'Weh Down Souf and other Poems :

Davis, D. Webster

[section]

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

iii

To my faithful and affectionate wife this volume is lovingly dedicated by the author.

'WEH DOWN SOUF.

O, de birds ar' sweetly singin',
'Weh down Souf,
An' de banjer is a-ringin',
'Weh down Souf;
An' my heart it is a-sighin',
Whil' de moments am a-flyin',
Fur my hom' I am a-cryin','
'Weh down Souf.

Dar de pickaninnies 's playin',
'Weh down Souf,
An' fur dem I am a-prayin',
'Weh down Souf;
An' when I gits sum munny,
Yo' kin bet I'm gon', my hunny,
Fur de lan' dat am so sunny,
'Weh down Souf.

Whil' de win' up here's a-blowin',
'Weh down Souf
De corn is sweetly growin',
'Weh down Souf.

Dey tells me here ub freedum,
But I ain't a-gwine to heed um,
But I'se gwine fur to lebe um,
Fur 'weh down Souf.

I bin up here a-wuckin,
From 'weh down Souf,
An' I ain't a bin a-shurkin'—
I'm frum 'weh down Souf;
But I'm gittin' mighty werry,
An' de days a-gittin' drerry,
An' I'm hongry, O, so berry,
Fur my hom' down Souf.

O, de moon dar shines de brighter,
'Weh down Souf,
An' I know my heart is lighter,
'Weh down Souf;

An' de berry thought brings pledjur,
I'll be happy dar 'dout medjur,
Fur dar I hab my tredjur,
'Weh down Souf.

BAKIN' AN' GREENS.

Yo' may tell me ub pastries an' fine oyster patties,
Ub salads an' crowkets an' Boston baked beans;
But dar's nuffin' so temptin' to dis gent'mun's palate
Ez a big slice ub bakin' an' plenty ub greens.

Jes' bile 'um right down, so dey'll melt when yo' eat 'um;
Hab a big streak ub fat an' a small streak o' lean.
Dar's nuffin' on urf yo' kin fix up to beat 'um,
Fur de king ub all dishes am bakin' an' greens.

Den tak' sum good cohn meal, an' sif' it, an' pat it,
An' put it in ashes wid nuffin' between;
Den blow off de ashes, an' set right down at it,
Fur dar's nuffin' lik' ash-cake, wid bakin' an' greens.

'Twill take de ol' mammies to fix 'um up greazy,
Wid liker an' dumplin's de bes' you hab seen;

Take all yer fin' eatin's—I won't be uneazy,
Ef you'll lebe me dat bakin' an' plenty ub greens.

Sum folks may lik' tucky, an' sum may lik' chicken,
But my heart fills wid joy, an' wid pledjur I beams,
When I kum home frum wuck an' a day ub hard pickin's,
An' am greeted wid bakin' an' a big dish ub greens.

Rich folks in dar kerrige may fro de dus' on me,
But how kin I enby dem men ub big means;
Dey may hab dispepsy, an' do' dey may scorn me,
Dey kan't injoy bakin' wid lots ub good greens.

You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow,
Let joy be a stranger, an' trouble my dreams;
I still will be smilin', no pain kin I borrow,
Ef I still kin git bakin', wid plenty ub greens.

KEEP INCHIN' ALONG.

Do' de load be mighty hebby
An' de road be 'ceedin' ruff,
Do' yer lim's be mighty tired
An' de paf be dark enuf,
You still mus' keep a-singin'
To cheer yo' on de road,
“Fur de lane mus' hab a turnin'”
An' lighter grow de load.
Keep inchin' along.

What do' de load is hebby
An' de burden mek yo' sigh,
Jes' ben' yer back a little—
'Twill be better bime-by;
De cloud's a-hangin' hebby
Ez yo' journey on de way,
But dar's a silber linin';
You'll see it, too, sum day.
Keep inchin' along.

'Cause when yo' see de sunshine
Yo' think erbout de rain,
An' when de rain's a-pourin'
De sun will shine again.
So tiz wid all de troubles
Dat dis ol' worl' kin gib—
Do' it rain to-day, to-morrow
'Twill shine ez shorz yo' lib.
Keep inchin' along.

Bime-by de journey's ober
An' heben will hebe in sight,
An' fur all de sighs an' moanin's
De Lord will mek it right.
Fur de road is gittin' shorter,
An' lighter gits de song,
An' yo' mos' kin hear de angels
Ez dey sings a welkum hom'.
Keep inchin' along.

DE BIGGIS' PIECE UB PIE.

When I wuz a little boy,
I set me down to cry,
Bekaze my little brudder
Had de biggis' piece ub pie.
But when I had become a man
I made my min' to try
An' hustle roun' to git myself
De biggis' piece ub pie.

An', like in bygone chil'ish days,
De worl' is hustlin' roun'
To git darselbes de biggis' slice
Ub honor an' renown;
An' ef I fails to do my bes',
But stan' aroun' an' cry,
Dis ol' worl' will git away
Wid bof de plat' an' pie.

An' eben should I git a slice,
I mus' not cease to try,

But keep a-movin' fas' ez life,
To hol' my piece ub pie.
Dis ruff ol' worl' has little use
Fur dem dat chance to fall,
An' while youze gittin' up agin'
'Twill take de plat' an' all.

Yet, ef I fin' my fellow man
Don' miss his piece ub pie,
An' dis hard world is standin' roun'
To kick him ef he cry,
An' do' my poshun may be small,
I'll ack jes' like er man,
An' gib to him a piece ub min',
To help him ef I can.

Fur when tiz mine to go alone
To de happy hom' ub love,
I kin not take de smallis' piece
To dat bright lan' above;
An' when I reach de gol'en gate,
In de glory lan' on high,
I'll not be axed how much I had,
But how I used my pie.

HOG MEAT.

Deze eatin' folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam',
An' de toofsumnis ub tucky et wid cel'ry an' wid jam;
Ub beef-st'ak fried wid unyuns, an' sezoned up so fin'—
But yo' jes' kin gimme hog-meat, an' I'm happy all de tim'.

When de fros' is on de pun'kin an' de sno'-flakes in de ar',
I den begin rejoicin'—hog-killin' time is near;,
An' de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams,
Fur de time is fas' a-comin' fur de 'lishus pork an' beans.

We folks dat's frum de kuntry may be behin' de sun—
We don't lik' city eatin's, wid beefsteaks dat ain' don'—
'Dough muttun chops is splendid, an' dem veal cutlits fin',
To me 'tain't like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine.

Jes' talk to me 'bout hog-meat, ef yo' want to see me pleased,
Fur biled wid beans tiz gor'jus, or made in hog-head cheese;
An' I could jes' be happy, 'dout money, cloze or house,
Wid plenty yurz an' pig feet made in ol'-fashun “souse.”

I 'fess I'm only humun, I hab my joys an' cares—
Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar' fair;
But I forgib my in'miz, my heart is free frum hate,
When my bread is filled wid cracklins an' dar's chidlins on my plate.

'Dough possum meat is glo'yus wid 'taters in de pan,
But put 'longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan';
Ub all yer fancy eatin's, jes gib to me fur min'
Sum souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine.

FISHIN' HOOK AN' WORMS.

De lubly sky is hangin' wid de clouds ub heb'ny blue,
An' de little birds a-wabblin' like dey'd bus' dar froats in two;
De gentle kows a-lowin' in the medder 'mong de cohn,
While de tree-frog is a-singin' in de fresh an' rosy morn;
But ub all de lubly vizhuns dat's floatin' fore my min',
De sweetes' is de brook-side, wid fishin' hook an' lin'.

When de sun is jes' a-peepin' from its sof' an' balmy bed,
While de dew is on de flowers, an' de shades ub night is fled,

I takes my dinner bucket, when de day is jes' begun,
An' I'm gwine off a-fishin' tell de eb'nin' shadders kum;
An' 'tain't no use to tell me dat de worl' ain't bright an' fhar,
While de kat-fish is a-bitin', and de sun shines ebrywhar.

De politishuns tell me dat de votin' is de thing
To put us into power an' de happiness to bring,
But yo' kan't tell me nuffin', 'cause I ain't bin no fool,
Sense de days dey had me 'spectin' forty acres an' a mule.
Ef dey wants to hab me votin', dey kin bring me up to terms
Ef dey'll gib me little lezhur an' sum fishin' hooks an' worms.

When de sun is shinin' brightly, jes' erbout de time ub noon,
An' de flies ar' lazy buzzin' wid a sweet an' lubly chune,

I'se a-settin' dar a-noddin', like a scholar wid his book,
While de fishes is a-bitin' all de bait frum off my hook.
You may say dat I am lazy, 'cause I ain't no 'risticrat,
But I gwine to hab sum pledjur do', in spite ub all er dat.

