A Prophecy.
Sho ez dat dar sun on high
Shine on me ter-day,
Dar gwine be a riber-rise,
Lis’n what I say!
’Fo’e de summer am done pas’
Dat dar Congaree
Am gwine over-flow dem banks,
Rushin’ ter de sea.
I does closely watch de signs,
En de wasp, fo’ true,
Biuldin’ higher up dis yeah
Dan she mos’ly do.
By dat nes’, so safe en high,
She done say ter me;
“Dar gwine be a rise dis yeah
Ob de Congaree.”
Possum en Pertaters.
De pe’simmons in de pastur’ am a-fallin’, fallin’ down,
En de sweet pertaters waitin’ ter be dug frum out de groun’;
Dat dey good de possum know,
En he fatten on ’em, sho!
En I tas’e his juice ter-morrer, else I neber tas’e it mo’.
Bring de light-wood torch, Horiah, en don’t creep so slow erlong;
Lif’ yo’ lazy feet up faster, so dey keep time ter dis song:
“Mr. Possum, hear me say,
’Tain’t no use ter run away,
Kaze I sho gwine ketch en bleed you ’fo’e de breakin’ ob de day!
Dem two dogs already trace him ter de big pe’simmon tree,
En I see dem eyes ob his’n shinin’ down lak stars at me.
He for sho am perch up high,
But I git him, by en by,
En dat feas’ I hab to-morrer beat de fines’ chicken pie.
I done grab him by de neck, en I comin’ down agin,
En de weight ob him do tell me he am fur frum bein’ thin;
En he droop hisse’f en play
Dat he dead en pass away,
Do he know dat if I loose him he gwine mighty soon be gay.
He am sho a fine one, en I proud ter take him home,
En de mammy en de chillun wake ter see him when he come;
En I singe his tender hide
Till it look lak it done fried,
Den I try ter go ter sleep, but my eyes stay open wide.
Oh, my eyes stay open wide, till de breakin’ ob de day,
When de long, long night oh waitin’ am at las’ done pass away;
En I go outside en scratch
Sweet pertaters frum de patch,
Kaze wid juices ob de possum dey ain’t nothin’ else ter match.
When we bake dat critter brown, wid pertaters stuff inside,
Den we say: “Oh, hasten, nigger, ez de bridegroom ter de bride!”
Come en dine wid us ter-day,
En we know dat you gwine stay
Till de las ob dat good possum am done hid frum sight away.
Cotton’s Comin’ In.
Bet de goldenrod’s a-bloomin’
’Long de country roads;
Bet de hick’ry nuts am fallin’
By de loads en loads.
Bet pe’simmons am mos’ ripe—
Makes a feller grin!
What’s de sign? Why, man alive,
Cotton’s comin’ in!
Bet ole Pete am busy now
Bilin’ sorghum down;
Bet dey’ll hab a pullin’ soon—
’Vite me frum de town;
Bet de apple’s dryin’ on
Chiny plates en tin,
Bet all dis, en mo’, des kaze
Cotton’s comin’ in.
Bet de rice am hangin’ now
Head down in de sun;
Bet ole Massa’s habin’ times
Wid his rod en gun;
Wish I’d staid dar in de woods—
Town’s chuck full ob sin,
En I sho git homesick when
Cotton’s comin’ in.
Bet de pinders spread out on
De ole shed ter dry;
Bet de possum know de way
Ter de tree-top high.
Soon dem darkies put away
’Taters in de bin;—
Lan’! I’s gwine back when Pete
Brings his cotton in!