Avenging the Maine :: :: University of Virginia Library

I do not deem it necessary to write a preface to these few poems but, somehow, I have a tender feeling for this little book that is about to be sent out into the world, to bear such an humble burden as my feeble thought. I do not know, but I believe that if this book could speak it would sternly refuse to go on such an humble mission; but, since I have imposed upon it this duty, knowing the many censuring critics it may have to encounter, I believe it my duty to say a word, for the very book's sake, that may cause the censuring tongue of man to wag less swiftly.

First, I must say that these poems were written under very unfavorable circumstances. Dignity may not allow me to explain, but I will say that they were composed during my leisure time, which has been limited. I say leisure time—no, I have none; I should have said sacrificed time, time when the body was almost exhausted from manual labor, when recreation was greatly needed; and you who know what a struggle the mind has battling with an exhausted body in trying to perform such a task as this can easily allow for this feeble result. The mind can not work when the body is exhausted, and I assure you that I would not have written one line had Nature not forced me to do so. Often at my work-bench, when I thought

greater speed was needed to finish my daily task, these poems—or whatever you may call them—would flash into my mind and I would be restless to sketch them upon paper that I might retain them until my day's work was done. Sometimes I could find it convenient to do so, sometimes I could not, and when I would fail to sketch them, at night the muse would not return. Thus you can understand why I have not written more.

I must also state that I am conscious of the fact that this work does not come up to the sandard work of the mighty masters of poetry, but you need not censure me—it is not my fault. The muse has not yet taught me to sing as they. Had she given me the same power, do you not think I would have written?

Moreover, I am just beginning, and perhaps she does not care to intrust me with the whole art at once; she may have thought it best to give me one talent first that she might see how I would use it, and I assure you that I think I should have done better. Often I have thought of laying these few poems aside and not giving any to the public until I became able to write as good poems as other poets. I publish them because I do not wish the muse to find me with my one talent buried when she comes to make up her jewels and reward her servants. She might serve me as his lord did the other one-talented servant we read of in the Bible.

JAMES EPHRAIM McGIRT. Greensboro, N. C., August 17, 1899.

EXPLAINING DIALECT POEMS.

You may wonder why the dialect words in my humorous poems are so few compared with those in other dialect poems, but if you will notice such characters as I have portrayed you will find, as I have, that the most illiterate persons, living now among so many who are cultured, do not speak the whole dialect, but speak correctly one-half of their words. So I have written just as the masses impressed me.

AVENGING THE MAINE.

Sing, O Muse! the avenging of the Maine,
The direful woes, the fate of Spain.
A heinous deed t' our ship they wrought,
Untimely death t' our crew they brought.
Our soldiers valor ever tell,
Who for free Cuba fought and fell;
Volcanic boats o'er water went,
The glowing shells on them were sent.
Of Shafter's army, tell me all
Who rallied bravely to the call?
What of the negroes in the band,
And did they go or did they stand?

To this question I'll answer brief,
So well they fought without a chief.
I'll sing of this, the glorious time
When negro valor shone sublime;
In the hottest battle their captain died,
They did not flee, but “Onward,” cried.
Their eyes on vict'ry firmly fixed,
That day both races' blood was mixed.
These are the first to reach the land,
There were no cowards in the band;
When all the story you shall hear,
They unto you'll seem most dear.

Hold of her harp the Muse then takes,
A minor cord on it she makes;
And all are curious to hear,
But from her eye there falls a tear;
Her voice is hushed by some strange spell,
As from the strings her fingers fell.

And on her face there came a frown,
She took a seat upon the ground,
Then to her side they quickly went,
As from her breast a groan she sent.
Within our arms we held her head,
And to the Muse we softly said:
“Tell us, O Muse! what giv'st grief,
And if we can we'll give relief?”

Then from her breast again she sighed,
With throbbing voice to us replied:
“The story which you urge to hear
No one can tell without a tear.
Ah! grief to you this tale will bring,
If I in po'try play and sing.
I can not sing the grievous woes,
I'll tell the story all in prose.
Pray listen now with greatest care,
If the sad story you would hear;

The origin now I will relate,
That coming sons may know the fate.

“In Cuba's land a nation brave,
Whom the cruel Spaniards held as slave.
One night their braves in conf'rence met
To plot their freedom best to get,
For they the yoke of slavery bore
Until their shoulders galded sore.
'Twas Maceo first took the stand,
For he was leader of the band;
Unto them all he did declare
He could no longer slavery bear.
A bill to Spain he sent to see
If they would set the Cubans free;
And when the bill to Spain was sent,
To full enraged the bill they rent;
And to the soldiers she did tell,
Go! Murder Cubans! They rebel!’
No Cuban leaders could they get,
There was a skirmish when they met;
And when they drove the brave away,
The helpless women they would slay;
They murdered babes that knew no harm—
They snatched them from the mothers' arm.

While killing all by sword they could,
From others they withheld their food,
While thus to starve a Cuban race;
To us it seemed a sad disgrace.
Freedom of Cuba was our plea;
We called upon our General Lee.
Our beloved Lee to Cuba sent
To see what the cruel Spaniards meant.
With him we sent our ship the Maine,
As Spain to us had done the same;
And both was in a truce's name.
Our ship in Cuba's harbor stood;
But Spain was eager for our blood.
And in the secret of the night
On us exploded a dynamite;
And while her crew were fast asleep,
Some hurled into the mighty deep.
The ship went down beneath the wave
Before we could our sailors save.
I can not picture this sad sight,
Nor bear to think of that dread night,
When they performed the cruel deed,
Unless my heart is made to bleed.
And thus this story you abhor;
I've told the causes of the war.

“The news was sent by swiftest speed,
Announcing Spain's most cruel deed.
So great the grief and wrath it brought,
To hear the deed the Spaniards wrought,
O'er all the world a clamor rose,
And all the world the clamor knows;
While some were counting up the cost,
Still others wailing o'er the lost.
To war! To war! our voices rang;
To war! To war! the song we sang.
To the White House we quickly went,
Demanding war of President.
In Senate, war was the loud cry;
Our President did not comply;
To all the people he would say:
To go to war is more than play.

“The bill for war he would declare,
He could not sign till he prepare.
But soon his plans had been well made—
The cry for war he then obeyed.
For volunteers at first he asked,
To get them did not seem a task,
And every time a call was made,
Our loyal sons at once obeyed.

Of heroes brave I now will tell,
Who fought for freedom long and well;
Of Dewey and Sampson first I'll sing,
And on my harp their names shall ring.
They first for freedom made their way;
The woe of Spain began that day;
It seemed as He, the God Supreme,
Down from His throne viewed all the scene;
The deed of Spain He did abhor,
Lent us His aid throughout the war.
With every fleet a guard was sent
To keep us safe where'er we went;
Around the mines show'd us a path,
He held the guns that hurled our wrath.
The aid to us was beyond cost;
And not a boat of ours was lost.
Now Hobson's valor must be told;
'Twas brave as any of the fold,
The deed that made for him a name,
And I, a Muse, must sing his fame;
He sank, to block the Spaniard's way,
The Merrimac into the bay.
He reached the shore, and woe'd begun
That would not cease till vict'ry come.”

THE MEMORY OF MACEO.

Ye men of Cuba, patriots all,
Pray! mourn for your leader! place crape on the wall;
Go tell the young children that play at your feet
Of the wonderful general who's fallen to sleep.

To sleep! yes calm in the earth he lies;
But his spirit rests sweetly beyond the blue skies.