An' when de slantin' shadders tell de swif' approach ub night,
An' de linnet an' de robin quickly homeward wings dar flight,
I gethers up my bucket an' de fishes dat I caught,
An' seeks my 'umble cottage ez an hones' fellow ought;
So, all de cares an' troubles dat dis ol' worl' kin bring
I'll bear widout kumplainin', ef I've fishin' in de spring.

SENSE 'KINLEY'S 'NOGURASHUN.

I bin votin' mighty long,—
Thought 'twuz my salvashun—
Now my hopes don' riz right up,
Sense 'Kinley's 'nogurashun.

Feel so good, I boun' to shout
Jes' like all tarnashun,
'Cause we folks don' struck it rich,
Sense 'Kinley's 'nogurashun.

'Bin to Wash'ton, bless yer soul,
To see de 'nogurashun,
'Kinley tol' me, “Jes' keep still,”
Gwine gimme situashun.

Silver bugs look'd mighty sick,
Standin' roun' de stashun,
To see us gent'mun ridin' in
To 'Kinley's 'nogurashun.

Gwine to sell my ole gray mule,
Rent out my plantashun;
I nebber 'specks to farm no mo',
Sense 'Kinley's 'nogurashun.

Wheat gwine grow on hen nes' gras'—
'Dout no limitashun;
Chickens roos' right on de groun',
Sense 'Kinley's 'nogurashun.

Gold gwine like de goad vine grow—
We'll git 'siderashun,
'Cause we gwine hab all we want,
Sense de 'nogurashun.

Whi' folks now mus' set right back,
In dis mighty nashun;
'Kinley sez our time is kum,
Sense his 'nogurashun.

Wadermilluns gwine grow wild—
Don't dat beat de nashun!
'Kinley tol' me all dese things,
At de 'nogurashun.

Tak' hur, whi' folks, lemme kum by;
I wants no botherashun,
Fur dis gent'mun's feelin' large,
Sense de 'nogurashun.

WHY HE SAVED THE ENGINE.

The train was swiftly running, the engineer was late—
With greatest speed was running to meet an awful fate;
Before it was a washout, which threatened death to all,
For none could hope for succor from such an awful fall.

Uncle 'Rastus saw the danger, and ran to wave it back;
And, in spite of rheumastism, went running up the track
Wildly waving his bandanna,—the moment was sublime,
Thank God! at last they saw him, and stopped the train in time.

When they realized the danger from which they had been saved,
Strong men wept and women fainted—they'd been so near the grave;

Fair hands seized on those black ones, kind hearts gave tribute due,
And Uncle 'Rastus stood there, scarcely knowing what to do.

A purse was made up quickly, and praise unstinted fell;
How did he come to do it, they all asked him to tell.
“You see, de thing wuz dis way: I kum up to de scratch,
I didn't want dat ingine tumblin' in my wadermillun patch.”

EMANCIPATION.

Read at the Emancipation Exercises, True Reformers' Hall, January 1, 1892.

Blest freedom! 'tis the sweetest strain that fills the human heart;
Its blessings doth delight the soul, and sweetest joys impart.
The feathered songsters of the grove were mute if caged in gold,
And though in rags, the heart that's free finds ecstasy untold.

Upon the ocean calm and deep a vessel rides the waves,
The freight upon her swelling breast—twenty human slaves,
Far from their native land to dwell beneath an alien sky,
Far from that dear and sunny land where Afric's waters lie.

She landed on Virginia's shore, near where we stand to-day
And gaze upon a lovely group clad all in bright array.
Memories strong and deep arise, and quick the tear-drops spring,
As we think of what to-day we are, and what we late have been.

But yesterday, and dark the clouds that hung above our sky;
To-day 'tis past and full of joy; the clouds have drifted by,
The day we longed and prayed for sore at last has blessed the sight,
And that we come to celebrate—who can but say 'tis right?

E'en in our slav'ry we can trace the kindly hand of God,
That took us from our sunny land and from our native sod,

Where, clad in Nature's simplest garb, man roamed a savage wild,
Untamed his passions; half a man and half a savage child.

But God, to teach him His dear will, saw fit to bring him where
He learned of Him and Jesus Christ those lessons rich and rare.
He made the savage into man, tho' moulded by the rod;
And Ethiopia has, indeed, stretched forth her hands to God.

He was a man and felt as men, his soul with anguish burned;
His heart, too, longed for nobler things, for higher missions yearned;
But God still held him to the blast, and still afflicted sore
And still he groaned, and still he prayed, yet still his burden bore.

But, like the cries of Israel old, his prayers ascended high,
To reach the great Jehovah's throne, beyond the azure sky;
His conq'ring power brought freedom down, and broke the chain, despair,
And bade the Negro walk with men, as free as Nature's air.

But was he true? Speak, Bunker Hill, and Boston Common, say,—
Did he defend from British foe on that historic day?
While thousands stood with heaving breast, and dared not strike a blow,
A Negro's voice cheered on the throng, and bade them charge the foe.

His blood was spilled to gain a place in battle's honored roll,
And Crispus Attuck nobly stands among the heroes bold;

And if we speak of valiant deeds, and love of country fair,
Must not begrudge his well-bought fame, but place a laurel there.

To-day is hushed the cannon's roar, and peace reigns everywhere,
And blessed freedom makes our land the fairest of the fair.
Shall we who helped to make it bloom and blossom as a rose,
Be cast aside, unworthy,—our upward course opposed?

We love her and are loyal as the truest of her sons;
For her our blood was shed, for her we faced the deadly guns.
We'll strive to have her take her place, the first of any land;
Stand ready to defend her soil from ev'ry alien band.

But God has freed us, and to Him we bow in praise to-day.
He'll never leave us nor forsake, but will protect alway;
And, conscious of a heart that's true, with purpose brave and strong,
We'll leave our cause in those just Hands that cannot do a wrong.

'Tis the blessing that we celebrate, and not the cause now lost,
For that was dear to other hearts as this can be to us.
And who were right or who were wrong, we are not here to say,
For, still in death, they're heroes all—the blue, likewise the gray.

And now, the din of battle past, they are our friends the same;
Not such as come to get our votes, not friends alone in name,

But friends who deep in honest hearts do wish us greatest joy.
God grant this friendship e'er may last and be without alloy.

Then let us all with one accord now join the jubilee,
And praise our God who rules o'er this the new land of the free,
And babes unborn in future years will rise to call us great
For fixing now, for coming time, “The Day We Celebrate.”

WHEN DE SUN SHINES HOT.

Yo' may talk erbout de snowflakes,
An' de pleasen' winter breeze;
Ub de pledjurs foun' in skeetin',
When de ice begins to freeze;
Ub de 'joyments ub de winter,
Dat yo' think a happy lot—
But gib to me de summer,
When de sun shines hot.

Dis shiv'rin' an' a-freezin'
Will nebber do fur me,
Fur when de win's a-blowin'
I'ze miz'ble ez kin be.
An' jes' erbout November
I draws up in er knot,
An' don' begin ter straightin'
'Tell de sun shines hot.

But 'long wid frogs an' lizzuds,
When de sun kums out,
My bones begin er thawin',
An' I'm ready fur to shout.
Fur de happy thoughts ub summer
Makes me feel all right,
Fur de wadermillun's kumin'
When de sun shines bright.

Maybe wuck's gittin' skace,
An' de meal bag low;
But I nebber feels de trouble
Ef it is erbout to go,
Fur de good times 's on us,
An' I 'joys my lot,
'Cause de wadermillun's kumin'
When de sun shines hot.

Den lemme 'lone, hunny;
Don' 'sturb dis dream,
Ez I set here a-dozin',
De field's gittin' green,

An' I don' kheer, my hunny,
Ef I gits wuck or not,
Fur de wadermillun's kumin',
When de sun shines hot.

FELL FRUM GRACE.

I've bin brung befo' dis meetin',
An' de truf I gwine to tell—
Yes, I took de jedge's chickens,
An' sense den my min's a hell.
So, my brudders, I pleads guilty,
An' I owns up lik' er man
Dat is kotched whil' doin' murder
Wid de blood upon his han's.

Gwine to tell a straight tale 'bout it—
Not a thing I gwine konseal,
'Cause my konshuns don' kondem me;
De Lod he knows how bad I feel.
Ez I passed Jedge Johnson's manshun,
Ez I'd of'en don' befo',
Dar I spied his hin-house open,
'Dout no lock upon de do'.

Brudders, won't y'all own t'wuz temptin'?
So I kayed dem chickins off,
An' jes' only fur saf' keepin',
Took an' hid 'um in de lof'.
All night long I thought erbout it—
“Shell I tak' dem chickins back?”
But de ve'y nex' day wuz Krismus,—
Is y'all 'sprised I jumped de track?

