Miscellaneous Verses.
NOTE.
My first intention was to omit the following pieces from this publication, but on recommendation of several readers I have finally decided to place them in a seperate department; expecting in either case—whether included in this book or omitted—that the youthful aspirant, in this attempt to flutter out into the literary sphere, will fall headlong and be left only to dream of those glorious heights where others triumphantly soar amid the silvery clouds of fancy.
H. R. C.
THE DAWN O’ SPRING.
Yes, boys, I’m waitin’ patiently to see the dawn o’ spring—
To see the flowers in blossom an’ to hear the robins sing;
An’ to see the trees an’ meadows clad in garbs o’ livin’ green;
An’ to hear the merry music o’ the brook thet flows between.
It makes me fairly home-sick sech cold wintry days ez these,
The snow a driftin’ everywhere an’ layin’ in the trees;
An’ when Jack Frost steals ’round et night an’ frescoes everything,
It makes me hanker more an’ more to see the dawn o’ spring.
Fer I know when spring comes ’round ag’in with all her sweet perfume;
Her reses all in blossom an’ her orchards all a-bloom,
An’ robins singin’ gaily—I’ll be happy ez a king;
Thet’s why I’m waitin’ patiently to see the dawn o’ spring.
ZEEKE BULLARD’S FARM.
Zeeke Bullard wuz a farmer of no great amount of worth,
Tho’ his farm wuz well supplied with miles of rich, productive earth;
Fer he owned three hundred acres, so his frien’s an’ neighbors sed,
But he uster say thet money wuz a thing he never hed.
He’d groan about his losses, an’ his scarcity of tin,
An’ he of’en sed he wondered w’y his crops were all so thin;
He’d set aroun’ frum morn till night till days an’ weeks ’ud pass,
An’ talk about the way he’d lose his grain an’ garden sass.
The ’tater bugs in multitudes ’ud come frum all aroun’,
Till nothin’ in his Murphy patch wuz left abuv the groun’;
Insects of all descriptions thronged aroun’ his garden beds,
While worms with powerful appetites devoured his cabbage heads.
The crows ’ud come day after day to steal his yaller corn,
An’ dine on oats an’ barley till his fiel’s were nearly shorn,
An’ acre after acre where his clover oughter grow,
There wa’n’t but giant thistles pintin’ daggers high an’ low.
An’ when his crops were harvested by bugs an’ worms an’ crows,
An’ wintry blasts were comin’ on, his sons were void of clo’es;
In spite of all the mendin’ thet his little wife could do,
The toes an’ knees an’ elbows of his boys were peekin’ thro’.
* * * * *
A while ago I left thet place of farmin’ enterprise,
An’ now my folks are livin’ ’neath the broad, blue western skies,
An’ tho’ I ain’t a farmer I’m convinced there’s nothin’ made,
Unless you work et farmin’, same ez any other trade.
Weeds don’t need cultervatin’, but they grow up tall an’ stout,
An’ you mus’ work to save the grain an keep the thistles out:
You can’t loaf ’round frum morn till night an’ talk the hull day thro’,
For yer crops’ll go to ruin jest ez surely ez you do.
* * * * *
I’ve jest received a letter frum an ol’-time friend of mine,
Who sed poor Zeeke wuz dwellin’ where bright crowns of glory shine;
He’d quit the farmin’ business an’ wuz free frum worl’ly harm,
While his seven sons were lef’ to raise the mortgage on his farm.
UNCLE NICK, ON EDDICATION.
While ’tendin’ skool I uster be fust class et playin’ ball,
Et playin’ tag er leap-frog I wuz formost of ’em all;
Sech sportin’ allus hed fer me a wondrous fascination,
An’ so I spent more time et this than on my eddication.
I of’en git to thinkin’ what fine chances I hed then
To git an’ eddication, but of course it’s useless when
The opportunity is passed to mourn yer situation—
It’s pooty hard when you are ol’ to git an eddication.
Now boys I’m ’fraid thet some o’ you are growin’ up this way,
I’m ’fraid fer learnin’ some o’ you are substertootin’ play,
I’m ’fraid there’s boys a-livin’ in this present gineration,
Who’ll wish some day they’d seen less play an’ more o’ eddication.
You can’t keep waitin’, thinkin’ thet you’ve got a lot o’ time,—
The time to git yer schoolin’, boys, is while you’re in yer prime;
When you are ol’ you’ll see enough o’ care an’ tribulation,
Without the thought thet carelessly you missed an eddication.
UNCLE NICK, ON GOSSIPERS.
When people git to gossipin’ sometimes they’ll set an’ talk
Fer hours an’ hours together, jest ez reg’ler ez a clock;
I s’pose they think folks love to hear their never-endin’ yop,—
But when Samantha’s talked a while she knows enough to stop.
When Mrs. Jones wuz tellin’ et our place the other day,
Thet Mrs. Williams told her thet her neighbor, Mrs. Gray,
Sed she never saw so big a story-teller’s Widder Heath—
Samantha set there quiet, with her tongue between her teeth.
She ain’t ferever slingin’ out sech everlastin’ gab:—
She of’en sez “it’s bad enough to hear the neighbors blab;”
But she jest stays et home instid an’ ’tends to fam’ly cares,
An’ never tells the neighborhood about her home affairs.
We don’t take any papers, but with news we’re well supplied;
Fer the neighbors tell us every birth an’ death an’ suicide:
When Mrs. Jones comes up our walk a-squeakin’ them new shoes,
Sometimes Samantha’ll say to me, “here comes the daily news.”