We think of his work, and say he was grand;
Why not let for him a monument stand;
One that will reach to the ethereal blue,
Bearing the name Maceo, will do.

Dear Maceo, our hearts pine for thee!
For whom thou died, can say we are free.

THE SIEGE OF MANILA.

A few miles from Manila Bay
Just at the close of a summer day,
The sun had stained as gold the west,
Our fleet was ordered to stop and rest;
After the regular meals were served,
And each returned to the usual place,
Stood gazing all with mute and awe
Into the fiery dome of space;
Stood watching we their steady blaze
As down on us they seemed to gaze.

I never shall forget the night,
The silvery stars were shining bright;
A full-orbed moon hung in the west,
As if to see the great contest;
The wind was of a steady gale,
It was a pleasant night to sail;
The ocean waves were rolling long,
And pealing forth their mournful sound.
Soon from the sea a mist arose,
Then nature's starry book was closed;

And when the night had well nigh passed—
The rosy morn was coming fast;
Before the dawn proclaimed the day,
We sailed to take Manila Bay.
So soon Manila 'vealed in sight,
From out the windows gleamed a light;
And when we saw the deadly guns—
O'er all our fleet a stillness come—
Each man stood waiting by his gun
In perfect stillness, not a breath—
An instant may bring sudden death.
Yet like heroes firm they stand;
They yearned to hear the “fire” command.
The mist that from the ocean rose
Obscured us from our Spanish foes,
And when the Spaniards did not blast
Among our fleet a whisper passed.

Fortune, it seems, is on our side,
We have entered and are not spied;
Began we by the fort to start,
A distance though we sailed apart,
Then quietly by the guns we stole
As wolves into a shepherd's fold;

Soon all our fleet had safely passed,
Except McCulloch, which was last.
Ah! fortune would not let it pass;
In its furnace occurred a wreck,
And sparks went flying from its stack.
The sparks that from the stack did fly
Met all at once the fortman's eye.
Through glasses they began to peep,
To their surprise they spied our fleet.
A cry of terror! Signals rung,
The shells came blazing from each gun.
Before an instant could have passed,
Around us shells were falling fast;
Their mines in vain they did explode,
But we all safe the harbor rode.
Our captain gave command to fire,
Which seemed to be our soul's desire;
Before the word he could repeat,
The shells went blazing from our fleet;
As we were burn'd with hatred dire,
We filled the air with shells and fire.
And while the battle's raging high
The glowing shells were falling nigh;
Then Dewey back through memory gazed—
And saw the Maine, became enraged;

Then with his dazzling sword in hand
He whirled it high and gave command.
With blazing fury in his eye,
With thundering voice was heard to cry,
“Remember the Maine! Speed! Haste!
Be careful, boys, no shells to waste.”
Remembered they their blood did run;
They hurled revenge through every gun.
Each boat like Vesuvius seems,
From out our guns shells poured in streams.
Directed by the Immortal Eye
No strayward shells were seen to fly;
The shells from out the guns that went,
Performed the deed for which 'twere sent.
Our captain takes his glass in hand,
And o'er the battle 'gins to scan:
“Oh stop the guns,” he quickly cried,
“As fortune now is on our side;
The Spanish fleet is in a blaze,
And sinking fast beneath the wave.”
When this command to us was given,
Three haughty cheers went up to heaven;
And when the sun sent up her beam,
No Spanish boat was to be seen;
The whole of Spain's Manila fleet
Was buried in the mighty deep.

SIEGE OF SANTIAGO.

'Twas here the fort of Spain did stand,
The strongest post of all the land;
And when we entered in the bay,
The eyes of all were turned that way,
So restless, they eager to see
The one to conquer, who 'twould be.
There Morro Castle standing bold,
So strong it was in days of old;
Its deadly guns all seemed to say:
“I'll hold the entrance of the bay.”
A pleasant morn, a Sabbath day,
We all were resting in the bay;
So soon our day of peace did change,
It proved a day for our revenge.
As Sampson's heart did eager yearn
The plans of Cevera to learn;
Commanded Schley to ascend the shore,
Perchance the plans he might explore.
Somehow these orders seemed divine,
His sailing was the proper time;
While on their way, to their surprise,
A coming vessel met their eyes.

The flag they raised that they might greet,
Behold! It was Cevera's fleet,
Came rushing out in swiftest speed;
Destructive boats were in the lead.
“The boats are fleeing!” Schley then cried;
He sounded the signal far and wide.
Before the story he could tell
The air was filled with fire and shell;
The shells they sent went not in vain;
They proved a direful fate to Spain.
Their ships in flames of fire were blazed—
'Till we on them in pity gazed,
And sent a boat in chivalry's name,
To save them from the burning flame.
Their direful fate's too great to tell,
To them it proved a fiery hell.
As Schley stood gazing left and right,
To him it seemed a dreadful sight;
The ships in flames on every side:
“The battle's won,” he quickly cried.
Ah! many Spaniards on that day
Were burned and buried in the bay.

THE STARS AND STRIPES SHALL NEVER TRAIL THE DUST.

'Tis a colored captain's story
'Twas told to Uncle Sam,
He was mustered out because the war was o'er;
He'd borne his honor bravely,
The victory he had won,
He came to render up the flag he bore.

He was standing at the White House
With th' Stars and Stripes in hand,
His sword and uniform with gore were red;
A shell had pierced his body,
Yet had not caused his death;
He gave to him the flag and slowly said:

“Uncle Sam, here is Old Glory,
That you trusted to my care,
Through th' hottest I have ever held my trust;
Though shells have rent my body,
Yet I can truly say,
The Stars and Stripes have never trailed the dust.

“No, the Stars and Stripes shall never trail the dust while I live,
But shall ever wave untarnished ov'r the free;
Yes, the shells may rend my body,
And may death come if it must,
But the Stars and Stripes shall never trail the dust.”

Uncle Sam then took the flag,
And gazed into his face;
He said: “My son, you're black, but still you're a man;”
On his breast he placed a medal,
And said, remember me;
Forget you; no, my boy, I never can!

Your Uncle knows no color,
And neither party line;
The call I made was simply for the brave.
You loving soldiers heard me,
And rallied to the call;
My country from destruction you have saved.

I saw you negroes bear the flag
Through shells up San Juan Hill,
I saw the Spaniards from your valor flee;
The Stars and Stripes are waving
O'er Morro Castle bold,
And waving now in Cuba o'er the free.

Now the Stars and Stripes shall never trail the dust while I live;
But shall ever wave untarnished o'er the free;
Yes, the shells may rend my body,
And may death come if it must,
But the Stars and Stripes shall never trail the dust.

SLAVERY.

Oh, slavery! why was thou so cruel,
So cursed and so black;
To leave your cruel footprints
Upon our father's back.

Oh, say, why did you beat him,
Thou should'st have said depart?
Oh, why was thou so cruel
As to crush his manly heart?

And even now his hair is gray
In blossoms for the grave,
And yet I see within him
Traits learned while he's a slave.

Why'd you not enslave the women,
And let their virtue live?
Oh, slavery wast so cruel,
How can women forgive.

The women pure as dewdrops,
As infants at their birth;
But slavery's ravishing passion
Crushed virtue to the earth.

The mother told the story;
Her sons began to pine.
She pressed them to her bosom;
God said, “Vengence is mine.”

I did not tell the story
To 'rage your little hearts;
I thought its cruelties
To you I would impart.

And if you would seek vengence,
The debt, life could not pay;
Our God will judge them rightly
On resurrection day.

