Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Hain't you see my Mandy Lou,
Is it true?
Whaih you been f'om day to day,
Whaih, I say?
Dat you say you nevah seen
Dis hyeah queen
Walkin' roun' f'om fiel' to street
Smilin' sweet?
Slendah ez a saplin' tree;
[Pg 174]Seems to me
Wen de win' blow f'om de bay
She jes' sway
Lak de reg'lar saplin' do
Ef hit's grew
Straight an' graceful, 'dout a limb,
Sweet an' slim.
Browner den de frush's wing,
An' she sing
Lak he mek his wa'ble ring
In de spring;
But she sholy beat de frush,
Hyeah me, hush:
Wen she sing, huh teef kin show
White ez snow.
Eyes ez big an' roun' an' bright
Ez de light
Whut de moon gives in de prime
Harvest time.
An' huh haih a woolly skein,
Black an' plain.
Hol's you wid a natchul twis'
Close to bliss.
Tendah han's dat mek yo' own
Feel lak stone;
Easy steppin', blessid feet,
Small an' sweet.
Hain't you seen my Mandy Lou,
Is it true?
Look at huh befo' she's gone,
Den pass on!
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Swing yo' lady roun' an' roun',
Do de bes' you know;
Mek yo' bow an' p'omenade
Up an' down de flo';
Mek dat banjo hump huhse'f.
Listen at huh talk:
Mastah gone to town to-night;
'T ain't no time to walk.
Lif yo' feet an' flutter thoo,
Run, Miss Lucy, run;
Reckon you 'll be cotched an' kissed
'Fo' de night is done.
You don't need to be so proud—
I's a-watchin' you,
An' I's layin' lots o' plans
[Pg 201]Fu' to git you, too.
Moonlight on de cotton-fiel'
Shinin' sof an' white,
Whippo'will a-tellin' tales
Out thaih in de night;
An' yo' cabin 's 'crost de lot:
Run, Miss Lucy, run;
Reckon you 'll be cotched an' kissed
To' de night is done.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
I has hyeahd o' people dancin' an' I 's hyeahd o' people singin'.
An' I 's been 'roun' lots of othahs dat could keep de banjo ringin';
But of all de whistlin' da'kies dat have lived an' died since Ham,
De whistlin'est I evah seed was ol' Ike Bates's Sam.
In de kitchen er de stable, in de fiel' er mowin' hay,
You could hyeah dat boy a-whistlin' pu'ty nigh a mile erway,—
Puck'rin' up his ugly features 'twell you could n't see his eyes,
Den you 'd hyeah a soun' lak dis un f'om dat awful puckah rise:
 When dey had revival meetin' an' de Lawd's good grace was flowin'
On de groun' dat needed wat'rin' whaih de seeds of good was growin',
While de othahs was a-singin' an' a-shoutin' right an' lef,
You could hyeah dat boy a-whistlin' kin' o' sof beneaf his bref:
[Pg 157] At de call fu' colo'ed soldiers, Sam enlisted 'mong de res'
Wid de blue o' Gawd's great ahmy wropped about his swellin' breas',
An' he laffed an' whistled loudah in his youfful joy an' glee
Dat de govament would let him he'p to mek his people free.
Daih was lots o' ties to bin' him, pappy, mammy, an' his Dinah,—
Dinah, min' you, was his sweet-hea't, an' dey was n't nary finah;
But he lef 'em all, I tell you, lak a king he ma'ched away,
Try'n' his level bes' to whistle, happy, solemn, choky, gay:
 To de front he went an' bravely fought de foe an' kep' his sperrit,
An' his comerds said his whistle made 'em strong when dey could hyeah it.
When a saber er a bullet cut some frien' o' his'n down,
An' de time 'u'd come to trench him an' de boys 'u'd gethah 'roun',
An' dey could n't sta't a hymn-tune, mebbe none o' dem 'u'd keer,
Sam 'u'd whistle "Sleep in Jesus," an' he knowed de Mastah 'd hyeah.
In de camp, all sad discouraged, he would cheer de hea'ts of all,
When above de soun' of labour dey could hyeah his whistle call:
 When de cruel wah was ovah an' de boys come ma'chin' back,
Dey was shouts an' cries an' blessin's all erlong dey happy track,
An' de da'kies all was happy; souls an' bodies bofe was freed.
Why, hit seemed lak de Redeemah mus' 'a' been on earf indeed.
Dey was gethahed all one evenin' jes' befo' de cabin do',
When dey hyeahd somebody whistlin' kin' o' sof' an' sweet an' low.
Dey could n't see de whistlah, but de hymn was cleah and ca'm,
An' dey all stood daih a-listenin' ontwell Dinah shouted, "Sam!"[Pg 158]
An' dey seed a little da'ky way off yandah thoo de trees
Wid his face all in a puckah mekin' jes' sich soun's ez dese:
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
When I come in f'om de co'n-fiel' aftah wo'kin' ha'd all day,
It 's amazin' nice to fin' my suppah all erpon de way;
An' it 's nice to smell de coffee bubblin' ovah in de pot,
An' it 's fine to see de meat a-sizzlin' teasin'-lak an' hot.
