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 | The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar : |  |
342
Home Longings
I've been here fur many days
Standin' in the city's maze,
Jumpin' out and skippin' in,
List'nin' to the roar an' din,
Gettin' hard an' keen an' cold
Growin' gray before I'm old;
I want home.
Standin' in the city's maze,
Jumpin' out and skippin' in,
List'nin' to the roar an' din,
Gettin' hard an' keen an' cold
Growin' gray before I'm old;
I want home.
Home's the best place after all;
When the leaves begin to fall
An' the frosty atmosphere
Hints o' winter drawin' near,
Seems as ef yore mind goes back
Mighty swift along the track
'At leads home.
When the leaves begin to fall
An' the frosty atmosphere
Hints o' winter drawin' near,
Seems as ef yore mind goes back
Mighty swift along the track
'At leads home.
Want to see the ole house there,
Want to breathe a breath o' air
That ain't filled with dust or smoke,
Want to be where banks ain't broke,
Where yer treasure ends an' starts
In yer comrades' brimmin' hearts.
That's at home.
Want to breathe a breath o' air
That ain't filled with dust or smoke,
Want to be where banks ain't broke,
Where yer treasure ends an' starts
In yer comrades' brimmin' hearts.
That's at home.
Want to see yer mother stand
In the door an' wave her hand
At you comin' up the road,
Want to shake off all the load—
Care an' pain, an' grief an' strife
'At beset a city life
An' git home.
In the door an' wave her hand
At you comin' up the road,
Want to shake off all the load—
Care an' pain, an' grief an' strife
'At beset a city life
An' git home.
Want to git back to the fields,
Where the hand o' nature yields
Due reward fur honest toil;
Want to tread the good ole soil
'At I ust to tread in glee—
Happy as I ust to be,
There at home.
Where the hand o' nature yields
Due reward fur honest toil;
Want to tread the good ole soil
'At I ust to tread in glee—
Happy as I ust to be,
There at home.
343
Want to hear the cattle brown
Lowin' as the sun goes down,
Change these tracks an' rumblin' cars
Fur the sight o' paster bars,
Drop the pen an' take the plow
That's the thing to ketch me now
That—an' home.
Lowin' as the sun goes down,
Change these tracks an' rumblin' cars
Fur the sight o' paster bars,
Drop the pen an' take the plow
That's the thing to ketch me now
That—an' home.
Want some kale greens—smooth as silk,
Want to drink some buttermilk,
Want to eat some griddle cakes—
Them good kin', whut mother makes.
Want some butter, some 'at ain't
Made o' grease an' yaller paint.
Some from home.
Want to drink some buttermilk,
Want to eat some griddle cakes—
Them good kin', whut mother makes.
Want some butter, some 'at ain't
Made o' grease an' yaller paint.
Some from home.
Oh, the days grow sad an' long,
Life seems all a mournful song,
Nuthin' seems so fair er free
As it ust to seem to me.
Nuthin' ever will seem right
Tell I pack my grip an' light
Out fur home.
Life seems all a mournful song,
Nuthin' seems so fair er free
As it ust to seem to me.
Nuthin' ever will seem right
Tell I pack my grip an' light
Out fur home.
| The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar : | |