Songs of two centuries :: :: University of Virginia Library

Johnny left the farm, an' studied
In the college, quite awhile;
He was sort of student-blooded,
With a dash o' city-style;
So we talked it—me an' Father—
An' concluded we would rather
Toil an extra hour or two
Every day, than let work gall him
That he wasn't built to do;
An' where Nature seemed to call him,
He should go; an' if a dollar
Now an' then, the Fates would bribe
To produce a first-class scholar
For to tassel off our tribe,
We would take it out in knowledge;
So we put the boy to college.

Johnny lots o' letters sent us,
Full o' things we knowed before,
An' a heap o' trouble lent us
Studyin' of 'em o'er and o'er;
While his keep we kep' on earnin'
From our hard an' sulky lan',
We was 'fraid he couldn't be learnin'
Much, if writin' with school-han'
Words that we could understan';
An' we worried much about him
An' begun to fear an' doubt him.

An' I says one day to Father,
“I'm a-goin' to put a stay

To this everlastin' bother:
I shall start for John today.”
An' Pa said, with mannish guesses
'Bout a woman's clothin'-life,
“You are ruther short o' dresses
Fur to go to college, Wife.
Not in length of any of 'em,
But in number's, what I mean.”
An' I says, “I'll rise above 'em,
For I'm al'ays neat an' clean;
An' I'll wear my bombazine,
With substantial hooks an' eyes,
An' the sleeves a Christian size.”
An' I done jus' as I say,
An' went off that very day.

Well, I got there one fine mornin',
An' without a second's warnin',
I, his mother, an' no other—
His own true, hard-workin' mother,
Who had teached the boy to walk,
An' not only that, but talk:
(An' I said, “His eddication
With them things left out, I guess,
Would hev been a tribilation,
Nothin' more an' somethin' less”)
I went hither, there, an' yon,
Jest inquirin' after John.

An' I traced him here an' there,
An' kep' jest so fur behind him,
But somehow, I do declare,
I could never seem to find him!
An' I thought, in great distress,
“He is dodgin' me, I guess:
Me, an' my old faded dress!”

Then my heart made sad complaint,
An' I felt homesick an' faint;
My appearance I compared

With some ladies' that was passin',
An' reflected, while they stared
At my scrimped-up way of dressin';
An' how my old bombazine
Looked so shabby-like an' mean.
An' I thought, with eyes tear-dim,
“Our sweet boy, that used to love us,
We have eddicated him—
Eddicated him above us!”

An' while these thoughts I was summin',
An' was kind o' prone to fear him,
I looked up an' saw John comin'
With a lady some'at near him!
Then I said, “It sha'n't be said
That I ever yet have stood
With a downcast, shamefaced head,
Front of my own flesh an' blood;
An' I teached the boy to talk,
An' not only that, but walk.”
An' I says, “His conversation
With that purty gal I see,
Wouldn't hev proved much consolation
Ef it hadn't hev been fur me.”
So I hurried proudly on,
With such courage as I'd got,
In a sort o' way that John
He c'u'd notice me or not.

When jest opposite, he turned,
An' he see my faded dress—
An' his fair face quickly burned,
With some small ashamèdness;
An' no wonder; for, you see,
There was her, trim as could be,
Dressed like pictur's on the wall,
An' life's sweetness through it all—
For a han'some gal was she!
An' just six foot off was me—
Wrinkled—old—though spick an' clean,

Dressed in my ol' bombazine,
An' with han's as hard as leather
(Me an' Dad oft worked together).
An' my throat was in one lump,
An' my heart it took a jump;
An' I hed all I could do
Holdin' back my feelin's, too;
For ol' times I couldn't forget;
An' I loved him—loved him yet—
Just as well, it should be stated,
As 'fore he was eddicated;

“But”, I says, “I'll walk right on:
I will curb my feelin's so
His nice gal shall never know
That I'm any kin to John.”

Walk right on!—it couldn't be done,
With John's heart there in the road
Bigger than a barley-load!
He went fur me on a run,
An' he kissed my wrinkled cheek,
An' my hands so hard an' rough,
An' wouldn't sca'cely let me speak,
Though I tried to, times enough;
An' half led, half carried me
As if proud as proud could be,
Up to where she stood; an' said,
“It's my mother”; an' her head
Bent as willer trees will do,
An' she hugged an' kissed me, too;
An' I kissed my gal an' boy,
An' was half afaint with joy.

Then I wrote that night to Dad,
“Don't you worry 'bout the lad,
'Cause he wrote in his school-han'
Words that we could understan'.”