WAVE ON, THOU FLAG.

Wave on, wave on the air,
Oh flag that we have bought!
The Stars and Stripes for unity,
They tell for what we fought.

Oh fade thou not by rain;
May whirlwinds passing by,
Not dash to threads thy noble form,
But leave thee in the sky.

Stand firmly, thou mast pole,
On which the flag doth wave;
So many who thy color bore
Are lying in the grave.

Oh fare the well, wave on,
Perform thy duty well;
Wave gently o'er the burial place
Of those who fought and fell.

SEEKING HER BOY.

Upon a battlefield, when the smoke had cleared away,
I saw a woman strolling 'mong the dead;
It was a mother, feeble, old and gray;
Often she'd stoop and raise a soldier's head.

She seeking for her boy, her only pride,
A soldier, had been taken from his home;
She'd heard that he had fallen in the fray:
She came to bear his body to the tomb.

She reached the place where raged the thickest fray;
The dead were lying thickly on the ground;
'Twas there I saw the mother kneel and pray;
The loving boy the mother had not found.

Up from the ground with trembling form she rose,
The tears were falling freely from her eyes;
With folded arms toward heaven she gazed:
“Oh, where's my boy!” with throbbing voice she cries.

She turned and saw a form amid the gore;
She knew it was the body of her own;
As swift as lightning to the form she tore,
Around his neck her arm was quickly thrown.

She raised his head, his blood-stained lips she kissed,
She then beheld the bullet's gaping wound;
She was too weak, and could not gaze on this;
She gave a cry, sank helpless to the ground.

I watched at length to see the mother rise,
She did not seem to raise her hoary head;
I neared and paused, the mother by his side,
Still clinging to his neck, though she was dead.

MEMORY OF LINCOLN AND THE YANKEES.

Among the dear old friends we people cherish
Within the highest portals of our hearts,
The name that sounds as dear as dear old mother's
Is Lincoln's name, from us 'twill ne'er depart.

When first I heard of Lincoln and the Yankee
My heart then reached the zenith of its joy,
And in this heart of mine it quickly nestled,
My love for them no force can quite destroy.

Lord, if these rolling waves of time and pleasure
Should dash against their sacred nestling place,
Pray with Thy powerful hand stay it and guide us;
May nothing from my heart their love erase.

Ye men that fought and still are living,
And in whose veins the Yankee blood holds sway;
Within our hearts for thee there lives a kindness
That will not be erased till judgment day.

Ye mortals now who lie in grave and trenches,
Who fell to free this helpless negro race;
No mortal name like thine we hold in reverence,
Within our hearts thou hast a sacred place.

It's not my wish to call your soul from heaven,
But could I call your body from the ground;
On earth thou might'st live on in peace for ages,
With sweetest oil I'd daily balm your wounds.

Oh, mothers, now so loving and so happy,
Ye people whom the Northern race hast freed;
Pray grasp your loving infant from the cradle,
And tell them of the Yankees' blessed deed.

THE DEATH OF HECTOR.

I'll not attempt the task
Of the Iliad to relate;
But I will tell of Hector
And how he met his fate.

The Trojan war was o'er,
With glowing chariot wheels
The Greeks were driving madly
The Trojans from the field.

The Trojans fled for safety
To wall which they had planned;
They heard the voice of Priam;
High on the wall he stands.

“O, wanderer, haste!” he cried.
“Pray open wide the gate,
Unless the fleeing Trojans
This day will meet their fate.”

The watchman seized the gate,
So swift at Priam's command,
And all was in and safe,
But Hector outside stands.

He stood in mad confusion
With fury in his eye,
And there to meet Achilles,
Though he is doomed to die.

His aged father saw him;
He stood upon the wall;
With withered hand he beat his breast,
With feeble lips he called:

“O, Hector, son, pray enter;
Save us from grievous woes.”
But Hector would not harken,
And then the gate was closed.

He saw the army coming,
As whirlwinds great with speed,
And great Achilles leading
By two white foaming steeds.

The chariot glows with fire;
Ah, Hector meets his eyes,
And they go rushing swiftly
As racers for a prize.

Achilles' horse is swiftest;
The race he seems to gain;
And hand to hand in battle,
Ah, Hector, low is slain.

And after they had killed him,
The brutal scene of all—
He's fastened to the chariot
And dragged around the wall.

A DRUNKEN A. B.

One cold wet winter evening
I was hurrying to my home,
I passed a drunkard lying in the mire;
The sleet was falling fastly,
My heart for him was moved;
I thought it best to aid him to the fire.

Then from the ground I raised him,
And bore him to my home,
Which was a little distance from the place;
And when my home I entered,
The light had shone around,
There I beheld the beauty of his face.

A fair young man in prime,
Who wore a classic brow;
The rays of light were gleaming from his eyes,
And on his vest a medal
With signature to show
In college he had won it as a prize.

Soon he was sleeping soundly
In a chair before the fire,
The medal from his breast I took and read:
I saw he was an A. B.
The poet of his class—
A valedictorian the medal said.

'Twas then my soul was lighten'd,
I gazed into his face,
I knew it was a genius I had found;
I thought, who threw the arrow
That pierced his manly heart,
And brought the noble victim to the ground?

At first I deemed it rum
That brought him to this state,
And then I thought, what caused him first to drink?
Then he was sleeping soundly,
Myself I did not know,
And through the night the cause I'd only think.

Next morning soon I rose,
His breakfast was prepared;
To have him dine with me I thought a treat.
To him we all were strangers,
At first he did refuse;
At last we all prevailed with him to eat.

Around our family table,
He seated at the head,
And while he ate, our hearts did eager yearn;
We knew he was a genius,
Though fallen from the state,
And much the cause we all desired to learn.

I told him where I found him,
His face began to change;
I asked him what had brought him to this state;
The tears were falling fastly,
“'Twas Mary,” he replied.
This story then to me he did relate:

“After I finished college
I was doing fairly well,
In Chicago I was cashier of a bank;
One day there came a letter
From the girl that had my heart—
An arrow! Oh, it pierced me, and I sank.

“'Twas from my early childhood
This girl had won my heart,
Before our God she promised to be mine;
When time for invitations
To comrades should be sent,
The vow she sent this letter to decline.

“I'll ne'er forget that day;
Yea, time can ne'er erase
The hour I the letter did receive;
At first I was dumbfounded,
It seemed my heart would break—
Somehow the message I could not believe.

“I was standing at my window,
The letter come to hand;
I knew the man to whom I was dealing change.
I tried to bear it bravely,
But all could plainly see
With me that there was something going strange.

“The boy that brought the letter
Stood gazing in my face,
I bade him go—the answer not to wait;
I read the letter over,
And mused out to myself:
‘To-night I'll call and make the matter straight.’

“Each moment seemed an hour,
Thought night would never come;
My assistant I called to take my place—
Then from the bank I darted,
I hastened to her home;
I wanted just to gaze into her face.

“She was standing by the window,
And saw me as I came—
She felt her guilt, and to a closet fled;
At the door her servant met me,
Instructed what to say,
‘There's no one here but me,’ he quickly said.

“Quite well I knew t'was false;
I knew not what to do,
Had I the means, death might have been my fate.
I thought and then departed.
I knew well she was there—
I saw her when I entered through the gate.

“Back to my home I struggled,
And sat in deepest grief;
I tried in vain to pass the time away.
Of course it was then evening—
I thought I'd call at night.
A moment then to me did seem a day.