But when suppah-time is ovah, an' de t'ings is cleahed away;
Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes' of de day.
When my co'ncob pipe is sta'ted, an' de smoke is drawin' prime,
My ole 'ooman says, "I reckon, Ike, it 's candle-lightin' time."
Den de chillun snuggle up to me, an' all commence to call,
"Oh, say, daddy, now it 's time to mek de shadders on de wall."
So I puts my han's togethah—evah daddy knows de way,—
An' de chillun snuggle closer roun' ez I begin to say:—
"Fus' thing, hyeah come Mistah Rabbit; don' you see him wo'k his eahs?[Pg 156]
Huh, uh! dis mus' be a donkey,—look, how innercent he 'pears!
Dah 's de ole black swan a-swimmin'—ain't she got a' awful neck?
Who 's dis feller dat 's a-comin'? Why, dat 's ole dog Tray, I 'spec'!"
Dat 's de way I run on, tryin' fu' to please 'em all I can;
Den I hollahs, "Now be keerful—dis hyeah las' 's de buga-man!"
An' dey runs an' hides dey faces; dey ain't skeered—dey 's lettin' on:
But de play ain't raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone.
So I jes' teks up my banjo, an' I plays a little chune,
An' you see dem haids come peepin' out to listen mighty soon.
Den my wife says, "Sich a pappy fu' to give you sich a fright!
Jes, you go to baid, an' leave him: say yo' prayers an' say good-night."
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Oh, de grubbin'-hoe 's a-rustin' in de co'nah,
An' de plow 's a-tumblin' down in de fiel',
While de whippo'will 's a-wailin' lak a mou'nah
When his stubbo'n hea't is tryin' ha'd to yiel'.
In de furrers whah de co'n was allus wavin',
Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank an' tall;
An' de swallers roun' de whole place is a-bravin'
Lak dey thought deir folks had allus owned it all.
An' de big house stan's all quiet lak an' solemn,
Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch, er lawn;
Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef' to haul 'em,
Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string out air gone.
An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters,
D' ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in de air;
But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters
Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness dere.
Whah 's de da'kies, dem dat used to be a-dancin'
Evry night befo' de ole cabin do'?
Whah 's de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin'
Er a-rollin' in de san' er on de flo'?
[Pg 68]Whah 's ole Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle Aaron?
Whah 's Aunt Doshy, Sam, an' Kit, an' all de res'?
Whah 's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how 's he farin'?
Whah 's de gals dat used to sing an' dance de bes'?
Gone! not one o' dem is lef' to tell de story;
Dey have lef' de deah ole place to fall away.
Could n't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory
Stay to watch it in de hour of decay?
Dey have lef' de ole plantation to de swallers,
But it hol's in me a lover till de las';
Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers
All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de pas'.
So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place an' tend it
Ez I used to in de happy days gone by.
'Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to end it,
An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
AULD NEIBOUR,I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter;
Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,
To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle
O’ war’ly cares;
Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle
Your auld grey hairs.
But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha like.
For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;
Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,
Commen’ to me the bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
O’ rhymin clink,
The devil haet,—that I sud ban—
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,
But just the pouchie put the neive in,
An’ while ought’s there,
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie
Frae door tae door.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Shadder in de valley
Sunlight on de hill,
Sut'ny wish dat locus'
Knowed how to be still.
Don't de heat already
Mek a body hum,
'Dout dat insec' sayin'
Hottah days to come?
Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller
Wid de bendin' grain,
Guinea hen a callin',
Now's de time fu' rain;
Shet yo' mouf, you rascal,
Wha' 's de use to cry?
You do' see no rain clouds
Up dah in de sky.
Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in'
Down my face sence dawn;
Ain't hit time we 's hyeahin'
Dat ah dinnah ho'n?
Go on, Ben an' Jaspah,
Lif yo' feet an' fly,
Hit out fu' de shadder
Fo' I drap an' die.
Hongry, lawd a' mussy,
Hongry as a baih,
Seems lak I hyeah dinnah
Callin' evahwhaih;
Daih 's de ho'n a blowin'!
Let dat cradle swing,
One mo' sweep, den da'kies,
Beat me to de spring!
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me?
Don't shut me out 'cause I 's ol' an' can't see.
Somep'n's gone wrong dat 's a-causin' you dread,—
Don't be afeared to tell—Whut! mastah dead?
Somebody brung de news early to-day,—
One of de sojers he led, do you say?
Did n't he foller whah ol' mastah lead?
How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead?
Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed;
I wants to t'ink,—hit ain't cleah in my head:—
Killed while a-leadin' his men into fight,—
Dat 's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right?[Pg 137]
Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fiel'?
Lif me up some,—dah, jes' so I kin kneel.
I was too weak to go wid him, dey said,
Well, now I 'll—fin' him—so—mastah is dead.
Yes, suh, I 's comin' ez fas' ez I kin,—
Twas kin' o' da'k, but hit 's lightah agin:
P'omised yo' pappy I 'd allus tek keer
Of you,—yes, mastah,—I 's follerin',—hyeah!
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