| What's the matter, stummick? Ain't I always been your friend? |
| Ain't I always been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend |
| In getting nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake? |
| Say, stummick, what's the matter, You had to go an' ache? |
| |
| Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday; |
| I gave you more corn an' chicken than you'd ever had before; |
| I gave you fruit an' candy, apple pie an' chocolate cake, |
| An' last night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache. |
| |
| Say, what's the matter with you? Ain't you satisfied at all? |
| I gave you all you wanted; you was hard jes' like a ball, |
| An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin'; yet last night |
| You ached most awful, stummick! That ain't treatin' me jest right. |
| |
| I've been a friend to you, I have! Why ain't you a friend o' mine? |
| They gave me castor oil becoz you made me whine. |
| I'm feelin' fine this mornin'; yes it's true; |
| But I tell you, stummick, you better appreciate things I do for you. |
| "Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, |
| In the sunshine bright and strong, |
| For this world is fading, Pompey— |
| Massa won't be with you long; |
| And I fain would hear the south wind |
| Bring once more the sound to me, |
| Of the wavelets softly breaking |
| On the shores of Tennessee. |
| |
| "Mournful though the ripples murmur |
| As they still the story tell, |
| How no vessels float the banner |
| That I've loved so long and well, |
| I shall listen to their music, |
| Dreaming that again I see |
| Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop |
| Sailing up the Tennessee; |
| |
| "And Pompey, while old Massa's waiting |
| For Death's last dispatch to come, |
| If that exiled starry banner |
| Should come proudly sailing home, |
| You shall greet it, slave no longer— |
| Voice and hand shall both be free |
| That shout and point to Union colors |
| On the waves of Tennessee." |
| |
| "Massa's berry kind to Pompey; |
| But old darkey's happy here, |
| Where he's tended corn and cotton |
| For dese many a long-gone year. |
| Ober yonder, Missis' sleeping— |
| No one tends her grave like me; |
| Mebbe she would miss the flowers |
| She used to love in Tennessee. |
| |
| "'Pears like, she was watching Massa— |
| If Pompey should beside him stay, |
| Mebbe she'd remember better |
| How for him she used to pray; |
| Telling him that way up yonder |
| White as snow his soul would be, |
| If he served the Lord of Heaven |
| While he lived in Tennessee." |
| |
| Silently the tears were rolling |
| Down the poor old dusky face, |
| As he stepped behind his master, |
| In his long-accustomed place. |
| Then a silence fell around them, |
| As they gazed on rock and tree |
| Pictured in the placid waters |
| Of the rolling Tennessee;— |
| |
| Master, dreaming of the battle |
| Where he fought by Marion's side, |
| Where he bid the haughty Tarleton |
| Stoop his lordly crest of pride:— |
| Man, remembering how yon sleeper |
| Once he held upon his knee. |
| Ere she loved the gallant soldier, |
| Ralph Vervair of Tennessee. |
| |
| Still the south wind fondly lingers |
| 'Mid the veteran's silver hair; |
| Still the bondman, close beside him |
| Stands behind the old arm-chair. |
| With his dark-hued hand uplifted, |
| Shading eyes, he bends to see |
| Where the woodland, boldly jutting, |
| Turns aside the Tennessee. |
| |
| Thus he watches cloud-born shadows |
| Glide from tree to mountain-crest, |
| Softly creeping, aye and ever |
| To the river's yielding breast. |
| Ha! above the foliage yonder |
| Something flutters wild and free! |
| "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! |
| The flag's come back to Tennessee!" |
| |
| "Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, |
| Help me stand on foot once more, |
| That I may salute the colors |
| As they pass my cabin door. |
| Here's the paper signed that frees you, |
| Give a freeman's shout with me— |
| 'God and Union!' be our watchword |
| Evermore in Tennessee!" |
| |
| Then the trembling voice grew fainter, |
| And the limbs refused to stand; |
| One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier |
| Glided to the better land. |
| When the flag went down the river |
| Man and master both were free; |
| While the ring-dove's note was mingled |
| With the rippling Tennessee. |
| |
| Ethel Lynn Beers. |
| It was a hundred years ago, |
| When, by the woodland ways, |
| The traveler saw the wild deer drink, |
| Or crop the birchen sprays. |
| |
| Beneath a hill, whose rocky side |
| O'er-browed a grassy mead, |
| And fenced a cottage from the wind, |
| A deer was wont to feed. |
| |
| She only came when on the cliffs |
| The evening moonlight lay, |
| And no man knew the secret haunts |
| In which she walked by day. |
| |
| White were her feet, her forehead showed |
| A spot of silvery white, |
| That seemed to glimmer like a star |
| In autumn's hazy night. |
| |
| And here, when sang the whippoorwill, |
| She cropped the sprouting leaves, |
| And here her rustling steps were heard |
| On still October eves. |
| |
| But when the broad midsummer moon |
| Rose o'er the grassy lawn, |
| Beside the silver-footed deer |
| There grazed a spotted fawn. |
| |
| The cottage dame forbade her son |
| To aim the rifle here; |
| "It were a sin," she said, "to harm |
| Or fright that friendly deer. |
| |
| "This spot has been my pleasant home |
| Ten peaceful years and more; |
| And ever, when the moonlight shines, |
| She feeds before our door, |
| |
| "The red men say that here she walked |
| A thousand moons ago; |
| They never raise the war whoop here, |
| And never twang the bow. |
| |
| "I love to watch her as she feeds, |
| And think that all is well |
| While such a gentle creature haunts |
| The place in which we dwell." |
| |
| The youth obeyed, and sought for game |
| In forests far away, |
| Where, deep in silence and in moss, |
| The ancient woodland lay. |
| |
| But once, in autumn's golden time, |
| He ranged the wild in vain, |
| Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, |
| And wandered home again. |
| |
| The crescent moon and crimson eve |
| Shone with a mingling light; |
| The deer, upon the grassy mead, |
| Was feeding full in sight. |
| |
| He raised the rifle to his eye, |
| And from the cliffs around |
| A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, |
| Gave back its deadly sound. |
| |
| Away, into the neighboring wood, |
| The startled creature flew, |
| And crimson drops at morning lay |
| Amid the glimmering dew. |
| |
| Next evening shone the waxing moon |
| As sweetly as before; |
| The deer upon the grassy mead |
| Was seen again no more. |
| |
| But ere that crescent moon was old, |
| By night the red men came, |
| And burnt the cottage to the ground, |
| And slew the youth and dame. |
| |
| Now woods have overgrown the mead, |
| And hid the cliffs from sight; |
| There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, |
| And prowls the fox at night. |
| |
| W.C. Bryant. |