Written by
Robert Burns |
I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M’Gaun,
Was here to hire yon lad away
’Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
An’ wad hae don’t aff han’;
But lest he learn the callan tricks—
An’ faith I muckle doubt him—
Like scrapin out auld Crummie’s nicks,
An’ tellin lies about them;
As lieve then, I’d have then
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough,
An’ ’bout a house that’s rude an’ rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught,
An’ get sic fair example straught,
I hae na ony fear.
Ye’ll catechise him, every quirk,
An’ shore him weel wi’ hell;
An’ gar him follow to the kirk—
Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then
Frae hame this comin’ Friday,
Then please, sir, to lea’e, sir,
The orders wi’ your lady.
My word of honour I hae gi’en,
In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en,
To meet the warld’s worm;
To try to get the twa to gree,
An’ name the airles an’ the fee,
In legal mode an’ form:
I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him:
An’ if a Devil be at a’,
In faith he’s sure to get him.
To phrase you and praise you,.
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray’r still you share still
Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
De win' is hollahin' "Daih you" to de shuttahs an' de fiah,
De snow's a-sayin' "Got you" to de groun',
Fu' de wintah weathah 's come widout a-askin' ouah desiah,
An' he 's laughin' in his sleeve at whut he foun';
Fu' dey ain't nobody ready wid dey fuel er dey food,
An' de money bag look timid lak, fu' sho',
So we want ouah Chrismus sermon, but we 'd lak it ef you could
Leave a little Chrismus basket at de do'.
Wha 's de use o' tellin' chillen 'bout a Santy er a Nick,
An' de sto'ies dat a body allus tol'?
When de harf is gray wid ashes an' you has n't got a stick
Fu' to warm dem when dey little toes is col'?
Wha 's de use o' preachin' 'ligion to a man dat's sta'ved to def,
An' a-tellin' him de Mastah will pu'vide?
Ef you want to tech his feelin's, save yo' sermons an' yo' bref,
Tek a little Chrismus basket by yo' side.
[Pg 175]'T ain't de time to open Bibles an' to lock yo' cellah do',
'T ain't de time to talk o' bein' good to men;
Ef you want to preach a sermon ez you nevah preached befo',
Preach dat sermon wid a shoat er wid er hen;
Bein' good is heap sight bettah den a-dallyin' wid sin,
An' dey ain't nobody roun' dat knows it mo',
But I t'ink dat 'ligion 's sweeter w'en it kind o' mixes in
Wid a little Chrismus basket at de do'.
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Written by
Henry Lawson |
His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,
His hat pushed from his brow,
His dress best fitted for the South --
I think I see him now;
And when the city streets are still,
And sleep upon me comes,
I often dream that me an' Bill
Are humpin' of our drums.
I mind the time when first I came
A stranger to the land;
And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lame
When Bill took me in hand.
Old Bill was what a chap would call
A friend in poverty,
And he was very kind to all,
And very good to me.
We'd camp beneath the lonely trees
And sit beside the blaze,
A-nursin' of our wearied knees,
A-smokin' of our clays.
Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far,
An' clouds were in the skies,
We'd camp in some old shanty bar,
And sit a-tellin' lies.
Though time had writ upon his brow
And rubbed away his curls,
He always was -- an' may be now --
A favourite with the girls;
I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall --
I've see'd 'em laugh until
They could not do their work at all,
Because of Corny Bill.
He was the jolliest old pup
As ever you did see,
And often at some bush kick-up
They'd make old Bill M.C.
He'd make them dance and sing all night,
He'd make the music hum,
But he'd be gone at mornin' light
A-humpin' of his drum.
Though joys of which the poet rhymes
Was not for Bill an' me,
I think we had some good old times
Out on the wallaby.
I took a wife and left off rum,
An' camped beneath a roof;
But Bill preferred to hump his drum
A-paddin' of the hoof.
The lazy, idle loafers what
In toney houses camp
Would call old Bill a drunken sot,
A loafer, or a tramp;
But if the dead should ever dance --
As poets say they will --
I think I'd rather take my chance
Along of Corny Bill.
His long life's-day is nearly o'er,
Its shades begin to fall;
He soon must mount his bluey for
The last long tramp of all;
I trust that when, in bush an' town,
He's lived and learnt his fill,
They'll let the golden slip-rails down
For poor old Corny Bill.
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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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