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169

DIALECT POEMS.

171

A FLORIDA GHOST.

Down mildest shores of milk-white sand,
By cape and fair Floridian bay,
Twixt billowy pines—a surf asleep on land—
And the great Gulf at play,
Past far-off palms that filmed to nought,
Or in and out the cunning keys
That laced the land like fragile patterns wrought
To edge old broideries.
The sail sighed on all day for joy,
The prow each pouting wave did leave
All smile and song, with sheen and ripple coy,
Till the dusk diver Eve
Brought up from out the brimming East
The oval moon, a perfect pearl.
In that large lustre all our haste surceased,
The sail seemed fain to furl,
The silent steersman landward turned,
And ship and shore set breast to breast.
Under a palm wherethrough a planet burned
We ate, and sank to rest.
But soon from sleep's dear death (it seemed)
I rose and strolled along the sea
Down silver distances that faintly gleamed
On to infinity.
172

Till suddenly I paused, for lo!
A shape (from whence I ne'er divined)
Appeared before me, pacing to and fro,
With head far down inclined.
A wraith (I thought) that walks the shore
To solve some old perplexity.
Full heavy hung the draggled gown he wore;
His hair flew all awry.
He waited not (as ghosts oft use)
To be dearheaven'd! and oh'd!
But briskly said: “Good-evenin'; what 's the news?
Consumption? After boa'd?
“Or mebbe you 're intendin' of
Investments? Orange-plantin'? Pine?
Hotel? or Sanitarium? What above
This yea'th can be your line?
“Speakin' of sanitariums, now,
Jest look 'ee here, my friend:
I know a little story,—well, I swow,
Wait till you hear the end!
“Some year or more ago, I s'pose,
I roamed from Maine to Floridy,
And,—see where them Palmettos grows?
I bought that little key,
“Cal'latin' for to build right off
A c'lossal sanitarium:
Big surf! Gulf breeze! Jest death upon a cough!
—I run it high, to hum!
173

“Well, sir, I went to work in style:
Bought me a steamboat, loaded it
With my hotel (pyazers more 'n a mile!)
Already framed and fit,
“Insured 'em, fetched 'em safe around,
Put up my buildin', moored my boat,
Com-plete! then went to bed and slept as sound
As if I 'd paid a note.
“Now on that very night a squall,
Cum up from some'eres—some bad place!
An' blowed an' tore an' reared an' pitched an' all,
—I had to run a race
“Right out o' bed from that hotel
An' git to yonder risin' ground,
For, 'twixt the sea that riz and rain that fell,
I pooty nigh was drowned!
“An' thar I stood till mornin' cum,
Right on yon little knoll of sand,
Frequently wishin' I had stayed to hum
Fur from this tarnal land.
“When mornin' cum, I took a good
Long look, and—well, sir, sure 's I'm me—
That boat laid right whar that hotel had stood,
And hit sailed out to sea!
“No: I'll not keep you: good-bye, friend.
Don't think about it much,—preehaps
Your brain might git see-sawin', end for end,
Like them asylum chaps,
174

“For here I walk, forevermore,
A-tryin' to make it gee,
How one same wind could blow my ship to shore
And my hotel to sea!”
Chadd's Ford, Pennsylvania, 1877.
175

UNCLE JIM'S BAPTIST REVIVAL HYMN.

BY SIDNEY AND CLIFFORD LANIER.
[_]

[Not long ago a certain Georgia cotton-planter, driven to desperation by awaking each morning to find that the grass had quite outgrown the cotton overnight, and was likely to choke it, in defiance of his lazy freedmen's hoes and ploughs, set the whole State in a laugh by exclaiming to a group of fellow-sufferers: “It's all stuff about Cincinnatus leaving the plough to go into politics for patriotism; he was just a-runnin' from grass!”

This state of things—when the delicate young rootlets of the cotton are struggling against the hardier multitudes of the grass-suckers—is universally described in plantation parlance by the phrase “in the grass;” and Uncle Jim appears to have found in it so much similarity to the condition of his own (“Baptis'”) church, overrun, as it was, by the cares of this world, that he has embodied it in the refrain of a revival hymn such as the colored improvisator of the South not infrequently constructs from his daily surroundings. He has drawn all the ideas of his stanzas from the early morning phenomena of those critical weeks when the loud plantation-horn is blown before daylight, in order to rouse all hands for a long day's fight against the common enemy of cotton-planting mankind.