Forty years bin in good standin',
Hoed my ro' in shade an' shine;
Nuther saint nor sinner suffud
From no low-down ack ub min'.
But, ez yuthers don' befo' me,
I jis' halted in de race,
An' de fus' thing dat I knowed un
I had tumbled down frum grace.

Do' I makes a full confeshun,
Yet I feel I 'zerbs yer raf,
But in mussy sphar er sinner
Dat hez stumbled frum de paf;

An' I makes dis 'umble promis'
'Fore de chuch upon my knee,
Dat hereafter I shall try to
Let my neighbors chickins be.

I jes' tol' de jedge erbout it—
He had of'en gin me lif',—
What y'all reggin dat he tol' me?
“Tak' dem fur my Krismus gif'.”
I so glad I couldn't thank him,
An' my eyes stretch wid surpris',
Den he sed dat I wuz hones'—
Gin me dollah, too, besiz'.

Then up spoke the good old pastor:
“Ez de Lord duz always keep
Larg' kumpashun fur de strayin',
We forgibs dis erin' sheep.
Should Gabul serch dis congregashun
Fur de chickins dat don' gone,
I'm mighty feard we'd all be lackin',
So don' let us cast a stone.”

Then the chuch burst into singing
As they'd never sung before,
And the preacher told the sinner:
“Go in peace an' sin no mo'.”

CHRISTMAS DREAMS.

As I sit to-night I'm dreaming,
While the moonlight's brightly beaming
And the stars keep watch above me,
For my heart is light and free.
Now a vision comes before me,
And a joy is stealing o'er me,
As in dreams I see my stocking
Hanging 'neath the mantle tree.

Now my mother comes before me,
And is lightly bending o'er me—
Looks to see if I am sleeping,
So that Santa Claus may come.
She stoops to kiss me fondly,
While things grow dim around me,
And I'm far away in dreamland,
While she softly leaves the room.

In the morning, quickly waking,
While my heart with joy is quaking,

As I wonder if Old Santa
Could have coldly passed me by;
Oh! what happy, blissful feeling
To my raptured sight revealing,
As a world of Santa's goodies
Greet my eager, watching eye.

Now I wake—'twas only dreaming—
And the thoughts so blissful seeming
Pass away in gloomy shadows,
And the world seems dark and cold;
Mother's gone from earthly sorrow,
In the sweet and bright to-morrow
Where, an angel fair, she's watching
O'er the lambs of Heaven's fold.

In this world there still is grieving
I, her child, must be relieving,
While the pealing bells of Christmas,
Chiming on the evening air,
Bring sweet joy to hearts now breaking,
Help the downcast and forsaken,
Tell the bruised and the bleeding
That the world is still so fair.

SIGNS.

My Sarah Ann don' b'leve in signs,
Sense she don' bin to skule;
She sez we folks ain't got no sense,
An' almos' calls us fools.
Wid all de changes she don' made,
One thing I know fur sho',
She don' bresh all de cobwebs down,
But de horseshoe's ober de do'.

An 'tother day she start to chuch
Wid all her fal-de-rals,
'Long Lucy Ann an' 'Rushy Jeems,
An' lots er yuther gals;
But when she had to turn erroun'
Fur sumpin' she furgits,
She meks a cross-mark on de groun'
An' turns erroun' an' spits.

An' when her nose begin to itch
Huccum she stays at hom'?—
'Cause dat dar sign don' nebber fail—
Somebody gwine ter kum;
But t'ain't no use ter tell me, do',
Dar's sump'n in de min'
Ub ebry true-bon' cullud gal
Dat meks her b'leve in signs.

I prides myself upon my wuck
When I whitewash a fence—
De man dat won' be satisfied
Mus' surt'ny lack fur sense;
But when dese sizly-sozly rains
Kum fallin' to de groun'
An' wash aginst it long ernough,
Dat whitewash mus' kum down.

So 'tiz wid ebry cullud chil',
Do' it may be my own,
De skules kin nebber 'raderkate
De thing dats in de bon'.—

While folks is gittin' smart, ez sho'
Ez whitewash made frum lime.
I gwine b'leve what de Bible sez
Erbout signs ub de times.

THE OWL SONG.

[_]

(A song of the “Owl Club.”)

Bird of the night! to thee,
Perched on the forest tree,
Our song we raise;
Thy deeds we celebrate,
And thy great works narrate,
Thy fame we advocate,
In notes of praise.

The turkey may be sweet,
And many birds you meet
Are splendid “fowl”—
Not e'en the eagle bold,
Nor birds with plumage gold,
Nor song-birds young or old,
Can touch thee, Owl!

And whence comes thy great name,
Bird of the noble fame!
Of being wise?
'Tis for thy silent tongue
That oft thy praise is sung,
And oft thy name is rung
Up to the skies.

DE NIGGER'S GOT TO GO.

Dear Liza, I is bin down-town
To Marster Charley's sto',
An' all de talk dis nigger hear
Is, “Niggers got to go.”
I 'fess it bodders my ol' head,
An' I would lik' to kno',
What all we cullud folks is don',
Dat now we'z got to go?

I hear dem say dat long ago
To ol' Virginny's sho',
Dar kum a ship wid cullud folks,
Sum twenty odd or mo';
Dey tells me dat dey hoed de corn,
An' wuz good wuckers, sho',
Dey made Virginny like de rose—
But now dey's got to go.

Dat, when ol' Ginnel Washin'ton
Did whip dem Red-koats so,
A nigger wuz de fus' to fall
A-fightin' ub de fo';
Dat, in de late “unpleasunness”
Dey watched at marster's do',
Proteckin' ub his lubin' ones,—
But now dey's got to go.

I 'fess I lubs dis dear ol' place—
'Twuz here we beried Jo';
An' little Liza married off,
So menny years ago.
An' now wez feeble, an' our lim's
A-gitting mighty slo'.
We'd hate to lebe de dear ol' place—
But den, wez got to go.

I don't kno' much 'bout politicks,
An' all dem things, yo' kno',
But de las' 'leckshun I jes' vote
Ez de whi' folks tol' me to;

Dey tole me vote fur Dimikrats,
An' 'twould be better, 'do'
Sense now dey don' de leckshun win,
Dey sez we'z got to go.

Dey sez de whi' folks mad 'long us,
'Cause we kummin' up, yo' kno';
An' sum un us is gittin' rich,
Wid do'-bells on de do';
An' got sum lawyers, doctors too,
An' men like dat, fur sho'.
But den it kan't be jes' fur dis
Dat we all got to go.

De Lord he made dis lubly lan'
Fur white an' black folks too,
An' gin each man his roe to ten'—
Den what we gwine to do?
We 'habes ouselbes an' 'specks de laws,
But dey's peckin mo' an' mo'.
We ain't don' nuffin 't all to dem,
Den huccum we mus' go?

Fur ebry nashun on de glob'
Dis seems to be a hom';
Dey welkums dem wid open arms,
No matter whar dey frum;
But we, who here wuz bred an' borhn,
Don't seem to hab no show;
We ho'ped to mek it what it is,
But still we'z got to go.

It 'pears to me, my Liza, dear,
We'z got a right to stay,
An' not a man on dis broad urf
Gwine dribe dis nigger 'way.
But why kan't whi' folks lef us lon',
An' weed dar side de ro';
An' what dey all time talkin' 'bout—
“De nigger's got to go?”

“'Rastus,” Liza sed, “trus' in God,
He'll fix things here belo',
He don't hate us bekase we'z black—
He made us all, yo' kno';

He lubs us, ef we'z cullud folks,
Ef de hart is white an' pure,
An' 'cepin'de Lord sez,—‘Forward, march!’
We'z not a-gwine to go.”

THE BABY SHOW.

Babies large, and babies small,
And babies fat and fair;
The fond mammas and fond papas
Had all the young ones there.

“The paper man” just viewed the scene,
And decided in a minute;
That the infant with the “kinky-top”
Was certainly not “in it.”

A few, though fat and chubby sprites,
With mothers to defend them,
Because their colors “ran to dark,”
Had nothing to commend them.

Perhaps to some this argues ill,
And some no doubt are frightened;
But, to my mind, it demonstrates
We are simply being enlightened.

DE LININ' UB DE HYMNS.

Dar's a mighty row in Zion, an' de debbil's gittin' high,
An' de saints don' beat de sinnuz, a-cussin on de sly.
What fur it am, you reggin? I'll tell you how it 'gin;
'Twuz 'bout a berry leetle thing—de linin' ub a hymn.

De young folks say 'tain't stylish to lin' 'um out no mo';
Dat dey's got edikashun, an' dey wants us all to know
Dey likes to hab dar singin'-books a-holin' fore dar eyes,
An' sing de hymns right straight along “to manshuns in de skies.”

Dat it am awful fogy to give 'um out by lin',
An' ef de ol' folks will kumplain 'cause dey is ol' an' blin',

An' slabry's chain don' kep' dem back frum larnin' how to read—
Dat dey mus' take a corner seat, an' let de young folks lead.

We bin 'peatin' 'hine de pastor when he sez dat lubly prayhr,
'Cause sum un us don' kno' it, an' kin not say it squahr;
But now we mus' 'peat wid him, an ef we kan't keep time,
De gospil train will drap us off from follin' on behin'.

Well, p'raps dey's right, I kin not say; my lims is growin' ol',
But I likes to sing de dear ol' hymns, 'tiz music to my soul;
An' 'pears to me 'twont do much harm to gin 'um out by line,
Dat we ol' folks dat kin not read may foller 'long behin'.

But few ub us am lef' here now dat bore de slabry chain,
We don' edikate our boys an' gals, an' would do de same again;
An Zion's all dat's lef' us now to cheer us wid its song—
Dey mought 'low us to sing wid dem, it kin not be fur long.

De sarmon's highfalutin', an' de chuch am mighty fin';
We trus' dat God still understan's ez in de days ub min',
When we, 'do' ignunt, po' an' mean, still wushuped wid de soul,
Whil' oft across our peaceful breas' de wabes ub trouble roll.

De ol'-time groans an' shouts an' moans am passin' out ub sight—
Edikashun changed all dat, an' we belebe it right,
We should serb God wid 'telligence; fur dis one thing I plead:
Jes' lebe a leetle place in chuch fur dem ez kin not read.

STICKIN' TO DE HOE.

Dar's mighty things a-gwine on,
Sense de days when I wuz young,
An' folks don't do ez dey did once,
Sense dese new times is kum;
De gals dey dresses pow'ful fin',
An' all am fur a sho',
But de thing dat I'ze in favor ub
Is stickin' to de hoe.

Larnin' is a blessed thing,
An' good cloze berry fin',
But I likes to see de cullud gal
Dat's been larnt how to 'ine';
Gimme de gal to wash an' scrub,
An' keep things white an' clean,
An' kin den go in de kitchin
An' cook de ham an' greens.

I ain't got no edikashun,
But dis I kno' am true,
Dat raisin' gals too good to wuck
Ain't nebber gwine to do;
Dese boys dat look good 'nuf to eat,
But too good to saw de logs,
Am kay'n us ez fas' ez smoke,
To lan' us at de dogs.

I 'spose dat I'm ol' fashun',
But God made man to plow,
An' git his libbin by de sweat
Dat trickles down his brow.
While larnin' an' all dem things
Am mighty good fur sho',
De bes' way we kin make our pints
Is—stickin' to de hoe.

To fill de hed wid larnin'
Dat de fingers kan't express,
To dis poor ig'nunt brudder
Don't seem to be de bes';

To git de edikashun
An' larn to work ez well,
Seems to my 'umble judgment,
De thing dat's gwine to tell.

MY CHILDHOOD'S HAPPY DAYS.

Many poets great and gifted, whom the Muse's touch has blessed,
Have sung in rhythmic measure, at the spirit's high behest,
Of the days of childish glory, free from sorrow and from pain,
When all was joy and pleasure—and wished them back again;
But, somehow, when my mind turns back to sing in joyous lays,
I remember great discomforts in my childhood's happy days.

Why, my earliest recollections are of pains and colics sore,
With the meanest kinds of medicines the grown folks down would pour—

Ipecac and paregoric—and though I hard would kick,
They still would dose and physic, “'Cause the baby must be sick.”
When I think of this, how can I sing a song in joyous lays,
And speak in tones of rapture of my childhood's happy days?

Off to school I then was started, and the simple rule of three
Was as hard as now quadratics or geometry's to me.
And then the awful thrashings with a paddle at the school,
And again at home with switches if I broke the simplest rule.
Oh! my life was one vast torment—so, of course, I'm bound to praise
The time that poets nickname “our childhood's happy days.”

On a cold December morning, when lying snug in bed,
I heard the sound, “You, Webster!” and I wished that I was dead.
I knew I had the fires to make, bring water, and cut wood;
And then, perhaps, I might have chance to get a bit of food,
When on to school I trotted. These were the pleasant ways
In which I spent that “festive time,”—my childhood's happy days.

Father's breeches, cut to fit me, was, of course, the proper thing;
And nowhere did they touch me; my one “gallus” was a string;
I couldn't tell the front from back part; and my coat of navy blue
So variously was mended, it would match the rainbow's hue.
'Twill do all right for rich white boys to sing these merry lays,
But the average little “Jap” fared tough in childhood's happy days.

I had a place back of my head the comb could never touch—
I'd jump three feet when tested. At last I cried so much,
Mother said that she would cut it. Oh, fate! to see me then.
My head was picked by dull shears, as if some turkey hen
Had gotten in her cruel work; and the boys with jolly ways
Hallo'ed “buzzard!” when they saw me, “in childhood's happy days.”

In the evening, holding horses, selling papers—“Evening News!”
To earn an honest penny for the folks at home to use.
Yet, of course, I had my pleasures—stealing sugar, playing ball,—
But I can not go in raptures o'er that season, after all.
And we repeat our childhood, and all life's sterner ways
Are mixed with rain and sunshine, as were childhood's happy days.

Still I find that life's a “hustle” from the cradle to the tomb,
With little beams of sunshine to lighten up the gloom.
If we can help a brother, and mix our cares with joys,
Old age will be as happy as the days when we were boys,
Till at last we sing in rapture heav'nly songs of love and praise,
When our bark is safely anchored,—there to spend our happiest days.

EXPOSITION ODE.

Read at the opening of the Negro Building, Atlanta, Ga., October 21st, 1895.

To-day we come to show the world what God for us hath wrought—
Here, where but thirty years ago we were as chattel bought;
He, painting us a darker hue, with hair more deeply curled,
Has blessed us with both brain and brawn, the conquerors of the world.

With grateful hearts we thank the men who gave to us the chance
To show the world our progress made, our usefulness enhance.
Yet, 'twas our right, and not a man in justice could oppose,
For Negro hands made “Dixie” bloom and blossom as the rose.

We bring to-day just what we have, from school and shop and farm—
The products all of Negro brain, the fruit of his own arm.
Judged, not by heights that we have reached, but depths from whence we came,
There's not a Negro in the land need hang his head in shame.

We'll show the North their millions spent have not been spent in vain;
We'll show the South skilled laborers, who do not strike for gain;
We've left for aye our rude estate, to shape our lives by rule,
And banished Reconstruction's dream—“forty acres and a mule.”

Our children here will come and view with pride this great display,
And babes unborn will bless us for the page we write to-day;

We'll prove to all the Negro's worth, who here may wish to come,
To see what we black men have done to build up this our home.

We have a place in “Dixie Land;” our labor built its roads;
We cleared its forests, tilled its fields, and bore the heaviest loads;
Our blood was shed in its defense, dispute it ye who will,
For Attuck fell at Boston; Peter Salem, Bunker Hill.

And in those dark and bloody days, while fierce the battle rolled,
As North and South had gathered arms and called each other foes,
A soldier brave upon the field, a faithful slave at home,
He then disdained to think of shame to loved ones left alone.

But, as a faithful watch-dog stands and guards with jealous eye,
He cared for master's wife and child, and at the door would lie,
To shed his blood in their defense 'gainst traitors, thieves and knaves,
Although these masters went to fight to keep them helpless slaves.

What progress made? The answer's here for all who care to know.
We are not backward tending; but the best that we can show
Are men, who've made us what we are, the leaders in the van,
Our preachers, teachers, scholars—all an honor to the land.

A Brown, the prince of financiers; a Mitchell bold and true,
A Fortune, Gains and Washington, all men who dare and do;

A Penn who gives us this display, and women good and fair,
We'll scale the heights by others reached, and place our banner there.

What tho' we've laggards in the ranks—all races have the same—
We'll opposition overcome, and march to wealth and fame;
With solid front for God and right, no en'my need assail,
For “right is right as God is God,” and justice must prevail.

But slav'ry's rude and galling yoke has left on us its stain;
Divisions, petty jealousies and hate oft spoil our aim;
And struggling 'neath the damning yoke, we rise and kiss the rod,
And with an agonizing cry stretch forth our hands to God.

The South's our home; 'tis here our eyes beheld life's morning dawn,
And here at evening's close we'll rest, our toils and conflicts done.
No politicians should divide relationships divine,
No arm should sever friendships formed in “Days of Auld Lang Syne.”

Here tropic birds their matins sing, and sweet the streamlets flow,
And kindly nature gently smiles upon the vale below.
Shall we who made it what it is by sweat and pain and toil,
Be thought to be unworthy of a place upon its soil?

