A STORY OF COLONIAL TIMES

(With a historical basis never before published.)

Ride back, my children, in the chariot of Time,

A hundred and sixty-five years;

And we’ll join a fond father, a hero sublime—

A maiden is pleading in tears!

She was seized by the Tories at a bold mountain spring,

Soon after refusing her heart,

To one who belonged to the enemy’s ring,

A foreign and haughty up-start.

Away thru the mountains they carried the maid

To their secret and darksome den;

And there the pure daughter of Martin was laid,

The captive of merciless men.

The “rock ribbed pen” in which Miss Martin was placed by the Tories.
Photograph by author.

She’s pleading with them, but her cries are in vain;

They’ve bound her secure and fast;

And vowed she should never see Martin again—

And the lover, “You’re mine at last.”

Her sleep has departed, her food is refused,

But unto the Father she prayed;

While the body of thieves are greatly amused,

Near a glowing fire they’ve made.

A brave of the friendly Saura tribe

Soon heard of the stolen girl;

To Martin he went without thought of a bribe,

With plans that proved him no churl.

To the top of his mansion the father flew,

A mansion of solid gray stone;

It’s standing yet—and ’twas years that it grew—

A tower defiant, though lone.

The two anxious men looked near and afar,

And at length a glimmer was seen,

A gleam far away, like a dim fallen star,

A token of promising sheen.

A compass was set, that infallible guide;

At sunrise it pointed the way,

When the father and friend, alert by his side,

Made a silent, complete survey.

While they searched through the wood some fragments were found,

Torn threads of a girl’s scarlet shawl,

Lying hither and yon on the virgin ground—

Faint hope of success was all.

Now at length a full score of Tories is spied,

At the mouth of their cave with guns—

“Down, still!” said Martin, “a moment we’ll hide,

Then away for our friends and our sons.”

Two score are secured and each man is well armed;

They approach the Tories’ dark cave;

But the thieves are alert as well as alarmed,

Before men so mighty and brave.

Quick shots are exchanged—the maiden still prays;

All the Tories but three take flight,

And these are bound fast, and in Heaven’s own ways,

There’s rapture and holy delight.

Ah, ne’er such a kiss and ne’er such embrace,

’Twixt Martin and only daughter;

For the gold of the hills, and the wealth of the race,

Could not, for all, have bought her.

The Tories still flee, the seven and ten,

Pursued thru the Sauratown hills,

’Till the last is destroyed or safe in a pen,

And the lovers had a feast that fills.

CUM ON WID YER
MONEY FUR ME

I’m pore an’ bline, but I shore kin sing;

And I lubs to hear dat silver ring,

So cum on wid yer money fur me.

Yer knows, white folks, a nigger’s pore chance;

An’ de best I kin do is ter sing an’ dance;

Now cum on wid yer money fur me.

Fill up dat cup an’ run hit ober,

An’ I’ll be full like a sheep in de clober;

So cum on wid yer money fur me.

Dar neber wuz er pull like de money pull,

An’ meny’s bin de day since mer cup wuz full—

O cum on wid yer money fur me!

While mer song do er about like ole Jim Crow,

Yer hearts will be happy an’ oberflow,

Ef yer cum on wid yer money fur me.

So cum er-long, cum er long an stan’ er round;

Let smiles on ebery face be found,

An’ cum on wid yer money fur me.

While I’se jes a nigger, pore an’ bline,

Dis shore am de song of yore race an’ mine;

O cum on wid yer money fur me!

Snapped by the Author in Tampa, Fla.