“Sometimes 'twould seem too hard;
Some way the grief I bore,
I called again before the sun went down—
To be deceived again,
She took the early train,
And with my heart departed from the town.

“At the door her mother met me,
And the story she did tell;
It was then the arrow stung me,
And you found me where I fell.

“Then I did not cease to love her,
But with her desired to go;
For the way I prayed her mother,
But she vowed she did not know.

“All that night around her mother
I wept and tried her heart to win;
On my knees I knelt and prayed her
For her daughter she might send.

“True, my mother did weep with me,
From her the way I could not plead;
I decided then to seek her
Anywhere my heart should lead.

“Soon I left her house next morning,
And to the bank I went again;
But my heart was filled with sadness,
It seemed all my hope was vain.

“Then I gave up my position
Until the next ensuing year;
For my heart was stolen from me—
I have sought it far and near.

“Then I told my friend the story,
He, too, wept when he did hear;
Then he gave to me some brandy,
Said my grief 'twould help to bear.

“Since that day I've sadly wondered
If my lover I could find,
Since that day the thirsting spirit
To the brandy seems to bind.

“Eight months to-day—I've not returned,
And neither she, this letter said;
And since that day I've been wondering
If the girl I loved is dead?”

ENVY.

In a flower garden beautiful and tall,
Stood a bloomed lily above them all;
The lily was slender made,
Yet a humming bird stooped for shade.
Evening came, it had its rest,
Saying, “In this blossom I'll build my nest;
In this blossom my love will lie,
And I will dwell here till I die.”
Another bird saw him content;
Asked to build, she gave consent.
So on one blossom build them all;
Blown by a zephyr it breaks and falls.
The mother bird returned and found
Her nest and blossom on the ground.
To the heart of a maiden tender and sweet,
The heart of a lover went forth to meet;
To another lover the maid seemed sweet,
By the maid's consent he leaps to meet;
To one sweetheart clings them all,
They were too many and had to fall.
The loving maid turned around
And found the lovers upon the ground.

A LECTURE.

Now I was gwine ter make er speech;
I see yer al begin to frown;
Dat what I say erbout yer darkies,
Yer tri ter hold each udder down.

Do I am glad you ain't de master,
De one dat sets beyaund de kies;
Or ef I wusn't your son or daughter,
I am sure I'd neber rise.

Tom's scard Dick will get er ofis;
Deck skeed Herry 'ill get er prise;
'N dat why we can't rize faster:
We've got ourselves to organize.

THE GIRL AND THE BIRDS.

A little girl, with tender hands,
Went with the birds to play;
The little birds, with golden wings,
So swiftly flew away.

“Pray leave me not, oh little birds;
Oh stay with me, I pray;
I did not mean to do you harm.
With you I came to play.”

The little birds sailed on the air,
Would not the calling heed;
But gave a flutter of their wings,
As to increase their speed.

The earth, in wheeling on her course,
Giving a mighty hum,
Said, “Do not cry, my little one;
To earth they soon will come.

“Before my sceptre all must bend—
The high, the low, the good;
I keep with me the great storehouse
From which they get their food.”

SUMMER IS GONE.

The summer's gone;
I stand in ice and sleet.
Where art thou gone?
Pray tell—I wish to seek.

I seek the woods,
Where once an arbor green;
Ah, nothing now—
The ice and woods are seen.

The place I sat,
And caught the summer glow,
I see 'tis now
A sheet of ice and snow.

THE END OF DAY.

The day her dusty journey's run;
The laborers fill the homeward path;
The world, worn out by toil and sun,
In dewy mist will take a bath.

The birds onto their nests will fly;
The crickets to the hearthplace creep;
The worldly cares are laid aside,
And man will take a bath in sleep.

The wheat that bent in glowing sun,
When nature bathes it, will arise;
The withered cornblades will unroll,
And all things new will greet our eyes.

THE EVENING.

The sun is sinking o'er the hills
And casting gold on earth;
The children in the harvest fields
Hail it with joy and mirth.

So often through the glowing day
They gazed up with a frown,
And wondered in their little hearts
It would not hasten down.

The master sees the fiery ball
Has hid its rays of light;
He gives the signal, as to say:
“Cease toiling for the night.”

The little children, tired and worn
From toiling all the day,
They hear the blessed evening bell—
Skip homeward on their way.

AFRICA'S CRY.

From the land of Africa
Comes a faint cry:
“Send us the Gospel—
To save ere we die.”

Dying unconscious
Of a heavenly home
We know not the Saviour.
What will be our doom?

Send us a teacher
Who will show us the way.
We know not the law—
How can we obey?

Come to us quickly,
We have thrown wide the gate;
Millions of souls
Do anxiously wait.

THE STARS.

Tell me, oh star, art thou a jewel
Shining in the sky so bright?
Or art thou a little lantern
Hung from heaven to give us light?

Often when I am alone,
And think no one is nigh,
I glance into the heavens
And catch your little eye.

I do not know your mission;
That none doth understand;
But I know if thou could'st do so
Thou would'st tell me tales of man.

Some men are so foolish
There's no eye but their own,
And steal out in the darkness
Where their deeds of vice are sown.

Oh star, I wish thou had'st a voice
To reach to the uttermost dell;
Where men would commit their evils,
Would whisper and say: “I'll tell.”

Oh, if thou could only talk,
Many wonders thou would'st tell;
Thou that saw within the walk,
The trap in which the purest fell.
All mankind feel quite free,
When they think no one can see;
And cease to care how slack they walk—
Oh, if thou could only talk!
If thou that shed the faintest beam,
Could only tell what thou hast seen
It would be enough.

NOTHING TO DO.

The fields are white;
The laborers are few;
Yet say the idle:
There's nothing to do.

Jails are crowded;
In Sunday-schools few;
We still complain:
There's nothing to do.

Drunkards are dying—
Your sons, it is true;
Mothers' arms folded
With nothing to do.

Heathen are dying;
Their blood falls on you;
How can you people
Find nothing to do?

THE SIGNS OF DEATH.

When yer hur at nite de ole milch cow a-lowin'
'N houn dogs howling out der monful soun,
I tel yer now yer better git er redy,
Dey's gwinter plant sum boudy in de groun.

Yer neanter bleve in sines, not les yer wanter,
But sum deas morns u'll wake up in suprize;
'N if dea kum er houlin whur I'm sleepin,
I'll tel yer now dis darkey's gwiner rize.

'N ef der's eny doubts ob bein redy,
Down on mi knees I'm gwiner make it strate;
'N you kin laf'n sa dis darkey's skeery,
I'm luck er rabbit ka trus no mistake.

It may not be fur me de dogs er howlin,
But whin da howl mi pas I'm gwinter sweep;
'N I eant gwine ter bed no more dat ebenin,
Fur def sha kum 'n find dis pussun sleep.

Ders lots ob lurned people talkin bully,
'N sain dere ain't nufin in de sine;
But ef dey kum ur roun me wid der lunin,
I'm gester gwiner telum dey er lyin.

I'se got no time ter lisin to dor lexrin,
Fur da is jes tryin ter sho of smart;
Der eant no body don't keer how das lurned
Dat's got de sines al wiped clur from der hart.

Fur lunin neber takes fum man his habits—
It only smeers dem ober wid er stain;
'N kase he's lunid he is not er angel,
Dem sem ole trates is lurkin stell widin.

SATAN.

Satan's a robber;
He works day and night;
Go where you may
He's always in sight.

Go to your closet
And kneel down in prayer;
You need not be frightened,
For satan's not there.

He lurks around poverty;
He lurks around gold;
He's always on duty
Seeking a soul.

LIFE'S ROAD.

With joy I plod life's weary road;
Sometimes I'm free, then with a load;
The cares I gather through the day,
At night my banjo 'ill drive away.

If life comes sweet, I'll only smile,
As it will please me well;
If bitter, though I'll only frown,
And you can never tell.

I never grieve o'er past mistakes,
Made through the previous day;
I will from them a lesson take,
And plod along life's way.

Sometimes you see me going on,
And judge I'm doing well;
The cares that's moving in my heart
No tongue can ever tell.

CLASSES.

The world's divided in many classes,
And all deny being of the masses.
Complex is life, whom to believe
When all the world seeks to deceive?

Society is false, I find;
I see how frivolous is the line.
The men with honor, much estate,
Compose the class we all call great.

One class is made by color line,
And one by those who dress fine;
The other's made by family tree—
Pretending all; striving to be.

FORTUNE'S WHEEL.

The wheel is daily turned,
And daily comes the prize;
But yet somehow they never call my name.
I've labored many years—
The thing that causes tears;
Always I have returned just as I came.

Ofttimes it seems too hard;
I think no more to try;
It seems as though there is no prize for me.
A spark of hope will blaze,
And courage it will raise;
Again among the throng I now will be.

Always won't be this way;
Ah, soon will come my day.
The wheel of fortune will be justly turned;
Just as it makes its round
My name will then be found;
And then I'll get the prize for which I yearned.

SHOW YOUR LOVE.

Pray, if you love me show it now;
Wait not until I've passed away,
And lying cold in yonder grave,
I cannot hear then what you say.

And if a wreath await my death,
Pray one green leaf now to me give,
All thy sweet sayings—say them now,
Pray let me hear them while I live.

Ah, if the half had been made known,
That which was said on burial day,
The many fainted would have risen,
And bounded upward on life's way.

MEMORY OF THE OLD TIME.

When bygone days come rushing to my memory,
Those happy days I spent when but a boy,
It brings to me a picture tinged with sadness;
And yet, somehow my heart is filled with joy.

I view myself now strolling through the cornfield,
And gazing on the silks and tassels gray;
And through the woodlands, 'till I'd reach the brooklet,
For minnows there I'd fish 'till close of day.

Those good old days are gone, and years of sadness
Have wrapped themselves around that happy lad;
No more at day to wander through the woodlands,
No more at night around my dear old dad.

I remember well how in the early springtime
The meadow and the orchard were in bloom,
How John and I'd go bounding o'er the hillside
At ev'n when time to bring the cattle home.

I speak of John, but Ah! he too has left me,
His body's lying mouldering in the clay;
I gaze around to see my boyhood comrades,
They, like my youth, from me have passed away.

My dear old friends have gone, and years of sadness
Have wrapped themselves around that happy lad;
No more at day to wander with my comrades.
No more at night around my dear old dad.

DON'T LAUGH, BOYS.

A colored, gray-haired, feeble man,
Came tottering down the street,
Was tackled by some happy youths
That he by chance did meet.

His hands were trembling on his cane,
He raised his hoary head;
With them he was not angry,
With trembling voice he said:

“Don't laugh, my boys, as this old form,
I think I'm doing well;
What I went through in slavery
No tongue can ever tell.

“I had no chance when I was young,
I was with master then;
But now my boys your minds are free,
Make out of yourselves men.

“And when you meet an aged man,
Struggling along as I,
Don't trouble him, for he loves you;
Politely pass him by.”

MY SONG.

Why was I born if this ends all,
All that I'll ever be;
To feel a spirit that's divine,
No chance to let it free.

Unfortunate seems now my port,
Drifting on poverty's sea;
The chains of need have bound me fast,
Oh! would that I was free.

I'm struggling daily for the shore,
The sea is vast and wide;
And when I stop to sing my lays,
I'm threatened by the tide.

But if these rugged lays I've sung,
Should cause some heart to move,
And bring to me freedom
How could I then but love!

Accept these lays to you I bring,
A token of my art;
Jangling though they seem to be
Remember 'tis a start.

OUR PIC-NIC.

In fullest joy and richest pleasure,
Beneath the trees, upon the grass;
With tables spread upon the ground,
A day with Paen was swiftly passed.

A spring we found close by a brook,
'Twas gushing water fresh and cold;
We must have found what 'Leon saw,
A balm for old age in a pool.

As lambs the children romped the woods,
The worldly cares were chased away;
Their voices like the nymphs ringing,
The aged felt as youths to-day.

We found the arbor dark with shade,
And joy threw wide her rustic door;
We entered in with hail of song,
We all forgot that we were poor.

We turned around, lingering, looked,
When going home at close of day;
And saw Paen standing in the door,
Crying and beckoning us to stay.

EDITH.

'Twas in a park beneath a tree,
Upon a rustic seat;
The evenings when the sun was low,
Edith and I would meet.

'Twas on this seat, three years ago,
I gently took her hand;
And gazed into her smiling face,
No sweeter in the land.

But now she's dead and passed away,
And I from labor stroll;
I find no one to meet me there,
I have no hand to hold.

But some sweet day when work is done,
I'll seek another place;
Where I'll again take Edith's hand,
And see her smiling face.

Roll 'round sweet days and bear me up,
Unto my home above;
Where I'll again see Edith's face,
And rest with her my love.

ODE TO LOVE.

Love! O passion! O woman!
Return what thou hast stole:
Ambition, heart, and treasure,
O free the weary soul.
Loose thy suffering victim;
Unbar the prison door;
Call them back that weary,
Let them live once more.
Why mock your helpless victim?
Loose your galling chain;
To many thou givest pleasure,
To others thou givest pain.
Thy hypnotizing power
Over many holds a sway;
To him it seems a magnet,
It draws his soul away.
Many thou found were happy,
In society held a place;
Thou hypnotized and led them
To shame and sad disgrace.

HEROD'S SLAUGHTER OF THE BABES.

It was a decree of Herod,
Caused mothers to run wild;
He sent soldiers from his palace
To kill each young male child.

To kill the babe, the mother's hope:
To mothers it didn't seem right;
The mothers with their babies
For refuge took their flight.

One mother fled for refuge
To a cave within the ground;
To all it was suspicious;
By a soldier it was found.

Looking in at the open door,
As a bird upon its nest,
He saw a frightened mother
With a babe pressed to her breast.

“What seek ye?” cried the mother,
With a voice both faint and wild;
“I am on a duty from Herod
To kill each young male child!”

“Oh! spare my child!” cried the mother;
“I pray thee let it live;
If life's what thou seek'st,
Take mine; I'll freely give!”

“It's not your's; it's the babe's;
My duty I must perform.”
He reaches his hand toward her
To take it from her arm.

Back to the corner she fled;
He rushed like a wild bear;
As a wolf on a lamb, he seized
And from her bosom tore.

The mother, to save her babe,
Bounds like a flying dart.
Too late! he unsheathed his blade
And drives it through its heart.

The mother, viewing the horrible scene,
Sinks breathless upon the floor;
He throws the babe by her side
Steps from the earthen door.

The mother, dying upon the ground,
Once from death did awake;
Saw her struggling baby lying
With arms outstretched to take.

Quick as lightning her babe she grasped,
Her lips pressed to its wound;
They both gave up life's precious breath,
Sank dead upon the ground.

A spirit went wafting through the sky
With a babe upon its breast;
Within the cave their corpses are seen,
Their souls are in heav'n at rest.

AMBITION.

