When The Hearse Comes Back
A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet
Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:
The slow hearse and the hosses— slow enough, to say at least,
Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased!
The low scrunch of the gravel— and the slow grind of the wheels—,
The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!
So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crack
A quickstep fer the hosses,
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes—
But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise—
You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away
And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!
Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest—
Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!
And this is why— when airth and sky's a gittin blurred and black—
I like the flash and hurry
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes,
Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks—;
I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps—
Fer my hearth's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's—,
I've buried father, mother— But I'll haf to jes' git you
To "excuse me," as the feller says—. The p'int I'm drivin' to
Is simply when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack,
It he'ps to shape us up like,
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
The idy! Wadin round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe,
When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine don't you know!
When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars,
And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars.
And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend
'At wants expressed my last request— I'll mebby, rickommend
To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track,
But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!"
A Canary At the Farm
Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry
Fetched 'er home a pet canary—,
And of all the blame', contrary,
Aggervatin' things alive!
I love music— that I love it
When it's free— and plenty of it—;
But I kindo' git above it,
At a dollar-eighty-five!
Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin'—,
Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'
Out yer money, and a-payin'
Fer a willer-cage and bird,
When the medder-larks is wingin'
Round you, and the woods is ringin'
With the beautifullest singin'
That a mortal ever heard!
Sahry's sot, tho'—. So I tell her
He's a purty little feller,
With his wings o' creamy-yeller,
And his eyes keen as a cat;
And the twitter o' the critter
'Pears to absolutely glitter!
Guess I'll haf to go and git her
A high-priceter cage 'n that!
A Liz Town Humorist
Settin' round the stove, last night,
Down at Wess's store, was me
And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White,
And Doc Bills, and two er three
Fellers o' the Mudsock tribe
No use tryin' to describe!
And says Doc, he says, says he—,
"Talkin' 'bout good things to eat,
Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!"
I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed
Wortermillon beat the mush—.
"Red," he says, "and juicy— Hush—!
I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!"
Then a Mudsock chap, says he—,
"Punkin's good enough fer me—
Punkin pies, I mean," he says—,
Them beats millons—! What say, Wess?
I chawed on. And Wess says—, "Well,
You jes' fetch that wife of mine
All yer wortermillon-rine—,
And she'll bile it down a spell—
In with sorghum, I suppose,
And what else, Lord only knows—!
But I'm here to tell all hands
Them p'serves meets my demands!"
I chawed on. And White he says—,
"Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess—
I'm no hog!" And Tunk says—, "I
Guess I'll pastur' out on pie
With the Mudsock boys!" says he;
"Now what's yourn?" he says to me:
I chawed on— fer— quite a spell
Then I speaks up, slow and dry—,
Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I—.
And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell!