 | 'Weh Down Souf and other Poems : |  |
57
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
Dat de fingers kan't express,
To dis poor ig'nunt brudder
Don't seem to be de bes';
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An' larn to work ez well,
Seems to my 'umble judgment,
De thing dat's gwine to tell.
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