In addition to these exegetical commentaries, the Northern reader probably needs to be informed that the phrase “peerten up” means substantially to spur up, and is an active form of the adjective “peert” (probably a corruption of pert), which is so common in the South, and which has much the signification of “smart” in New England, as e.g., a “peert” horse, in antithesis to a “sorry”—i.e., poor, mean, lazy one.]

Solo.

—Sin's rooster's crowed, Ole Mahster's riz,
De sleepin'-time is pas';
Wake up dem lazy Baptissis,

Chorus.

—Dey 's mightily in de grass, grass,
Dey 's mightily in de grass.
Ole Mahster 's blowed de mornin' horn,
He 's blowed a powerful blas';
O Baptis' come, come hoe de corn,
You 's mightily in de grass, grass,
You 's mightily in de grass.
176

De Meth'dis team 's done hitched; O fool,
De day 's a-breakin' fas';
Gear up dat lean ole Baptis' mule,
Dey 's mightily in de grass, grass,
Dey 's mightily in de grass.
De workmen 's few an' mons'rous slow,
De cotton 's sheddin' fas';
Whoop, look, jes' look at de Baptis' row,
Hit's mightily in de grass, grass,
Hit's mightily in de grass.
De jay-bird squeal to de mockin'-bird: “Stop!
Don' gimme none o' yo' sass;
Better sing one song for de Baptis' crop,
Dey 's mightily in de grass, grass,
Dey 's mightily in de grass.”
And de ole crow croak: “Don' work, no, no;”
But de fiel'-lark say, “Yaas, yaas,
An' I spec' you mighty glad, you debblish crow,
Dat de Baptissis 's in de grass, grass,
Dat de Baptissis 's in de grass!”
Lord, thunder us up to de plowin'-match,
Lord, peerten de hoein' fas',
Yea, Lord, hab mussy on de Baptis' patch,
Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,
Dey's mightily in de grass.
1876.
177

NINE FROM EIGHT.

I was drivin' my two-mule waggin,
With a lot o' truck for sale,
Towards Macon, to git some baggin'
(Which my cotton was ready to bale),
And I come to a place on the side o' the pike
Whar a peert little winter branch jest had throw'd
The sand in a kind of a sand-bar like,
And I seed, a leetle ways up the road,
A man squattin' down, like a big bull-toad,
On the ground, a-figgerin' thar in the sand
With his finger, and motionin' with his hand,
And he looked like Ellick Garry.
And as I driv up, I heerd him bleat
To hisself, like a lamb: “Hauh? nine from eight
Leaves nuthin'—and none to carry?”
And Ellick's bull-cart was standin'
A cross-wise of the way,
And the little bull was a-expandin',
Hisself on a wisp of hay.
But Ellick he sat with his head bent down,
A-studyin' and musin' powerfully,
And his forrud was creased with a turrible frown,
And he was a-wurken' appearently
A 'rethmetic sum that wouldn't gee,
178

Fur he kep' on figgerin' away in the sand
With his finger, and motionin' with his hand,
And I seed it was Ellick Garry.
And agin I heard him softly bleat
To hisself, like a lamb: “Hauh? nine from eight
Leaves nuthin'—and none to carry!”
I woa'd my mules mighty easy
(Ellick's back was towards the road
And the wind hit was sorter breezy)
And I got down off'n my load,
And I crep' up close to Ellick's back,
And I heerd him a-talkin' softly, thus:
“Them figgers is got me under the hack.
I caint see how to git out'n the muss,
Except to jest nat'ally fail and bus'!
My crap-leen calls for nine hundred and more.
My counts o' sales is eight hundred and four,
Of cotton for Ellick Garry.
Thar 's eight, ought, four, jest like on a slate:
Here 's nine and two oughts—Hauh? nine from eight
Leaves nuthin'—and none to carry.
“Them crap-leens, oh, them crap-leens!
I giv one to Pardman and Sharks.
Hit gobbled me up like snap-beans
In a patch full o' old fiel'-larks.
But I thought I could fool the crap-leen nice,
And I hauled my cotton to Jammel and Cones.
But shuh! 'fore I even had settled my price
They tuck affidavy without no bones
And levelled upon me fur all ther loans
To the 'mount of sum nine hundred dollars or more.
And sold me out clean for eight hundred and four,
179

As sure as I'm Ellick Garry!
And thar it is down all squar and straight,
But I can't make it gee, fur nine from eight
Leaves nuthin'—and none to carry.”
Then I says “Hello, here, Garry!
However you star' and frown
Thare 's somethin' fur you to carry,
Fur you 've worked it upside down!”
Then he riz and walked to his little bull-cart,
And made like he neither had seen nor heerd
Nor knowed that I knowed of his raskilly part,
And he tried to look as if he wa'nt feared,
And gathered his lines like he never keered,
And he driv down the road 'bout a quarter or so,
And then looked around, and I hollered “Hello,
Look here, Mister Ellick Garry!
You may git up soon and lie down late,
But you'll always find that nine from eight
Leaves nuthin'—and none to carry.”
Macon, Georgia, 1870.
180

THAR 'S MORE IN THE MAN THAN THAR IS IN THE LAND.

