Darkey Ways in Dixie

by Margaret A. Richard

I bin watchin’ you, big Jim,
En I s’prised, fo’ sho;
You is done fo’git mos’ all
Dat you eber know.
Dar you wus, at de cake-walk,
Makin’ eyes at Sue,
When you orter know dat gal
Ain’t gwine look at you.
Yo’ hair curl on top yo’ head
Lak sheep’s wool, fo’ sho,
En yo’ skin am des ez black
Ez de blackes’ crow.
Ebry time you pass dat gal
She stick up her nose,
En draw back, des lak she sca’ed
You gwine touch her clo’es.
Think she am too good ter speak
Ter a coal-black man
What, ez ebrybody know,
Do de bes’ he kin,
Kaze her skin ain’t black lak yourn,
En her hair ain’t wool,
She ac’ lak she am de queen—
Sick’nin’ yaller fool!
Ebry day she com’ dat hair
Lak de white folks do;
Pin it back wid fine hair-pins,
Shinin lak bran’ new;
En she go erlong de street
Holding her head high,
Lak she neber see her race
When dey pass her by.
Us dat am de niggers right—
Us don’t ac’ lak dat!
When we com’ our hair we make
Heah en dar a plait;
En we wrap ’em good wid cord
So dey sho gwine stay
Right in place a week or mo’
Frum de com’in’ day.

En we don’t pass cullud folks
Wid our head up high,
But we stop en speak wid dem
’Fo’e we pass on by.
En we as’ ’em: “How you do?
How’s de folks at home?”
En we tell ’em whar we live,
Sayin’ “You mus’ come.”
I’s bin watchin’ you, big Jim,
En I’s s’prised, fo’ sho;
Ez I sed, you is fo’got
All you eber know.
If you’s got good sense you’ll quit
Makin’ eyes at Sue,
Kaze dat stuck-up yaller gal
Ain’t gwine look at you.

To Walk Wid His Gal.

Dem gals stan’ erbout, en giggle en grin;
Dey say: “His shoes shine’ lak a bran’ new pin!”
En de way dat dey treat him am sholy a sin,
When John go ter walk wid his gal.
Dey laugh at his hat en dey laugh at his tie,
En dey say: “Will you ’low us ter see you go by?”
En sho wid sich nonsinse dat nigger dey try,
When John go ter walk wid his gal.
“Oh, shet up!” I tell ’em, “en dat right away,—
I know what’s de matter, now heah what I say;
You’s ebry one jealous, you sho is, ter-day,
Kaze John gone ter walk wid his gal!”

“Cunjud.”

Frow fish salt out on de grass
Ebrywhar dat man done pass,
En be quick;
Scatter it all roun’ de do’,
Else somebody heah, fo’ sho,
Gwine be sick.
He done cunjur’ me, you know,
One time long en long ago,
’Fo’e you bo’n;
En it ain’t fo’ good ter-day
Dat he stop by heah dat way,
Den pass on.
Dat de way he done befo’,
En wid fever laid me low
In de bed.
Go en spread de salt all roun’
’Fo’e we bofe am lyin’ down,
Sick or dead.

Uncle Ben’s Superstition.

Oh, please, Missus, don’t as’ dat!
Is you neber heah it sed
Him dat plants a holly tree
Sho gwine lie down, stiff en dead,
Soon’s dat tree grow big en high
’Nough ter shade him whar he lie?
I ain’t sca’ed ob death, not me!
I’s bin baptized in de creek,
En in big experience meetin’s
I does rise sometimes ter speak;
But I don’t tempt Providence;—
’Tis a act ob wickedness.
“How ter git it planted, den?”
Ain’t got time, yo’se’f, you say?
Lis’n, mum, en I will tell you
What’s, fo’ true, de only way,
’Th’out you hab somebody die
Soon’s dat tree grow big en high:

Put a seed somewhar out do’s,
So de win’ will blow it down
Des whar you would hab it planted,
On a nice, sof’ bit ob groun’.
Dar it will take root en grow;
I is tried it, en I know.
But ter put de seed in groun’,
Or ter plant dar de young tree,
Am sho temptin’ Providence—
En it ain’t bin done by me;
Dat am how I’m heah ter-day
Ter teach ole Missus de right way.