Here scented zephyrs fan the cheek, and heavenly music swells,
And God's own matchless finger paints the lovely hills and dells;
Here scented fragrance fills the air, and bright the flowers smile—
Shall ev'ry scene delight the view, and only man be vile?

God is not dead, though justice sleeps, and right must conquer might.
The South's our common country, each must strive to do the right;
Too long we've looked outside ourselves to seek some guiding star;
We'll cease and “let our buckets down in places where we are.”

With interests one and hopes the same, we'll look like hopeful youth,
To see the new sun dawning with its satellites of truth;
Disfranchisement, injustice and prejudices gone,
We'll both rejoice together at the coming of the dawn.

Filled with these expectations now, our hope takes fancy's wing;
But not alone as poet, but as prophet may we sing:
This scene will help its dawning—God grant we view its birth!
For “Dixie Land” is still to us the fairest spot on earth.

SKEETIN' ON DE ICE.

At a little country meeting, in a log house near the road,
The saints had duly gathered “fur de wushup ub de Lord,”
When “Bru Levi 'sen' de pulpit,” cleared his throat, and then began:
“De 'spoundin' ub de scripshur, fur to cheer de speretu'l man.”

I was teacher in the county, and was in duty bound
In attendance on the services, to help the brethren 'long.
Brother Levi was the pastor, and dispensed the gospel here,
As he misunderstood it at twenty-five a year.

The day was warm and sultry, sleep was getting in my eyes,
When this most unique sermon made them open with surprise:

“My belubbed congregashun, I bin preachin' 'bout de 'possles,
An' took my tex' whar Paul poked his 'pissle at de 'Fezhuns.

But to-day I gwine to tell yo' 'bout de chillun ub de Lord,
How dey crossed de ragin' waters at de spekin' ub de word.
I know y'all long bin won'drin' how de chillun crossed de sea;
'Tiz jes' ez plain ez kin be to er 'sper'enced man like me.

You see, 'twuz in de winter when de chillun dar wuz led,
An' de norf win' wuz a-blowin' strong ernuf to raise de dead.
Now, yo' see, de thing wuz easy, an' likewise berry nice,
Fur all de chillun had to do wuz to skeet across on ice.

But when ol' Farro kum along wid dem big chayut wheels,
De ice je's broke, an' all er dem fell in head ober heels.”
This was hard on my intelligence as teacher of the school,
And so I rose and said a word, although against the rule:

“Beg pardon, brother pastor, but geographies, you know,
Say this land is in the tropics, where can be no ice or snow.”
“I thanks yo', do' I does not like no 'sturbmence on dis topic;
But in dem days 'twon't no gogerfies, so, 'course dar won't no tropics.”

You can see I was dumbfounded; the brethren said, “Amen,”—
And thus he then concluded, ere I could speak again:
“When yo' gwine to cross de water, yo' better tak' advice,
An' 'cepin' de Lord is wid yo', don't skeet across on ice.”

OL' VIRGINNY REEL.

Ez I set to-night I'm thinkin' ub de days now pas' an' gon',
'Weh down in ol' Virginny 'mong de cohn;
Whar de sweet pertaters growin' an' de wadermillun smiles,
Fur down de Souf in Dixie I wuz born.
Dat lan' to me is dearer dan all on urf besiz;
I feel de tear drops down my ol' cheeks steal
Ez I think ub al de pledjur in de dear ol' sunny lan',
A-dancin' ub de ol' Virginny reel.

When de daily toil wuz ober in de quarters we would meet,
An' sich anudder scuffin' dar would be
To git Miss Susan Johnsing, de Ca'line County belle,
To dance de fus' set on de flo' wid me.

We'd “Walk ol' John de Blin' Man,” play “Husko, Ladies Turn,”
Would “Grine de Bottle” or de “Bobkin Steal”
But 'twon't no use a-talkin'; de fun would jes' begin
When all would dance de ol' Virginny reel.

Ef you nebber seed de moshun, I will tell yo' how it goes;
'Tiz a-bobbin' up an' down, a hop an' jump,
An' a-turnin' ebry lady ez yo' kum back down de line,
Jes' like a bobtail moc'sin roun' de stump.
“Miss Liza Jane” is lubly, an' “Balmoral” is fin',
An' “Wipe dem Di'mon' Winders” makes you feel;
But not “Bounce Aroun' My Sugar Lump,” nor “Turnin' Good Ol' Man,”
Ken 'gin to tetch de ol' Virginny reel.

Dar's “Jinny Put de Kittle On,” an' “Shoo! Miss Pijie, Shoo!”
An' den “King William Wuz King George's Son,”
“Blin' Man Buff,” an “Gimme Korner;” also “Walk de Lonesum Road,”
Whar de pint wuz gittin' kisses—shorz yo' born;
But now dey 'fuse to play dem, an' kissin's out er style,
'Cause now we folks is gittin' mighty high;
But den 'twuz free an' in'cent, 'dout a bit ub harm;
'Twuz better'n doin' kissin' on de sly.

Ol' 'Lijah wuz de bes' man; he'd cut de pijin-wing,
An' crack his heels togedder keepin' time;
His teef wuz like de tom'-stones, an' face like possum fat,
An' ebry knot wuz stickin' out behin'.
De gals wuz dressed in hom'spun, 'long wid dar brogan shoes,
An' ef dar feet would tetch yo', yo' would feel,
'Do' de boys wore bed-tuck breeches, dese trifles wuz forgot,
While 'joyin' ub de ol' Virginny reel.

An' somehow ez I think agin ub bygone happy days,
'Do' cares an' sorrows menny wuz our lot,
Dis lesson presses on me—an' forgib me when I say:
Yo' should alway 'joy de blessin's dat yo' got.
An' den I sometimes wonder, ez I see y'all hoppin' roun',
Wid waltzes, polkas, dances toe an' heel,
Ef you really hab de pledjur, an' ez little ub de sin,
Ez we in dancin' ol' Virginny reel.

A ROSE.

This rose of the garden is given to me,
And to double its value, 'twas given by thee;
Its lovely bright tints to my eyesight is borne,
Like the kiss of a fairy or blush of the morn.

How sweet is the fragrance that is wafted to me,
As the scent of the breeze from the isles of the sea.
It tells of the care of that Father above,
Who sends us the fragrance to show us His love.

Too soon must this scent-laden flower decay,
Its bright leaves will wither, its bloom die away;
But in mem'ry 'twill linger, the joy that it bore
Will live with me still tho' the flower's no more.

Fond hopes, too, must perish, its green leaves must die,
And sweet expectations all withered must lie;

But He who has loved us and given His Son,
Sets the bow of His promise, and bids us hope on.

May our friendship ne'er perish, its strength ne'er decay,
But may it grow stronger and stronger each day,
And may the All-Father His love o'er us bend,
Till life is completed and heaven the end.

POMP'S CASE ARGUED.

Pomp stole dem breeches, an' 'lowed 'twon't sin,
'Cause he stole de breeches to be baptized in;
But I doubts dat, brudders; le's argify de case,
Fur we can't hab de young lams a-fallin' frum grace.

Ef er brudder is hongry, an' er chickin on de roos'
Sets a-temptin' ub de saints, why 'twon't no use
Fur de callin' ub er council; de case am plain,
De chickin wuz de sinner an' dezerbs all de blam'.

But breeches is dif'funt, an' stealin's mighty 'rong,
'Cause, yo' see, he moughter borro'd, sense his mem'ry ain' long;
An' furgittin' to return 'um, nobody could er say
Dat he stole dem breeches,—'tiz clear ez de day.

True, his moughter bin busted, an' de seat to'ed out—
Fur 'tiz kinder strainin', dis leadin' ub de shout;

But, den, he could er patched 'um, an' wid coat tails long
Hab cut a lubly figger 'dout doin' enny 'rong.

Maybe prid' wuz de kashun—dar de debbil tempts to sin,—
An' his bed-tick breeches won't good 'nuf fur him;
But I moves fur to 'sclude him, 'cause he nebber had to ought,
Ef he stole dem breeches, go an' git hisef caught.

WHEN YOU GITS A RABBIT FOOT.

Yo' kin always hab a dollah,
When yo' gits a rabbit-foot;
'Cause de luck is bound to follah,
When yo' gits a rabbit-foot.
You may not want to tak' it,
But 'tiz so, shorz yo' born,
No matter how yo' mak' it,
I'm always gwine to own
A good ol' rabbit-foot.

All yer trubbles seem to lebe yo',
When yo' gits a rabbit-foot;
Nobody kin decebe yo',
When yo' gits a rabbit-foot.
Jes' always git a lef' foot,
Don't nebber git de right;
Ketch de rabbit in a grabeyard,
'Bout de middle ub de night—
Dat's de kind ub rabbit-foot.