I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones,
Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones,
And he lived pretty much by gittin' of loans,
And his mules was nuthin' but skin and bones,
And his hogs was flat as his corn-bread pones,
And he had 'bout a thousand acres o' land.
This man—which his name it was also Jones—
He swore that he 'd leave them old red hills and stones
Fur he couldn't make nuthin' but yallerish cotton,
And little o' that, and his fences was rotten,
And what little corn he had, hit was boughten
And dinged ef a livin' was in the land.
And the longer he swore the madder he got,
And he riz and he walked to the stable lot,
And he hollered to Tom to come thar and hitch
Fur to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich,
And to quit raisin' cock-burrs, thistles and sich,
And a wastin' ther time on the cussed land.
So him and Tom they hitched up the mules,
Pertestin' that folks was mighty big fools
That 'ud stay in Georgy ther lifetime out,
Jest scratchin' a livin' when all of 'em mought
Git places in Texas whar cotton would sprout
By the time you could plant it in the land.
181

And he driv by a house whar a man named Brown
Was a livin', not fur from the edge o' town,
And he bantered Brown fur to buy his place,
And said that bein' as money was skace,
And bein' as sheriffs was hard to face,
Two dollars an acre would git the land.
They closed at a dollar and fifty cents,
And Jones he bought him a waggin and tents,
And loaded his corn, and his wimmin, and truck,
And moved to Texas, which it tuck
His entire pile, with the best of luck,
To git thar and git him a little land.
But Brown moved out on the old Jones' farm,
And he rolled up his breeches and bared his arm,
And he picked all the rocks from off'n the groun',
And he rooted it up and he plowed it down,
Then he sowed his corn and his wheat in the land.
Five years glid by, and Brown, one day
(Which he 'd got so fat that he wouldn't weigh),
Was a settin' down, sorter lazily,
To the bulliest dinner you ever see,
When one o' the children jumped on his knee
And says, “Yan 's Jones, which you bought his land.”
And thar was Jones, standin' out at the fence,
And he hadn't no waggin, nor mules, nor tents,
Fur he had left Texas afoot and cum
To Georgy to see if he couldn't git sum
Employment, and he was a lookin' as hum-
Ble as ef he had never owned any land.
182

But Brown he axed him in, and he sot
Him down to his vittles smokin' hot,
And when he had filled hisself and the floor
Brown looked at him sharp and riz and swore
That, “whether men's land was rich or poor
Thar was more in the man than thar was in the land.”
Macon, Georgia, 1869.
183

JONES'S PRIVATE ARGYMENT

That air same Jones, which lived in Jones,
He had this pint about him:
He 'd swear with a hundred sighs and groans,
That farmers must stop gittin' loans,
And git along without 'em:
That bankers, warehousemen, and sich
Was fatt'nin' on the planter,
And Tennessy was rotten-rich
A-raisin' meat and corn, all which
Draw'd money to Atlanta:
And the only thing (says Jones) to do
Is, eat no meat that 's boughten:
But tear up every I, O, U,
And plant all corn and swear for true
To quit a-raisin' cotton!
Thus spouted Jones (whar folks could hear,
—At Court and other gatherin's),
And thus kep' spoutin' many a year,
Proclaimin' loudly far and near
Sich fiddlesticks and blatherin's.
But, one all-fired sweatin' day,
It happened I was hoein'
My lower corn-field, which it lay
'Longside the road that runs my way
Whar I can see what's goin'.
184

And a'ter twelve o'clock had come
I felt a kinder faggin',
And laid myself un'neath a plum
To let my dinner settle sum,
When 'long come Jones's waggin,
And Jones was settin' in it, so:
A-readin' of a paper.
His mules was goin' powerful slow,
Fur he had tied the lines onto
The staple of the scraper.
The mules they stopped about a rod
From me, and went to feedin'
'Longside the road, upon the sod,
But Jones (which he had tuck a tod)
Not knowin', kept a-readin'.
And presently says he: “Hit 's true;
That Clisby's head is level.
Thar 's one thing farmers all must do,
To keep themselves from goin' tew
Bankruptcy and the devil!
“More corn! more corn! must plant less ground,
And mustn't eat what 's boughten!
Next year the 'll do it: reasonin 's sound:
(And, cotton will fetch 'bout a dollar a pound),
Tharfore, I'll plant all cotton!”
Macon, Georgia, 1870.
185

THE POWER OF PRAYER; OR, THE FIRST STEAMBOAT UP THE ALABAMA.

