Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

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Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches - Riley James Whitcomb


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Gash Morgan had the fight

      With the old stag-deer that pronged him – how he battled fer his life,

      And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.

      Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we

      Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three —

      When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way,

      And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.

      Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest,"

      And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counterfitters' Nest" —

      Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted – that a man was murdered thare,

      And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.

      And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two —

      You know we talked about the times when the old road was new:

      How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State

      Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't dimonstrate?

      Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;

      But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;

      And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,

      I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.

      With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane,

      And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane,

      I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,

      Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!

      MY FIDDLE

      My fiddle? – Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know!

      Though I ain't so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow

      As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry,

      And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry;

      Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink,

      And tune her up and play,

      And jest lean back and laugh and wink

      At ev'ry rainy day!

      My playin' 's only middlin' – tunes I picked up when a boy —

      The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy";

      "The Old Fat Gal," and "Rye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea,"

      Is the old cowtillions I "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me;

      And so I plunk and plonk and plink,

      And rosum-up my bow

      And play the tunes that makes you think

      The devil's in your toe!

      I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth,

      A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth,

      And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks

      That wasn't worth a botton of anybody's thanks!

      But they tell me, when I ust to plink

      And plonk and plunk and play,

      My music seemed to have the kink

      O' drivin' cares away!

      That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love!

      From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above —

      From her "apern," over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat,

      She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note!

      And so I pat her neck, and plink

      Her strings with lovin' hands, —

      And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think

      She kindo' understands!

      THE CLOVER

      Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose,

      And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws

      In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays

      Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;

      But what is the lilly and all of the rest

      Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest

      That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew

      Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?

      I never set eyes on a clover-field now,

      Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,

      But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane

      As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;

      And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,

      Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam

      With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love

      Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.

      And so I love clover – it seems like a part

      Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;

      And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow

      And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;

      And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,

      To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,

      And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom

      While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.

      NEGHBORLY POEMS

      ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE

      BY

      BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE

      Us farmers in the country, as the seasons go and come,

      Is purty much like other folks, – we're apt to grumble some!

      The Spring's too back'ard fer us, er too for'ard – ary one —

      We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none!

      The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soil

      Too long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil!

      The weather's eether most too mild, er too outrageous rough,

      And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh!

      Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see:

      It's jest to have old Providence drop round on you and me

      And ast us what our views is first, regardin' shine er rain,

      And post 'em when to shet her off, er let her on again!

      And yit I'd ruther, after all – considern other chores

      I' got on hands, a-tendin' both to my affares and yours —

      I'd ruther miss the blame I'd git, a-rulin' things up thare,

      And spend my extry time in praise and gratitude and prayer.

      ERASMUS WILSON

      'Ras Wilson, I respect you, 'cause

      You're common, like you allus was

      Afore


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