Git de lef' foot dat's behin',
Dat's de lucky rabbit-foot;
An' ef de rabbit's blin',
Dat's a sho' rabbit-foot;
'Tiz better'n habin' munny,
'Cause dat may git away,
But wid de proper rabbit-foot
Yer luck is dar to stay.
Jes' git a rabbit-foot.

You'll git offis 'dout votin',
Ef yo' got a rabbit-foot;
All dese rich folks is a-totin'
One dese same rabbit-foots.
Sum dese edikated people
Dat's a-laffin' so at me,
Ef you'd look into dar pockets,
I lay ennything you'd see
Dey's got a rabbit-foot.

MAT.

In the swamp by a black gum, in a little log hut
Lived Mat,
The toughest little fellow, in tatters and rags
At that;
“A reg'lar good-for-nothing,” the neighbors all vowed.
He would rob a hen's nest; not a melon he allowed
To remain in the patch—yet we, for all that
Liked Mat.

With his tatters all flying and a crownless hat
Came Mat
'Cross the hill by the corn-field and “sweet-tater” patch,
And that
Was a sign that the “taters” and corn had disappeared,
For when Mat was about, why everybody feared;
But, then, when you saw him your sorrow changed that
For Mat.

For ten or eleven little brothers and sisters
Had Mat,
And his poor mother labored to feed and to clothe them
At that;
And work in the country, when you wash the whole day,
And receive but a quarter is mighty poor pay,—
No wonder he was ragged, and would steal at that,
Poor Mat!

Yet, the world often wonders, as it speeds on its way,
At the Mats,
Who are reared in ignorance, the world's “good-for-nothings;”
But for that,
How many called better, who have ne'er felt the smart
Of poverty's nettle can boast of a heart
As free from guile and as tender as that
Of Mat.

DE CHANA CUP.

Our church had a meeting, where the brethren gathered
To transact the business they had for the Lord,
To turn out the lambs who had strayed from the sheep-fold,
And to take in repentants in accord with his word.
The axe had been falling with impartiality
On drunkards and policy-players of old,
On sisters who'd fallen from pathways of virtue,
And all who had wandered like sheep from the fold.

At last came a sister whose skirts were all muddy,
With drabbling in sin all the days of her youth,
Had been caught and excluded 'mid tears of the brethren,
But now would return to the pathway of truth.

“I am truly repentant, the Lord has forgiven;
Since last month, when excluded, I've prayed night and day.
Will you, brethren, forgive and restore me to fellowship,
And, with Jesus to guide, I'll no more go astray?”

“Bless the Lord!” said the brethren; “Amen!” said the sisters,
“Thank God, she's returning; I move—take her in.”
The motion was carried with great hallelujahs
For the sister restored from the by-ways of sin.
Brother Slaughter waxed warm, and spoke of the prodigal,
And the rejoicing in heaven o'er sinners returned:
“Ef yo' fall, don't yo' woller, yo' kin tell a true Christyun,
Fur down in de heart speretu'l oil will burn.”

“De sister am good ez befo', ef not better,
Fur dear is de lam's when returned to de fol',
Ef yuz gwine ter sin, jes' be sho' yo' don't woller,
An' yo' sho' ub de glory ez a pijin his hole.”
Up spoke Brother Van: “My brudder, hol' on, dar!
Youz ressin de skripshur, an' leadin' us wrong.
'Taint better to wander den keep de straight pafway,
An' de Lord lubs de young lam's dat keep right along.”

“I once had a chana cup I sot right much sto' by,
One day bein' keerless, I drapped on de flo'.
I patched it wid glu', sah, an' do' it held water,
It nebber did ring like it did befo'.
Yo' may dribe in a nail right in dis here pos' here,
Den draw out de nail, but de hole is still dar;
Yo' may bu'n your fhar arm, an' heal up de bu'n, sah,
But de schar gwy tell on you wharebber you ar'.”

“True, de prodigal son got sum cloze an' sum vittles,
But long he'd been starbin' wid nuthin' to wahr,
While de boy dat staid hom' got de bes' ub de pickins,
Wid lots er fin' raimen', an' plenty to sphar.
Yo' wimmen who stray from de pafway ub virtue,
May be 'sto'ed to de chuch an' yer sins plastered o'er;
But like bells widout clappers mus' always remain, sah,
An' dey nebber kin ring like dey did befo'.”

OLD NORMAL:

Read before the Alumni Association of the Richmond High Normal School.

Old Time with his sickle, in swift onward play,
For once has turned backward; we're children today,
And the world with its conflicts, its battles and strife,
Is forgotten in pleasures and mem'ries of life.

These girls with their puffs, bangs and frizzes galore,
Are again in short dresses, with white pinafore;
While the men, with stiff collars and high beaver hat,
Are boys in short breeches, and patched ones at that.

As I'm standing here reading, I'm quaking with fear,
For I think 'tis Miss Stratton whose footsteps I hear;

Or dear Mr. Manly, or sainted Miss Knowles,
Comes tripping behind me, just ready to scold.

“Please, Webster, sit down there!” I fancy she calls,
While Miss Manly, Miss Hadley, Miss Patterson—all
Come trooping before me. But one thing I know:
I can step by Miss Bass, she's so awfully slow.

My name is still cut on the seat by the door—
I'm trying to cut higher than in days of yore;
Yet I wonder if fame can give me the joy
I found at old Normal when I was a boy.

On the green field of life we're playing some game;
Our base-ball and foot-ball we're playing the same.
If we fail in our kicking, let us strive all the more,
The world kicks much harder than Normal of yore.

Some now make a home-run, and multitudes shout;
While some strike a grounder, and others strike out.
Tho' fallen and beaten, we still must be men,
And try it to-morrow to win if we can.

Our girls of old Normal are still jumping rope—
But don't let it trip you and get your neck broke,
For few, like old Normal, will help us, alas!
When once we have fallen from virtue's straight path.

But well we remember no boyhood could last;
The world called for men, and we went to our task;
Some won and some failed, but in heart we are one,
I trust just as true as the day we begun.

Some fellows are lawyers, and sending to jail
Their poor fellow-creatures, nor getting them bail;
While others are doctors, and curing life's ills—
At least, if not curing, are sending in bills.

Some now are professors and teachers in schools,
And thrashing young urchins for breaking the rules;
Some maidens, some matrons, and some fond mammas,
With children to try them and break all their laws.

What though they are climbing the ladder of fame;
They are Ben, Dan or Bowler—Hayes, Johnston or James;
Though clouded with care, and in dignified dress,
They are Sallie and Julia, Rose, Anna and Bess.

Some fellows are down now who then strove for fame—
Maybe gone to the bad;—they are ours the same;
Let's throw them a life-line who're sinking in crime,
And allure them to virtue for dear “Auld Lang Syne.”

But some fail to answer at call of the roll;
Our eyes fill with tears—they are missed from the fold;
In glory we'll greet them when battle is done;
Pat, Walter and others will meet us,—at home.

Let's recount our battles, take courage and aim
To help on each other to honor and fame;
Nor suffer our banner to trail in the dust,
Or the bright sword of honor in scabbard to rust.

We think of our sorrows, we think of our joys,
And in this reunion are again girls and boys;
Old Time can not dampen our spirits so gay,
We'll laugh at his efforts,—we're children to-day.

By this hallowed Elysium our tent is now spread,
But soon to new duties—new paths we must tread;
The world calls for heroes; our race calls for men,
Unselfish and true to our duty as then.

GINGER SNAPS AND CIDER.

Again the Christmas time is here,
With joy in fullest measure,
And every fellow, great and small,
Is looking out for pleasure.
To me the days no brighter seem,
Although my vision's wider,
Than when I was a country lad,
With ginger snaps and cider.

And when 'twas near “hog-killin' time,”
The world seemed to me bigger,
For Christmas then was on the way,
When I could cut a “figger;”
Most homely were the joys we had—
“Molasses stews” and “parties”—
But innocent the joy they gave,
With fun both pure and hearty.

Long past is now this simple joy,
But, with the Christmas season,
Do I feel just as happy now,
And with as good a reason?
I wonder if my heart's as free
Now since my vision's wider,
As in those bygone Christmas days
Of ginger snaps and cider?

Am I now deaf to sorrow's cry,
Do I pass the poor unheeding?
Do I truly wish for them the joy
For which their hearts are pleading?
Do I delight to bring a smile,
And hearts cast down to brighten,
And sympathize with others' woes,
And help their lots to brighten?

As came the “God-Man” from above
To Bethl'hem's lowly manger,
To seek and save the wand'ring sheep,
The homeless and the stranger;

So be it ours some heart to cheer,
As comes this time of pleasure,
And fill the cup of lonely ones
With joy in fullest measure.

