Go en fetch er lawyer, ’Tilda,
’Kaze I wants ter make mah will;
Neenter min’ erbout de doctor—
’Tain’t no use ter take er pill.—
Chunk up de kitchen fire,
En fetch mah easy-ch’er,
En put er piller in it:
Maybe I’ll git better hyeah.
I done hyeahed de doctor say it—de doctor hisse’f said it—
I’m plumb chock full o’ microbes en mah time’s ercomin’ quick.
So, ’stid o’ up en fussin’ wid me fer bein’ lazy,
Yer’d better be er nussin’ me, ’kaze I’m jes’ mighty sick.
I ’spec’ I must er cotch it
Back in Tennessee;
’Kaze, fur ez I kin ’member,
I wuz bad ez I could be—
P’intly hated hoein’ ’taters—
Couldn’t chop er stick o’ wood—
Couldn’t pick er sack o’ cotton—
Never wuz er lick o’ good.
En de folks dey called me lazy—my own mammy called me lazy
When, ’stid o’ gwine plowin’, I wuz fishin’ in de creek;
Took en tole de white folks ’bout it, en made er heap o’ trouble,
En all fer want o’ medersun—me bein’ mighty sick.
So, now yer knows de reason
Why I’m always loafin’ ’roun’,
When jobs is runnin’ after men
In ev’y part o’ town.
Dar’s patches on mah breeches,
En you’s er sight ter see;
Dat’s de work o’ dem same microbes,
En it kain’t be laid on me.
’Kaze de doctor he explained it, en de doctor’s book explained it,
En some Latin words explained it, en explained it mighty quick—
It’s mah lights er else mah liver, er maybe, its mah stomach—
It’s somep’n in mah insides, en it sho’ has made me sick.
En so, I hope yer’ll git yerse’f
Er washin’, now, er two,
Er get er job o’ scrubbin’
Er somp’n else ter do;
’Kaze dat doctor p’intly showed me
So I couldn’t he’p but tell
Dat dem microbes got me han’ en foot
En I jes’ kain’t git well.
Darfo’ I hope yer’ll he’p me ter pass mah las’ days easy,
En keep er fire in de stove en somep’n in de pan.
I know it’s hard ter do it, en I’m sorry I kain’t he’p yer;
But me ’n de doctor bofe knows I’m er mighty sick man.
James Weldon Johnson entitled a section of his book Jingles and Croons. Among these pieces, so disparagingly designated, are to be found some of the best dialect writing in the whole range of Negro literature. Every quality of excellence is there. The one piece I give is perhaps not above the average of a score in his book:
MY LADY’S LIPS AM LIKE DE HONEY
(Negro Love Song)
Breeze a-sighin’ and a-blowin’,
Southern summer night.
Stars a-gleamin’ and a-glowin’,
Moon jus shinin’ right.
Strollin’, like all lovers do,
Down de lane wid Lindy Lou;
Honey on her lips to waste;
’Speck I’m gwine to steal a taste.
Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,
Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;
An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’
’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.
Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,
Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,
Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,
Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.
Bird a-whistlin’ and a-swayin’
In de live-oak tree;
Seems to me he keeps a-sayin’,
“Kiss dat gal fo’ me.”
Look heah, Mister Mockin’ Bird,
Gwine to take you at yo’ word;
If I meets ma Waterloo,
Gwine to blame it all on you.