BY SIDNEY AND CLIFFORD LANIER.
You, Dinah! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does meet.
De Lord, He made dese black-jack roots to twis' into a seat.
Umph, dar! De Lord have mussy on dis blin' ole nigger's feet.
It 'pear to me dis mornin' I kin smell de fust o' June.
I 'clar', I b'lieve dat mockin'-bird could play de fiddle soon!
Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin' in de moon.
Well, ef dis nigger is been blind for fo'ty year or mo',
Dese ears, dey sees the world, like, th'u' de cracks dat's in de do'.
For de Lord has built dis body wid de windows 'hind and 'fo'.
I know my front ones is stopped up, and things is sort o' dim,
But den, th'u' dem, temptation's rain won't leak in on ole Jim!
De back ones show me earth enough, aldo' dey 's mons'ous slim.
And as for Hebben,—bless de Lord, and praise His holy name—
Dat shines in all de co'ners of dis cabin jes' de same
As ef dat cabin hadn't nar' a plank upon de frame!
186

Who call me? Listen down de ribber, Dinah! Don't you hyar
Somebody holl'in' “Hoo, Jim, hoo?” My Sarah died las' y'ar;
Is dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim f'om hyar?
My stars, dat cain't be Sarah, shuh! Jes' listen, Dinah, now!
What kin be comin' up dat bend, a-makin' sich a row?
Fus' bellerin' like a pawin' bull, den squealin' like a sow?
De Lord 'a' mussy sakes alive, jes' hear,—ker-woof, ker-woof—
De Debble 's comin' round dat bend, he 's comin' shuh enuff,
A-splashin' up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof!
I'se pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain't gwine run away:
I'm gwine to stand stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessèd day.
You screech, and swish de water, Satan! I 'se a gwine to pray.
O hebbenly Marster, what thou willest, dat mus' be jes' so,
And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some nigger 's bound to go.
Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lef young Dinah hyar below!
'Scuse Dinah, 'scuse her, Marster; for she 's sich a little chile,
She hardly jes' begin to scramble up de homeyard stile,
But dis ole traveller's feet been tired dis many a many a mile.
I'se wufless as de rotten pole of las' year's fodder-stack.
De rheumatiz done bit my bones; you hear 'em crack and crack?
I cain'st sit down 'dout gruntin' like 'twas breakin' o' my back.
187

What use de wheel, when hub and spokes is warped and split, and rotten?
What use dis dried-up cotton-stalk, when Life done picked my cotton?
I'se like a word dat somebody said, and den done been forgotten.
But, Dinah! Shuh dat gal jes' like dis little hick'ry tree,
De sap 's jes risin in her; she do grow owdaciouslee—
Lord, ef you 's clarin' de underbrush, don't cut her down, cut me!
I would not proud persume—but I'll boldly make reques';
Sence Jacob had dat wrastlin'-match, I, too, gwine do my bes';
When Jacob got all underholt, de Lord he answered Yes!
And what for waste de vittles, now, and th'ow away de bread,
Jes' for to strength dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald head?
T'ink of de 'conomy, Marster, ef dis ole Jim was dead!
Stop;—ef I don't believe de Debble 's gone on up de stream;
Jes' now he squealed down dar;—hush; dat 's a mighty weakly scream!
Yas, sir, he 's gone, he 's gone;—he snort way off, like in a dream!
O glory hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high!
De Debble 's fai'ly skeered to def, he done gone flyin' by;
I know'd he couldn' stand dat pra'r, I felt my Marster nigh!
188

You, Dinah; ain't you 'shamed, now, dat you didn' trust to grace?
I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed his face!
You fool, you think de Debble couldn't beat you in a race?
I tell you, Dinah, jes' as shuh as you is standin' dar,
When folks starts prayin', answer-angels drops down th'u' de a'r.
Yas, Dinah, whar 'ould you be now, jes' 'ceptin' fur dat pra'r?
Baltimore, 1875.
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