Some sit to-day in gilded halls,
Secure from seeming troubles,
While others, with a single crust,
Are shiv'ring in their hovels.
We wonder oft why this is true—
But life, at best, is fleeting,
And oh, what recompense will come,
With heaven's eternal meeting.

I sometimes think we're growing up
To be a wondrous people,
But yet, I fear, in building we're
Commencing with the steeple.
Without a basis broad and deep,
With virtue its foundation,
And truth and right as corner-stones,
We can not build a nation.

100

On social hops and fancy balls
Society now fattens,
But yet I find oft little souls
May dwell 'neath silks and satins;
Hypocrisy, deceit and lies
May mean our scope is wider,
But give me honest truth and love,
With ginger snaps and cider.

101

I WONDER HOW THIS IS.

I'm not a bad fellow, but just “kinder midlin,”
Not a devil incarnate, nor saint dressed in white;
But “'bout half-and-half,” with a sprinklin' of devil,
And enough of the angel to keep me near right.

Yet often I wander; my feet get entangled,
'Mid briers and quicksands too often I stray,
And anxious I ask can I reach the pathway,
As sinful and crooked I oft lose my way.

Once I went to a funeral; the chap was a “tough one,”
A gambler, a drunkard, he cheated and lied,
A deeply-dyed rascal, but gave big donations;
So the preacher just fixed him all right when he died.

102

I went to the graveyard and looked on the tombstones—
What lovely inscriptions! all praising the dead;
Every one there was good, every one had reached heaven—
I wondered where all the bad fellows were laid.

And thus says the world; if you've friends or have money
You are certain of heaven, your sins plastered o'er;
But the poor, seedy devils who have empty pockets,
Nobody knows if they're in heaven or no.

Perhaps this is right, and maybe up yonder
The wonder will be, not that we were bad,
But as good as we have been, 'mid all of the weakness,
And all the temptations that each must have had.

But we'll find lots of folks we thought were in heaven
Have missed it; while others, assigned down below,
Are exalted, for there full justice is given;
By the heart God judges the rich and the poor.

103

MISS LIZA'S BANJER.

Hi! Miss Liza's got er banjer;
Lemme see it, ef yo' please!
Now don' dat thing look pooty,
A-layin' 'cross yer kneeze,
Wid all dem lubly ribbins,
An' silber trimmin's roun'.
Now, mistis, please jes' tetch it,
To lemme hear de soun'.

'Scuze me, mistis, but dar's sumfin'
De matter wid dem strings;
I notis it don' zackly
Gib de proper kinder ring;
An' den de way yo' hol' it
Ain't lik' yo' orter do.
Now, mistis, won't yo' lemme
Jes' try a chune fur yo'?

104

Now lis'n to de diffunce;
I'se got the thing in chune,
An' de music's lik' de breezes
Dat fills de air in June.
Fur a banjer's lik' a 'ooman—
Ef she's chuned de proper pitch,
She'll gib yo' out de music
Dat's sof', melojus, rich.

But when yo' fail to chune her,
Or to strike de proper string,
Yo' kin no more git de music,
Den mek' a kat-bird sing.
An' 'taint always de fixin's
Dat makes a 'ooman bes',
But de kind ub wood she's made un
Is de thing to stan' de tes'.

I s'pose yer plays yer music
Jes' lik' yo' hab it wrote,
Or—what is dat yo' call it—
A-playin' by de note?

105

Yo' kin fill yer head wid music
Ez full ez it kin hol',
But yo' nebber gwine ter play it
'Tell yo' gits it in yer soul.

T'ain't de proper notes dat makes yo'
Feel lik' yo' wants to cry,
But de soul dat's in de music
Dat lif's yo' up on high;
An' 'taint always de larnin',
'Do' a splendid thing, I kno',
Dat lif's de low an' 'umble
To higher things belo'.

Keep larnin', den, Miss Liza,
An' when yo' wants ter know
Ef yo' kin play de banjer,
Jes' kum to Uncle Joe;
Jes' fill yer head wid music,
Ez full ez it kin hol'
But de music from de banjer
Must fust be in de soul.

107

DE BAPTIS' CHUCH.

I b'leves in 'lijun;
An' I 'joys it, too,
'Cause I bin born, hunny,
Right thu an' thu;
An' I bin dug up
By de gospel plow,
An' I'm jes' sho' fur glory
Ez I wuz dar now.

But, somehow or ruther,
'Do' I kan't tell why,
Ef I wants to feel happy,
Like I gwine fur to fly;
An' feel ef I died,
I wouldn't kheer much—
I mus' 'ten' dem meetin's
At de Baptis' chuch.

108

De Mefdis' good,
An' de Cammelites, too,
But it takes an' ol' Baptis'
To sing 'um right thu;
An' I don' b'leve de sinner
Ebber bin born,
Dat kin stan' out 'gainst
A Baptis' mourn.

'Cause when ol' Lige
Git his han' to his jaw,
An' 'gins fur to whoop 'um,
An' snort an' rar,
De stoutest ol' sinner
Is boun' fur to fall,
'Cause he can't stan' 'ginst
Dat Baptis' call.

Maybe sprinklin's good,
An' porin's right,
But berry me deep
Down out er sight;

109

“I'm Baptis' bred,
An' Baptis' born,
An' when I'm ded
Dar's a Baptis' gone.”

I'm jes' a-libbin'
De bes' I know,
An' tryin' to be hones',
Whil' I'se here below;
'Cause dis I knows,
Dat I done bin “born,”
An' I keeps on tootin'
De Baptis' horn.

I don' know much
'Bout doctrin's here,
An' de diffunt 'lijuns,
An' I don' kheer;
Ef Gawd Ermighty ax me,
I won't say much,
But tell Him I 'longed
To de Baptis' chuch.

110

PAYIN' FUR DE HYDIN.

“Kum up here an' git salvashun,
'Tis fur eb'ry trib' an' nashun;
Kum all yo' pizin sinnuz,
Salvashun now is free;
Jes' step up to de fountin,
While de water is a-runnin';
Ef yo' wanter go to glory,
Jes' foller arter me.”

“Now it ain't no use er talkin',
Fur de sperit is er walkin';
'Do' your sins is lik er mountin,
Jes' ez big ez big kin be,
Jes' a drop er dis huh water,
Ef you tak' it ez yo' orter,
Will make y'all brazin' sinnuz
Almos' jes' ez good ez me.”

111

The sermon soon was ended,
And the brethren said 'twas splendid,
And the sisters felt so happy,
That they scarcely touched the ground.
Then the deacon, old but sprightly,
Began to step up lightly,
To gather in the pennies,
As he passed the basket 'round.

“I dejecks,” said Brother Peter,
A new converted “creeter,”
“Fur de pastor said salvashun,
Like de water huh wuz free.”
“By dem words I is abidin',
But yo' mus' pay fur de hydin,”
Said the pastor, “an' yo' understan's,
De hydin huh is me.”

112

OL' MISTIS.

Oh, de times is fas' a-changin',
Ez de years ar' rollin' on,
An' de days seem mighty lonesum',
Sense de good ol' times is gon'.
While I'm 'joycin' in my freedum,
Nor wish fur slab'ry days,
Yit it warms my heart to 'member
Sum good ol'-fashun ways.

De pledjur ub de harves'
De huntin' ub de coon,
'Weh down in de low groun',
By de shinin' ub de moon;
De dancin' in de cabin—
An' didn't we hab de fun,
While de banjer wuz a-twangin',
When de daily wuck wuz don'.

113

Ub all de plezzun mem'riz,
Dar's one dat fills my heart,
'Tiz de thought ub dear ol' Mistis,
An' 'twill nebber frum me part.
No matter what de trubble
De Lord wuz pleased to sen',
We had jes' to tell ol' Mistis,
She would alwa's be a fren'.

Ef de oberseer 'buze us,
An' frum de lash we'd run,
An' weery, col', an' starvin',
Afeard to kum back hom',
Jes' git word to ol' Mistis,
She'd smoov de trubble o'er,
An' back we'd kum a sneakin',
An' hear ub it no mo'.

When sickness, kheer an' sorrow
Gib nights ub akin' pain,
An' tears frum werry eyelids
Kum pou'in' down like rain;

114

Racked wid pains an' scotched wid febers,
Wid lim's a-growin' col',
She had lin'ments fur de body,
An' de Bible fur de soul.

An' when de 'partin' speerit
Would fly to yuther lan's,
She'd gently clos' de eyelids
Wid tender, reb'rent han's,
An' wid words ub consolation
Would pint de heart abov',
To whar dar is no shadders—
De heb'ny lan' ub lov'.

When de ebenin' sun wuz settin',
On a Sunday arternoon,
We'd gether in de great house,
An' jine her in a chune;
Den' she'd read de fam'ly Bible,
An' lif' her soul in prayhr,
Tell I eenmos' see de angels,
An' 'majin I wuz dar.

115

All I knows erbout de 'lijun,
I wuz teeched besize her knee,
All erbout de blessid Sabyur,
Who died fur eben me;
An' when I gits to glory—
It kan't be long, I kno'—
I specks to meet ol' Mistis
On de bright an' happy sho'.

116

IS DAR WADERMILLUNS ON HIGH?

Dey tells erbout heben, an' de streets ub gol',
An' de harp dat I'll play bime-by;
But de thing dat puzzles me mo' an' mo',
Shell I eat wadermilluns on high?

Dey tells ub de robe, an' de starry crown,
An' de ribber dat glides 'long by;
Ub de tree ub life, an' twelve kinder frut,
But nuthin' 'bout milluns on high.

Dey sez dat de puh an' de good is blest
Wid manshunz in de bright sky;
But nobody tells dis chile ub grace
Dat he'll eat wadermilluns on high.

Dey sez dat my tears will be wiped away,
No sorrer nor sighin' kum nigh;
But I think I'd cry tell my eyes bus' out,
Could I git no milluns on high.

117

Dey tells ub hunny an' milk an' things
Dat de saints gwy git bime-by;
Den huccum dey kan't hab a wadermillun patch
In de lubly green fiel's on high?

But in dat book what tells erbout heb'n
Dey couldn't put all ef dey try,
An' de parts dats nebber bin writ, I think,
Tells ub big wadermilluns on high.

118

COOKIN' BY DE OL'-TIME FIRE-PLACE.

I'be heard ub lots ub cookin' by de cooks dey say is fin',
Dat fixes up dar eatin's by de books;
But wid all dar fancy dishes, dat may suit de highest min',
Dey kan't kum up to dese ol-fashun cooks.

An' 'dough dey hab dar ranges, an' eb'ry thing in style,
An' sumtimes, maybe, dey kin hit de tas'e;
But when it kums to cookin' dat kin beat dem all de whil',
Git A'n' Dinah, an' de ol'-time fire-place.

She nebber had no larnin', but it kum jes' nat'yul so,
She seemed to be cut out to suit de place;
An' Marster he wuz happy, howebber things would go,
Wid A'n' Dinah at the ol'-time fire-place.

119

She could bake de bes' ol' flab-jacks dat ebber yo' behol',
Dat would mak' yer mouf jes' water all de while;
An' de way she'd roas' a possum, an' tak' him up right whole,
Would mak' de baby in de cradle smile.

She could cook a sweet pertater 'tell 'twuz mealy to de mouf,
An' bake a corn-cake to de proper brown;
Stew a ol' hare in de fashun yo' kin only fin' down Souf,
An' tell when de pot don' bilin' by de soun'.

An' how she'd bake de ash-cake between de collud leaves!
I couldn't begin to tell yo' ef I'd try;
But she wuz fines' in de county, I really do believe,
When she'd tackle ol' Virginny pun'kin pie.

An' I kno' I could die happy, do' my pledjurs here am few,
Ef befo' I finished up dis urfly race,
I could git a meal ub vittles, jes' like I used to do,
When A'n' Dinah used de ol'-time fire-place.

120

UNCLE 'RASTUS AND THE WHISKEY QUESTION.

I don' hear dem rebolushuns 'bout whiskey en all dat,
But yo' ain't gwy nebber pas' 'um, I tells yo' dat right flat;
Don't let y'alls smartnis fool yo', en try to do too much,
'Cause yo' jes' gwy bring 'bout 'sturbance, en yo' tryin' to bus' dis chuch.

Y'all know dat whiskey bin here long 'fore we wuz born,
En t'ain't nebber trubbled nothin'—better let wel 'nuf 'lone;
'Size, Paul don' tole you take it, jes' fur de stomach's sake,
We cert'ny gwy bay de scripshur, den what y'all speck to make?

121

I hear y'all kote dat scripshur, “Ef eatin' meat 'fen, don't eat.”
But Paul won't talkin' 'bout whiskey, 'cause he pint'ly menshuns meat;
Dat drunkards khant reach Heben, de guard won't let 'um in,
But dat don't mean wid whiskey, but folks dat's drunk in sin.

“Look not on de wine cup,” is what de Word tells me,
Well, don't dat mean to drink it? 'Tis plain ez plain ken be.
But we 'cided 'fore we kum here to vote dat moshun down,
'Cause we argued it at meetin's we had all ober town.

In kos we'z pozed to dancin' en all dem no-harm sins,
An' will turn 'um out like lightnin' ef tiz dem upper tens;
But all sich things ez drinkin', playin' policy en such,
Am far too triflin' matters to fotch befo' dis chuch.

122

NIGHT ON DE OL' PLANTASHUN.

Upon de ol' plantashun, jes' erbout de crack ub day,
You could lis'en fur de oberseer's horn;
An' by sunrise we wuz movin', fur we had to git away,
An' do an hones' day's wuck shorze yo' bo'n.
But when de shadders gethered, an' we had done our turn,
We'd put away de shuvel an' de hoe,
Fur ol' marster never bothered, ef he knowed our wuck wuz done,
Ef we den injoyed de fiddle an' de bow.

Sumtimes our wives an' chillun wuz on de 'jinin' farm,
Maybe ten or 'leben miles or mo' away;
We'd walk it 'dout no trouble, nor did it don' us harm,
An' be fresh an' ready fur de wuck nex' day.

123

We could dodge de patterrollers ef we didn't hab a pass—
Dat kind ub thing wuz only fun fur us—
An' 'stid ub us kumplainin', we 'joyed it to de las',
An' wuz thankful to de Lord it won't no wuss.

Some would gether in de cabin, or in de cornhouse, whar,
Wid tubs an' pots an' kittles settin' roun',
Dey would rassle wid de Father in strong an' earnes' prayhr,
Whil' de water in de vessels ketched de soun'.
'Cause 'do' we mout be sinnuz, an' wander frum de fol',
Our 'zires wuz always right ez dey could be,
An' our 'pendunce in de Bible, whar ub de lan' we'z tol',
Whar servunts frum de marster is set free.

Maybe ignunce made us happy when de marster treat us fair,
An' unkumplainin' when we found him mean;
An' days ub toil an' trouble cheered by nights so free from care,
On de ol' plantashun, now jes' like a dream.

124

An' when ol' Death shall take us, whar night kin kum no mo',
An' we meet in Heben above, to nebber roam,
We'll talk up dar togedder, wid loved ones gon' befo',
Ub de nights in de ol' plantashun hom'.

125

AUNT CHLOE'S LULLABY.

Hesh! my baby; stop yer fuss,
I's 'fraid yuz gittin wuss an' wuss;
Doncher cry, an' I gwy mek'
Mammy's baby 'lasses cake.
Hesh! my lubly baby chil',
I gwy rock yo' all de whil';
Nuffin gwyne to ketch yo' now,
'Cause yer mammy's watchin' yo'.
Sleep! my little baby, sleep!
Mammy's baby, Lou!

How dem dogs do bark to-night!
Better shet yer eyes up tight;
Dey kan't hab dis baby dear;
Mammy's watchin', doncher fear.
Hear dem owls a-hootin' so?
Dey shan't ketch dis baby, do'.
Jes' like mistis lub her chil',
Mammy lubs dis baby too.

126

Sleep! my little baby, sleep!
Mammy's baby, Lou!

Mammy's baby, black an' sweet,
Jes' like candy dat you eat,
Mammy lay yo' in dis bed,
While she mek de whi' folk's bread.
Angels dey gwy look below,
Watch dis baby sleepin' so.
Go to sleep, my hunny, now,
Ain't yer mammy watchin' yo'?
Sleep! my little baby, sleep!
Mammy's baby, Lou.

127

GOOD NIGHT!

Good-night! The day is done,
And evening shadows softly fall—
Good-night!
The night bird's gently cooing to its mate,
And slowly now the silv'ry moonbeams
Deck the evening sky with their pale rays,—
Good-night! good-night!

Good-night! The day was long,
And weary feet now gladly say,
Good-night!
Forgot is toil as gentle sleep,
The “sweet restorer,” softly steals
And fills our eyes. To all we say,
“Good-night! good-night!”

Good-night! Earth's day must close,
And Death's cold summons make us say,
“Good-night!”

128

The pain be past of life's rude days,
Our feet press hard on Jordan's brink,
And then to realms of blissful dreams—
Good-night! good-night!

Good-night! We fondly hope
For us that brighter day will dawn.
Good-night!
Oh! may we live in loving trust
That heaven's gate may open wide,
When earth's last scenes fade from our view.
Good-night! good-night!

University of Virginia Library