GO LIGHTLY, GAL
(THE CAKE-WALK)
BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON
Sweetes' li'l honey in all dis lan',
Come erlong yer an' gimme yo' han',
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Cawn all shucked an' de barn flo' clear,
Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Fiddles dey callin' us high an' fine,
"Time fer de darnsin', come an' jine,"
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
My pooty li'l honey, but you is sweet!
An' hit's clap yo' han's an' shake yo' feet,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Hit's cut yo' capers all down de line,
Den mek yo' manners an' tiptoe fine,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Oh, hit's whu'll yo' pardners roun' an' roun',
Twel you hyst dey feet clean off de groun',
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Oh, hit's tu'n an' twis' all roun' de flo',
Fling out yo' feet behime, befo',
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Gre't Lan' o' Goshen! but you is spry!
Kain't none er de urr gals spring so high,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Oh, roll yo' eyes an' wag yo' haid
An' shake yo' bones twel you nigh most daid,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Doan' talk ter me 'bout gittin' yo' bref,
Gwine darnse dis out ef hit cause my def!
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Um-humph! done darnse all de urr folks down!
Skip erlong, honey, jes' one mo' roun'!
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Fiddles done played twel de strings all break!
Come erlong, honey, jes' one mo' shake,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Now teck my arm an' perawd all roun',
So dey see whar de sho'-nuff darnsers foun',
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
Den gimme yo' han' an' we quit dish yer,
Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear,
Go lightly, gal, go lightly!
THE GOLFER'S RUBAIYAT[1]
BY H.W. BOYNTON
Wake! for the sun has driven in equal flight
The stars before him from the Tee of Night,
And holed them every one without a miss,
Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.
Now the fresh Year, reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,
And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.
Come, choose your ball, and in the Fire of Spring
Your Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling;
The Club of Time has but a little while
To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.
Whether at Musselburgh or Shinnecock,
In motley Hose or humbler motley Sock,
The Cup of Life is ebbing Drop by Drop,
Whether the Cup be filled with Scotch or Bock.
A Bag of Clubs, a Silver-Town or two,
A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag—and Thou
Beside me caddying in the Wilderness—
Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
They say the Female and the Duffer strut
On sacred Greens where Morris used to put;
Himself a natural Hazard now, alas!
That nice hand quiet now, that great Eye shut.
I sometimes think that never springs so green
The Turf as where some Good Fellow has been,
And every emerald Stretch the Fair Green shows
His kindly Tread has known, his sure Play seen.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Jamie and His, and heard great argument
Of Grip and Stance and Swing; but evermore
Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reaped:
"You hold it This Way, and you swing it So."
The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,
Moves on: nor all your Wit or future Luck
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,
Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.
And that inverted Ball they call the High—
By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,
Lift not your hands to It for help, for it
As impotently froths as you or I.
Yon rising Moon that leads us Home again,
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising wait for us
At this same Turning—and for One in vain.
And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been
And am no more above the pleasant Green,
And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole
I made in One—ah! pay my Forfeit then!