The world is a race-course;
Man is a charioteer;
In him there is a soul;
Ambition is the steed
By which he is drawn,
Over which he seems to have
No control.

Each day we speed on the race,
Ambition still our steed,
Regardless of the soul
And heaven the goal;
Toward riches and honor
We speed.

Ambition, thou most fiery steed,
Remember thou drawest a soul;
For riches and honor there is no prize,
Heaven is the only goal.

Be mindful thou, O charioteer!
Ride careful, keep your place;
Let riches nor honor tempt thee
And you will gain the race.

A VIEW OF CHILDHOOD.

I love to think what joy I had,
When I was a boy, a playful lad;
I did not know the joy 'twas then,
I had not felt this world of sin.

No cares as now upon my mind,
So happy, playful, all the time;
Think of the many happy hours,
I roamed the woods in search of flowers.

And how I'd bound around at night,
To catch the bugs that flashed a light;
And mornings when the sun would rise,
I'd start to chase the butterflies.

It seems I'm creeping to a flower,
A butterfly has let to sip;
It seems I almost have him now,
But from my fingers he doth slip.

Away he seeks another flower,
I stand and gaze to see him light;
I seem to creep again to catch,
He sees me though and takes a flight.

And as I chase, from flower to flower,
So many others meet my eye;
And some that do not seem so shy,
To catch the others I will try.

It seems I see one on a flower,
His head deep in the blossom fold;
And now it seems I have him fast,
And by his silky wings I hold.

REASON, SAD WORLD.

Ye proud and merry world,
Reason with me I pray;
Why weary for the things
That soon shall pass away?
Oh think so soon thou'll die,
On earth will be no more;
What value then will be
The wealth you have in store?
Dust thou believe in God
Of whom so much thou'st heard?
If so, why not be calm?
Pray take him at His word.
Thou knowest life and all
The wealth of sea and land;
And all thou soul can wish
He hold'st in His hand.
Then seek ye for true life,
And all that thou doth need,
Beseech it of our God,
And cease to man to plead;

His promises are true,
Yea, more than we have heard,
And this thou too would'st see,
Should we but trust His word.
Let us first Heaven seek;
Of all, this prize is best,
And God has in His word
So promised all the rest.
Sad world repining cease,
Oh warriors, cease your strife;
Strive not for wealth nor praise,
But seek eternal life.

THE WELTHY NIGAH.

One day along I'se strolem,
Mi circumstances scolin;
I saw a roll ob money in de san,
At fust de money bline me,
Till I'hurd a voice behind me,
Den wid de money to mi home I ran.

Dis black nigah am welthy, boys, at last;
U otter see de razein ob de hat whin I pass;
Dis black nigar dont seem so funny,
Since deys found he's got de money,
'N dem same old nigahs am glad now ter call me boss.

Der wus sum yaller darkies in de place whur I wus born,
Da uster say I'se smutty 'n how da uster scorn;
Da uster hab der social da uster hab der teas,
Da uster hab der walkins for de cake;
But me da allus slighted,
Ter none I was envited,
Da treated me as do I wus a snake.

Dis black nigah am welthy, boys, at last;
U otter see dem yaller nigahs bowin whin I pass;
Dis black nigah dont seem so funny,
Since deys found ise got de money,
'N dem same old nigahs am glad now ter call me boss.

I had er brudder and sistah in de place whur I wus born,
'N bof ob dem wus yallar des blackun uster scorn;
Da hurd dat I'd returned wid money fur ter burn,
Da bof on me did cast a wishful eye,
Uv cose da uster scorn me,
But now da lub ter own me,
Da cry, der go mi brudder! ez I go by.

Dis black nigah am welthy, boys, at last;
U otter see mi brudder an mi sister grinnin whin I pass,
Der black brudder dont seem so funny,
Since da's found he's got de money,
'N dem same old nigahs am glad now ter call me boss.

Der wus sum Irish merchants in de place whur I wus born,
'N whin I'd pass der buelding oh how dem clirks wud scorn;
Dey found dat I'd returned wid money fur ter burn,
Da'd ask me in so nicely whin I'd pass,
I had not changed mi culler;
Da heard I had de dollor,
De dollor toes de line to any class.

Dis black nigah am welthy, boys, at last;
U otter hur dem merchants call ob me whin I pass,
Dis black nigah don't seem so funny,
Since deys found he's got de money,
'N dem same old nigahs am glad now to call me boss.

THE BOYS' OPPORTUNITY.

Hail happy youths, now in your prime,
Be up, awake, waste not your time;
For fast is coming on the day,
You'll wish the time you waste away.

So well I know you are a boy,
I do not care to stop your joy;
But very soon you'll be a man,
And for your self you'll have to plan.

These wasted days and foolish cares,
You'll think of them again in tears;
And when misfortune drives you mad,
You'll wish the time you once have had.

No matter then how you may yearn,
The time once spent will not return;
But now my boys your minds are free,
Think of the man you hope to be.

Pray study hard, your pennies save,
Always be truthful ever brave;
And when a man you'll come to be,
You'll think of what was said by me.

“NO USE IN SIGNS.”

Tain't no usen being skar'd of congers,
E'n lettin black cats turn ur back;
Jest go'n er bout yuh bisnes,
An let the congers hav yer track.

Frida' aint no wus dan Monday,
Ez fur ez luck is consern;
Ef yuh han ich, don't spit in it:
Wont git nusin but what's u'rn.

Ef yuh nose ich, no 'un comin,
Ef yuh foot ich, yer goin no wher;
U'can let wurms crall al'over you
Den you 'll get nuthin new to ware.

'N cos you hav a little lernin
Don't sit in try ter figer rich;
Jes git yer spade an shuvel
An go trotin' long toder ditch.

Win yer feel a little happy
Don't think of al de sorros yer had;
Cos yer eye is trembling a little
Dats no sine yer goin ter get mad.

Cos de middle toe iz longer den de big on,
Don't yer think gwine ter rule;
'N kase my hair gro' on my forehead,
Yer neanter take me fur a fool.

I am gointer sing sum in der monin,
See if de haks catch me before night;
Ef da do don't yer wury,
Jest say: “I bet day had ter fite.”

MEMORY OF FRANCES WILLARD.

Around the glowing fireside of the nation
A vacant chair no one can ever fill;
Death came, and stole from it a temperance mother,
But yet in heaven she lives an angel still.
To all she seemed a pure, unfolding lily,
On which no eye had ever found a stain;
She stood till death, the surest reaper,
Came to gather in his choicest grain.

Ah, dearest mother! gone thou art,
And left us with a breaking heart;
To sweet heaven thou art conveyed.
Show us the star that thou hast made,
That thy dear friends at night may see
The silver rays that gleam from thee.

Upon the parlor wall of our nation
There hangs a picture in a sacred place;
She was a tender friend unto the drunkard,
And all admire the beauty of her face;
It is the picture of our mother Willard,
A mother to the drunkard and to all;
And she was gently watching o'er the fallen
When soft she heard the loving Savior call.

Ah, dearest mother! gone thou art,
And left us with a breaking heart;
To sweet heaven thou art conveyed.
Show us the star that thou has made,
That thy dear friends at night may see
The silver rays that gleam from thee.

Within the tender heart of all the nation
There is a place no one can ever fill;
A place for one who's living now in heaven;
For her the lamp of love is burning still.
From the Union there is gone a loving mother;
For her our hearts in sorrow 'll ever pine.
May love and peace go with her dear old comrades;
May joy pour out to them the richest wine.

I'LL ENTER THE SALOON NO MORE.

Daily we drop in the treasure,
But it never reaches its height;
And when we search for the reason,
We find it Saturday night.

Then we find them there in multitudes,
Spending in various ways;
I'll invite you to the bar-room
That you in the window may gaze.

There you'll see Samuel Brown,
Who earns a dollar per day;
And for the cursed rum-cup
He is giving it all away.

At home his wife and children
Have earned whatever they could,
And are waiting by the fire
To receive their Sunday's food.

His wife is somewhat frightened,
The clock has long struck ten;
She lays aside her baby
To bring her Samuel in.

She laid aside her baby
And pursued the journey once more;
She didn't make any inquiries
Till she reached the grocery store.

Then she asked the merchant
If he had seen her Sam.
He said: “He's gone to the bar-room
To get his Sunday's dram.”

Then to the saloon she hastened,
Entered in at the open door;
There she saw her husband
Lying drunk upon the floor.

By his side she sat and wept,
When he from sleep did wake,
And heard his baby crying
As tho' its heart would break.

When he saw them weeping,
He rose to his feet and swore,
For the sake of wife and baby
He would enter the saloon no more.

UNKER ISREL.

De people call me er kunger,
Jes kase I du sum tricks;
Jes, kase I'se got dis lucky black bone.
Kan't gedder rutes fur tea
Widout da talk ob dat;
Da say I'se got er ball er blue loadstone.

Do kur what I du noble,
No diffens how it's dun,
Yer nebber hur dem prazin ob mi brane;
Lack whin I merid Anlyzer,
Jest kase she's got sum sence
Day's sayin dat I got hur wid sum keme.

Let sumtin hapen ter nabors,
Let sum ob dem git sick,
For it all I sul got ter bear de blame;
Jes kas I'se got dis bull-eye,
An 'er rabbit foot er two,
On me da puts mose eberthing dats mean.

Som time da talk so scanlus
It gits me rite upsot,
'N speshly when I notis whut da say,
I wanter take dis cat bone,
An eberthing I got,
'N let de people see me throw'm er way.

I gedder dem tergedder,
'N place dem in er pile;
I gin ter think erbout de needy day;
I kno whut da 'll du fur me,
'N git mad wid mi self
'Bout wurrin ober whut de people say.

Kase when I see dis cat bone,
Dis guffer dat I got,
Kan't help de ters fum cumin in mi ey;
Once when de wurl w's gins me,
An frens had turned der backs,
Dis loadstone and dis bull's-eye stood rite by.

Jes call me what yer wanter,
Kan't take no peck on me;
Ain't shame tu own de things dat brot me thu;
Talk 'bout yer mudder's techin,
But what dese dun fur me
Is much ez eny mudder'll eber du.

Wid dis bone I'd mark de path
Dat run from masser's do,
An ebber mornin he would hafter cross
De goffer in mi pocket;
I dun jes lack I plesed;
U'd sene me u'der thot I wus de bos.

Ole masser'd cross de mark
'N den he'd gin ter smile;
Ter talk wid me ole masser seemed rite proud.
I made de wemin lub me,
'N long as I wus dar
Ole masser nebber hit one ob de croud.

I kep him do fum beatin
Most all de wemin folks;
Sum times I'd wurk a fue tricks fur de men;
Dey cudent git me fur nufin;
I'd nebber move er pag,
Fur ebber trick da had ter bring er tin.

Sum times I'd go out coutin,
Rub goffer on me hands;
I'd put er rabbit foot doun in mi sho;
No hound on urf could track'm;
Cud make de wemin lub,
'N when I'd meet de gurls dis way I do:

Make lack I'se glad ter see'm,
'N grab hold ob der han;
Be rubbin goffer on dem all de time;
No use in scornin, honey,
'N turnin up your nose,
Kas if I want yer I kan make yer mine.

ODE TO CONSCIENCE.

Oh; gently conscience thou scourgest well!
Would'st thou give ease if I should tell,
The secret crime o'er which I weep,
Ev'en though unknown, denies me sleep?
Come law, and punish, let me rest,
Pray ease the guilty, aching breast;
The innocent, pray, set him free,
And take the convict, I am he;
No punishment can law import,
Equal the guilty, aching heart.

100

TWO SPIRITS.

Two spirits are warring in my breast,
Each for the sway;
And each of me has made request—
Which to obey?

Obey the one that seems divine
It came from heav'n.
The other from this heart of mine
Must now be driv'n.

101

FOR THE PRIVATE SOLDIER.

In books that tell the warriors glory,
For private soldiers write a line;
Suppose the soldiers had been cowards,
How could the captain've been sublime.

Quite true commanders should be honored,
For without them their's nothing done;
But where the soldiers are unwilling,
I've never seen a victory won.

Ye men of wealth and highest honor,
And all who hold an honored sphere;
Gaze not upon your brawny arm,
Think of the meek who put you there.

102

MY LONELY HOMESTEAD.

My dear old home's not like it used to be,
Since my dear old mother died;
Sunshine from it has passed away,
The old cot seems so lonely,
I can no more reside,
The dear old form is resting 'neath the clay.

The voice is hushed that I used to hear,
There is no one a sitting in the old arm chair,
My heart is filled with sadness; it is wrapped in gloom,
I cannot bear to enter in her dear old room;
Her Bible lying open on a table near,
And by it lies the glasses that she used to wear;
She just had finished reading, when she fell asleep,
Where Jesus said to Simon, “love me, feed my sheep.”

103

So well do I remember late at eve,
When from labor I'd return;
I'd hear the dear one singing as I neared,
And when her room I'd enter,
The lamp of love would burn,
A paradise to me my home appeared.

There's a half finished stocking she'd began for me
And all her knitting needles where they used to be;
The spinning wheel is standing where it stood for years,
A spinning out the cotton, humming out her cares.
Upon the wall's her picture, solemn, sweet, not stern,
It seems to gaze upon me every way I turn;
The kind and loving Savior knoweth best,
Hath freed her from labor, called her home to rest.

104

AN APPEAL.

An old man living near his master,
Ever since he was made free;
He saw in him an evil spirit,
A spirit that should never be.

The old man's heart seemed to be breaking,
For he had seen it several years,
It seemed he could not bear it longer,
He speaks with eyes half filled with tears:

“Pray tell me, masser, why yer scorn me,
Sa is it simply 'cos I'm free?
Yer know ise nebber tryed ter horm yer,
Always so kind ise tried ter be.

“I'm sem as I wus when yer owned me,
What e'n yer ask I tried ter do;
Pray is it sumtin I hab done?
Un treat me like Ise one ob yo.

“De truf Ise glad Ise got my freedom—
Not simply do ter 'scape yer rod—
Ise glad ob it down in mi boosom,
Dis lub ob freedom come frum God.

105

“De truf I know, I'm little ignorant,
But now I make er urnis plee;
What if u'd been in mi condition,
How would yer do if u wus me?

“Now dis, oh masser, I pray do tell me,
I'le do az 'u would now if I can;
Fur what I do is not ter spite yer,
I'm simply tryin' ter be a man.

“'U know Ise proven miself harmless,
I would not hom yer when I could;
For when yer left yer homestid wid me,
Did I not prove mi self as good?

“Jist think when yer was off in battle,
Fiteing fur what yer thot wus rite;
Think how I toiled, and fed yer family,
'N how I kept dem safe at nite.

“Fitein ter keep me frum mi freedom—
'N dat yer noed I node full well—
In all ob dat wus I not faithful?
If dis aint so I pray de tell.

