu' huh ears, An' I couldn't lu'n to write 'em ef I took a dozen years; So to go down daih an' tell huh is de only way, it 'pears; Oh, my; oh, my.

AFTER MANY DAYS

I've always been a faithful man An' tried to live for duty, But the stringent mode of life Has somewhat lost its beauty.

The story of the generous bread He sent upon the waters, Which after many days returns To trusting sons and daughters,

Had oft impressed me, so I want My soul influenced by it, And bought a loaf of bread and sought A stream where I could try it.

I cast my bread upon the waves And fancied then to await it; It had not floated far away When a fish came up and ate it.

And if I want both fish and bread, And surely both I'm wanting, About the only way I see Is for me to go fishing.

LIZA MAY

Little brown face full of smiles, And a baby's guileless wiles, Liza May, Liza May.

Eyes a-peeping thro' the fence With an interest intense, Liza May.

Ah, the gate is just ajar, And the meadow is not far, Liza May, Liza May.

And the road feels very sweet, To your little toddling feet, Liza May.

Ah, you roguish runaway, What will toiling mother say, Liza May, Liza May?

What care you who smile to greet Everyone you chance to meet, Liza May?

Soft the mill-race sings its song, Just a little way along, Liza May, Liza May.

But the song is full of guile, Turn, ah turn, your steps the while, Liza May.

You have caught the gleam and glow Where the darkling waters flow, Liza May, Liza May.

Flash of ripple, bend of bough, Where are all the angels now? Liza May.

Now a mother's eyes intense Gazing o'er a shabby fence, Liza May, Liza May.

Then a mother's anguished face Peering all around the place, Liza May.

Hear the agonizing call For a mother's all in all, Liza May, Liza May.

Hear a mother's maddened prayer To the calm unanswering air, Liza May.

What's become of—Liza May? What has darkened all the day? Liza May, Liza May.

Ask the waters dark and fleet, If they know the smiling, sweet Liza May.

Call her, call her as you will, On the meadow, on the hill, Liza May, Liza May.

Through the brush or beaten track Echo only gives you back, Liza May.

Ah, but you were loving—sweet, On your little toddling feet, Liza May, Liza May.

But through all the coming years, Must a mother breathe with tears, Liza May.

THE MASTERS

Oh, who is the Lord of the land of life, When hotly goes the fray? When, fierce we smile in the midst of strife Then whom shall we obey?

Oh, Love is the Lord of the land of life Who holds a monarch's sway; He wends with wish of maid and wife, And him you must obey.

Then who is the Lord of the land of life, At setting of the sun? Whose word shall sway when Peace is rife And all the fray is done?

Then Death is the Lord of the land of life, When your hot race is run. Meet then his scythe and, pruning-knife When the fray is lost or won.

TROUBLE IN DE KITCHEN

Dey was oncet a awful quoil 'twixt de skillet an' de pot; De pot was des a-bilin' an' de skillet sho' was hot. Dey slurred each othah's colah an' dey called each othah names, Wile de coal-oil can des gu-gled, po'in oil erpon de flames.

De pot, hit called de skillet des a flat, disfiggered t'ing, An' de skillet 'plied dat all de pot could do was set an' sing, An' he 'lowed dat dey was 'lusions dat he wouldn't stoop to mek 'Case he reckernize his juty, an' he had too much at steak.

Well, at dis de pot biled ovah, case his tempah gittin' highah, An' de skillet got to sputterin', den de fat was in de fiah. Mistah flan lay daih smokin' an' a-t'inkin' to hisse'f, Wile de peppah-box us nudgin' of de gingah on de she'f.

Den dey all des lef hit to 'im, 'bout de trouble an' de talk; An' howevah he decided, w'y dey bofe 'u'd walk de chalk; But de fiah uz so 'sgusted how dey quoil an' dey shout Dat he cooled 'em off, I reckon, w'en he puffed an' des went out.

CHRISTMAS

Step wid de banjo an' glide wid de fiddle, Dis ain' no time fu' to pottah an' piddle: Fu' Christmas is comin', it's right on de way, An' dey's houahs to dance 'fo' de break o' de day.

What if de win' is taihin' an' whistlin'? Look at dat' fiah how hit's spittin' an' bristlin'! Heat in de ashes an' heat in de cindahs, Ol' mistah Fros' kin des look thoo de windahs.

Heat up de toddy an' pas' de wa'm glasses, Don' stop to shivah at blowin's an' blas'es, Keep on de kittle an' keep it a-hummin', Eat all an' drink all, dey's lots o' a-comin'. Look hyeah, Maria, don't open dat oven, Want all dese people a-pushin' an' shovin'?

Res' f'om de dance? Yes, you done cotch dat odah, Mammy done cotch it, an' law! hit nigh flo'd huh; 'Possum is monst'ous fu' mekin' folks fin' it! Come, draw yo' cheers up, I's sho' I do' min' it. Eat up dem critters, you men folks an' wimmens, 'Possums ain' skace w'en dey's lots o' pu'simmons.

ROSES AND PEARLS

Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet, The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound. How lavish nature is about your feet, To scatter flowers and jewels both around.

Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows, Softly the white strings trickle down and shine. Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose. Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine.

RAIN-SONGS

The rain streams down like harp-strings from the sky; The wind, that world-old harpist sitteth by; And ever as he sings his low refrain, He plays upon the harp-strings of the rain.

A LOST DREAM

Ah, I have changed, I do not know Why lonely hours affect me so. In days of yore, this were not wont, No loneliness my soul could daunt.

For me too serious for my age, The weighty tome of hoary sage, Until with puzzled heart astir, One God-giv'n night, I dreamed of her.