THE ART O’ KNOWIN’ HOW.
It’s hard to write a decent song, tho’ maybe you deny it,
Most any job looks easy you’ll allow;
But if you’re inexperienced perhaps you’d better try it,
An’ you’ll find the nickromancy’s in the art o’ knowin’ how.
There’s lots o’ things you’ve never done that looks all killin’ easy—
Did you ever try to milk a kickin’ cow?
If not, just try yer hand fer fun, to satisfy and please ye,
An’ you’ll find the nickromancy’s in the art o’ knowin’ how.
Whatever yer profession, you’ll discover soon or late,
As you stop to wipe the sweat from off yer brow,
That to preach a decent sermon er to draw a furrow straight,
The nickromancy lies within the art o’ knowin’ how.
So be sure thet you’re adapted to the work thet you profess,
Teachin’ gospel truths er hangin’ on the plow,
Then buckle down to business, an’ yer can’t escape success,
Fer you’ll find the nickromancy’s in the art o’ knowin’ how.
MOTHER’S PHOTOGRAPH.
D’you wish to know what came to me from good ol’ Santa Claus?
’Twuz not a lot o’ nigger-toes to crack between yer jaws,
Nor candy nor a jumpin’-jack fer makin’ youngsters laugh—
But the present thet he give to me wuz mother’s photograph.
Some how a cur’ous feelin’ seems to steal acrost my mind,
Ez I look back to boyish days an’ think how good an’ kind
Thet mother’s been in teachin’ me to shun the evil ways,
An’ how attentive she hez been, e’en from my infant days.
An’ when I think how many years she’s toiled thro’ shine and rain,
An’ how she’s allus been on hand to soothe my every pain,
It seems ez ef to do my best thet I could never be
Half good an’ kind enough to pay fer all she’s done fer me.
Perhaps you think it’s silly, but it’s jest ez I hev sed,
Thet all the other presents ol’ St. Nicholas ever hed,
Compared with that he give to me w’ud be but worthless chaff,
Nor comfort me one half ez much ez mother’s photograph.
FIFTY YEARS.
Two score and ten summers have glided away,
As time speeds relentlessly on;
And our thoughts wander back, as we sit here to-day,
O’er the past that has faded and gone.
Many dear ones have gone to their rest in the grave,
Young hearts have departed from play;
Still others have gone, their dear country to save,
And fall’n ’mid the wild battle’s fray.
Many dear to our hearts are now far in the west,
While few near the old home remain;
And though often lonely, we’ve been greatly blest,—
Our labors have not been in vain.
’Tis fifty long years since the day which we set,
Our sorrows and pleasures to share;
That bright, happy day we ne’er shall forget,
When life looked so joyous and fair!
A MAIDEN WONDROUS FAIR.
Within a certain town there dwelt
A maiden wondrous fair,
Whose cheeks were like the rose’s hue
And golden was her hair.
Her eyes were like the twinkling stars,
Her teeth were like the pearl;
And sons of both the rich and poor,
Admired this charming girl.
Two constant beaus this maiden had,
And each one swore that she,
Ere many months had passed away,
His own dear wife would be.
But soon an incident occurred
Which all their plans upset,
When at the maiden’s gate one eve
Her two admirers met.
Hard words arose between the two,
As oft there had before;
And that the maid should be his wife
Still each persistent swore.
The longer thus they did contend,
The more their wrath did rise;
Until at last they came to blows
O’er who should have the prize.
While thus engaged, a prim young man
With unpretentious mien
Approached, just as the maid herself
Appeared upon the scene.
Then soon the angry blows were ceased
And quietude restored;
And each apologized to her
Whom he so much adored.
Then bowing low, each went his way;
Quite black and swollen-eyed;
While she whom they had fought to win
Became the third man’s bride.
WEALTH AND WANT.
How often the poor are despised and neglected,
For no other reason except they are poor;
How often the rich are beloved and respected,
Because they have uncounted wealth at their door.
There’s many an honest and virtuous heart,
To-day within poverty’s prison enchained;
While thousands reside amid pleasures of art,
Whose wealth was thro’ vice and dishonesty gained.
Despise not the needy because they are poor,
Nor envy the wealthy because of their gold;
Good or ill fortune may stand at our door,
But true hearts are not to be purchased or sold.
CHILDHOOD.
We long for those days, once so joyous,
For that unbounded freedom, again,
When there were no cares to annoy us,
And life knew no sorrow nor pain;
But those sweet days of childhood have vanished,
And we long for them only in vain.
Tho’ time has wrought changes unnumbered
Since those happy seasons were pass’d,
And now with life’s cares we’re encumbered,
Still backward fond visions we’ll cast;
And we’ll think of our childhood with pleasure
As long as our memories last.
THE LASSIE O’ER THE WAY.
A sweet little lassie
Lives over the way:
She’s pretty and modest,
Yet blithesome and gay.
So perfect her manners,
So graceful her mien;
O who would not worship
This fair little queen!
Is there a young laddie
Whose heart would not beat
For those smiles so angelic
And dimples so sweet:
Those blue eyes a-sparkling,
That bright golden hair!
O where’s the young lassie
More charming and fair!
She’s modest and gentle,
Yet cheerful and gay;
This sweet little lassie,
Just over the way.
Transcriber’s Note
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained.
All of the illustrations are the same simple decoration.
“Telulah Spring”, listed as the Frontispiece in the Contents, was missing from the original book.
“[Note]” at beginning of [“Miscellaneous Verses”]: “seperate” was printed that way.