106

“Pray tell me when the war was ober,
Sa, what did mi ole mistis say;
'N did her say I tried ter hom her,
'N did I e're fuse ter obey?

“Den won't yer family fur purtection,
Den left as young lambs by mi side;
'N 'fore I'd let de hole wif hom dem,
Masser, yer now, I would hab died.

“I want yer think er bout de madder,
'N look de case rite thro' and thro';
'N see de reason 'u 'unt treat me,
De same as do Ise one ob yo.

“I want ter stay on dis farm wid yer,
My arm dis great big fiel' did clar,
'N more dan dat hur's mi affection,
My Ma and Pa is burred hur.

“I 'unt do less we can in union,
I lub ter lib whur der is love,
I won't stand dis hur way much longer,
I 'speck its best dat I should move.”

107

OUR FATHERS' ERRORS.

Why scorn the wrong our fathers did?
Of their mistakes so much is said;
To scorn these men is no way to do,
Their faults have been much aid to you.

We see the man that took sin's path,
We find he met the cruel wrath;
And then we know the path to take,
See how we gain by his mistake.

Then when we read the Holy Book,
And see the path Sapphira took,
We learn the path to take or shun,
From those who lost, and those who won.

Why should we read the past to day
If not that we may learn the way;
And when I read of the early gloom,
I'm glad I was not born so soon.

Then when one falls before your eye,
Lend him your hand, help him to rise;
His falling may a warning be,
Suppose it had been made of thee!

108

VIRTUE ALONE CAN MAKE GREAT MEN.

In reading books from Adam's time,
And studying lives we call sublime,
I see so many stained with sin—
Virtue alone can make great men.

I find so many brilliant lights
To-day have vanished from our sight,
The cause, I find, came out of sin—
Virtue alone can make great men.

I knew a man whom no one feared,
A radiant sun his light appeared;
I find the place by him once owned
Is darker now for having shone.

Then when I see the vice he did,
And finding it could not be hid,
The word I find is fixed and sealed,
The covered sins shall be revealed.

My son, I charge thee from this day
The path of virtue is the way;
Pray keep her path, shun that of sin—
Virtue alone can make great men.

109

TO HER THAT WEEPS.

Oh, beloved wife of the dear departed,
To thee I sing: be not brok'n hearted;
The God that called thy loved one from thy side
Hath sent an angel o'er thy path to guide.

I know it's hard to give up one so dear,
To whom was trusted all thy love and care,
But death, my friend, is the common lot of all,
And all must answer freely to the call.

Ah, weep no more, thy loved one is at rest—
Expel the sorrow from thy aching breast;
Pray murmur not, it is our Father's will
And He in love and mercy 'll keep thee still.

Go forth, oh song, in strains both loud and clear,
And soothe her aching heart, dry every tear;
And with thy cloak of love securely fold,
Then pray that God her from all danger 'll hold.

110

THE HEATHEN LAND.

Across the sea 's a heathen land,
Pray hasten friends and lend a hand;
Pray go as fast as feet can plod,
And tell them of a risen God.

May love for home stay thee no more;
The gospel spread from shore to shore,
Till ignorance from them will flee,
Until the world can say I'm free.

Move on, my friends, why stand you here,
The Saviour lives, what need you fear;
Go preach My word tell them of Me,
The Saviour sayeth, I'm with thee.

111

BLAME NOT THE POET.

Blame not the poet who daily seeks the woods;
Call him not idle, thy verdict may be wrong,
For there he meets with nature face to face,
He hears her voice, to him it's song.

112

TO W. W. BROWNE.

Pray, listen brethren, while I speak,
I speak of loving father Browne;
In vain another you may seek,
Yet not another can be found.
No, not on this wide circled earth
Has such man received his birth.

A tender father loved by all;
Oh, how we miss his loving voice;
Though for his death our tears do fall
Still in his work we do rejoice,
Because it was so kind and free,
A blessing unto you and me.

A father whom our God did love,
And when He saw his work was done
He called him to His home above,
To wear the great crown he had won.
Even though He called him from our sight,
Still we behold his brilliant light.

113

Think how he suffered, how he toiled,
And how the sweat ran from his face,
So hard he sought and prayed for wisdom,
That he might aid and lift his race,
To teach them of a brother's care,
A brother's burden how to share.

Where're he heard the sick man groan,
The widow, orphans, cry for bread,
He went with helping hands to loan,
He said these people must be fed.
He gave his life for those distressed,
Our God was pleased, his hand was blessed.

Farewell, fond soul and take thy rest,
Thy voice on earth will sound no more;
We will obey thy last request,
We'll meet thee on the other shore;
There we in perfect peace will dwell,
Dear father Browne farewell, farewell.

114

MEMORY OF W. W. BROWNE.

Dear father Browne, the great, the good,
The noble leader of our race;
With task complete his spirit fled
To he'ven its final resting place.
And there in peace it shall remain,
Securely wrapped from care and pain;
His body 'neath sweet roses sleeps,
Around his grave his friends do weep.

Weeping for one so dearly loved,
Too soon it seems we had to part;
To see him hid beneath the clay,
Sharp sorrow fills the aching heart.
It seems I see him on the stand,
Fain I could hear him give command;
And with his outstretched, loving arm,
Emploring people to reform.

115

Think of the great work he has done,
Behold the great reformer's hand;
Ten thousand marching to and fro,
To seek, to help, to lend a hand.
Thy life hast not been spent in vain,
Thy deeds are monuments of fame;
Thy name from earth shall ne'er depart,
'Tis 'graved with kindness on the heart.

No more to meet us hear on earth,
The noble impulse thou hast given;
Will urge us on the mighty course,
Until we too are called to he'ven.
Beneath the clods is it the last,
Oh no, the memory of the past;
As Bethlehem star the wise men led,
His light will lead us though he's dead.

116

DE 'SCURSION DAT YER RODE.

Do you remember, boys, last summer
All dem 'scursions dat yer rode?
Do you remember, boys, der money yer throde away?
Now de snow is fallin' fastly,
On yer feet der ain't no shoes.
Don't yer wish yer had dat money, boys, ter day?

117

WHY SHOULD I DEPLORE?

Oh, why should I deplore,
To have great wealth in store?
Haven't I health, food and shelter?
What need hath man for more?

118

GOD BLESS THE SAILORS.

God bless the sailors brave to-night
Upon the surging sea,
Who're fighting hard against the storm,
Protecting you and me.

The lightning flash, the thunder peals,
The surging billows roll;
'Tis then the sailor's work begins—
The boat they must control.

Oh, raging sea, why not be still?
Oh, lightning, thunder, cease!
Oh, mighty storm, why not be calm?
Oh, why not hold thy peace?

Lord, calm again this raging sea,
If it's Thy holy will;
Pray let me hear Thy loving voice
Say to the wind, “Be still!”

119

GIB TER ME ER LOCK OB YER HAIR.

To morrow, hun, I's gunter sail fur Cuba;
I tel yer now den Spanards guiner fly.
Mi lub fur yer hab filled mi heart wid sorrow;
I'se come ter bid yer all good-bye.

Now, huny, hur's er present I wanter gib yer;
Jes take dis ring an member me an wear;
'N now I'se guinter ask ob yer a token:
Pra gib ter me er lock ob yer hair.

Now gib ter me er lock ob yer hair, hun,
Ter member whin I'm gone.
Pray take dis ring, remember me and wear.
'N now I'm guinter ask ob yer a token:
Pra gib ter me er lock ob yer hair.