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SONGS OF 
 THE SOIL 
 
 B 
 
 FRANK L':STANTON 
 
 
 NE\<^ YOR.K 
 D.APPLETON&CO. 
 
 1924 
 

 ec)i 
 
 Copyright, 1894, 
 By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 DEC i 7 1S82 
 
 COPY 
 
 ' U r Ir C < re- 
 
 printed in the United States of America. 
 
 REPIKCEMEHT COPY 
 
TO MY FRIEND, 
 JOSEPH VAN HOLT NASH, 
 
 OF GEORGIA. 
 
 True-souled, and great through kindliest deeds, 
 
 Honor's ideal knight ; 
 With that sublimest love that leads 
 
 A brother to the light. 
 
 p^' 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In some important respects the poetry of Mr. 
 Stanton presents a phenomenon that is well worth 
 the attention of those who are interested in the 
 development of that branch of American literature 
 that finds voice in the South. In the first place, 
 the writings of no American poet have achieved 
 such wide popularity, if we are to measure popu- 
 larity by the daily and weekly newspapers of the 
 country, or by the interest which makes itself 
 manifest in private correspondence, or by the ap- 
 preciation which betrays itself in the irresistible 
 desire of composers, professionals and amateurs, to 
 give a musical setting to the poems. These mani- 
 festations are not by any means confined to this 
 country. In England the literary weeklies have 
 seized upon the poems as something new and 
 striking. The result of this is that the phenome- 
 
Vi PREFACE. 
 
 nal popularity of Mr. Stanton's verses in this 
 country finds a hearty echo in Great Britain. 
 
 A prominent English author, writing to Mr. 
 Stanton, says : ^^ Your poems are gaining reputa- 
 tion for you in England. The note of hope that 
 you are singing is one that has been unheard for 
 years.*' This remark, casually made, possesses 
 unusual significance. We know a great deal more 
 than our fathers knew. Profound sophistication 
 is the order of the day. We see it rankly devel- 
 oped in the stories that women are writing. Evo- 
 lution has become revolution. Sham culture, 
 brought to book (to speak literally), confesses that 
 the beastliness of the primal ape remains pretty 
 near the surface of things. The poets flutter 
 somewhat higher. That which is insipid vulgarity 
 in prose blossoms into pessimism in verse. In the 
 magazines and in the newspapers it is the same. 
 Knowing too much, we know nothing! There is 
 no future any more. Everything is hopeless 
 gloom. That which we have not already lost we 
 shall presently lose, and there is no remedy. In 
 fact, no remedy is necessary. There is nothing to 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 be done but to eat cold muffins and drink tea, and 
 make ourselves as comfortable as possible under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 It is in the midst of these conditions that the 
 voice of a singer away down South, in the provin- 
 cial regions, makes itself heard. It is a bold voice, 
 too, for it persists in singing night and day, neither 
 seeking nor avoiding an audience. If the world 
 listens, well and good : if not, pleasant dreams 
 to all for the sake of old times ! But the world 
 listens. The newspapers pick up the songs and 
 send them far and wide, till the voice of the singer 
 is carried over the continent and into the isles 
 of the sea. People say, " Who is this man that 
 goes on singing day after day as if there had 
 never been a singer in the world before him ? *' 
 They find that he has the root of the matter in 
 him, and so they listen gladly. 
 
 It will be interesting to note what the critics — 
 the apostles of culture — will say of Mr. Stanton's 
 verses. We shall hear, no doubt, that they lack 
 finish, that too little attention has been paid to 
 the demands of literary art. It is so easy to talk 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 about literary art, and so hard to know what it is! 
 It is such a dreadful thing in and of itself that 
 those who venture into print for the first time are 
 in quite a stew until somebody they have never 
 heard of before discovers for them whether they 
 understand anything about literary art. And they 
 are old and gray in the business before they dis- 
 cover for themselves that the only true literary 
 art is the atmosphere of individuality which each 
 mind with a message creates for itself. 
 
 As for Mr. Stanton's poems, they have all been 
 struck off in the heat and hurry of newspaper 
 work, not as things apart, but as a matter of 
 course. As one of the writers on the Atlanta 
 Constitution, he has a department which he calls 
 "Just from Georgia." He has chosen to preface 
 this department with at least one original piece of 
 verse every morning. But frequently he writes 
 four and five poems a day, not because he is ex- 
 pected to write them, but because they are waiting 
 to be written. The marvel of this fluency is that 
 the result should be so significant, that the earn- 
 estness and simplicity of the note he strikes should 
 
PREFACE, ix 
 
 be so manifest. His readers have no need to be 
 told that whether he blithely sings of youth and 
 love or, more seriously, of life and hope, he is not 
 playing with his theme. 
 
 In a period that fairly reeks with the results of 
 a sham culture that is profoundly ignorant of the 
 verities of life, and a sham philosophy that wor- 
 ships mere theories, it surely is something to find a 
 singer breathing unceremoniously into Pan's pipes 
 and waking again the woodland echoes with 
 snatches of song that ring true to the ear, because 
 they come straight from the heart. We were told 
 a while ago by one of the sophisticated brethren 
 that the poet of the future would come to us 
 singing of science. The dreaded possibility still 
 lies before us. Meanwhile, here is one with the 
 dew of morning in his hair, who looks on life and 
 the promise thereof and finds the prospect joyous. 
 Whereupon, he lifts up his voice and speaks to the 
 heart : and lo ! here is Love, with nimble feet and 
 sparkling eyes; and here is Hope, fresh risen from 
 his sleep ; and here is Life made beautiful again. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A song of summer-time ....... i 
 
 Night in the South 4 
 
 Lynched , . . . 7 
 
 The call of the reapers 8 
 
 What bothers him Ii 
 
 Me an' Mary 12 
 
 An old battlefield 17 
 
 A little hand 18 
 
 The picnic at Selina 20 
 
 For you 24 
 
 Dreaming of home 25 
 
 Slain 28 
 
 Old times in Georgy 29 
 
 The old brigade 31 
 
 Not melancholy days 33 
 
 Fallen asleep 35 
 
 Fall time 37 
 
 The thought of you 38 
 
 When Jim was dead 39 
 
 A song for her 41 
 
 Wearyin* for you -43 
 
 A song in good time 46 
 
xii CONTENTS. 
 
 YKGB. 
 
 A song of waiting 47 
 
 The old pine box 49 
 
 The first kiss 52 
 
 'Possum an' taters 54 
 
 A bouquet 58 
 
 The lightning age ........ 59 
 
 At Andersonville 62 
 
 A lazy chap , . . 64 
 
 Faithful 68 
 
 ** Green fields and running brooks " 69 
 
 A portrait in a grave 71 
 
 Through the wheat 72 
 
 The truant 74 
 
 A little bit of a boy 75 
 
 Jenny and I 77 
 
 The family record 79 
 
 Singing of you 80 
 
 Little Elaine 82 
 
 Out of the race 84 
 
 The parting of poor Jack 85 
 
 A day off 88 
 
 After 90 
 
 'Twas far away 91 
 
 Watermelon song 93 
 
 The duel 96 
 
 For Sally 98 
 
 One sad day 100 
 
 The old postmaster loi 
 
 A fair politician 103 
 
 A country philosopher 104 
 
 The ships of Melton 106 
 
CONTENTS, xiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 They've hung Bill Jones io8 
 
 The top floor 109 
 
 Don't you ? 112 
 
 My lady 114 
 
 The rattlesnake 116 
 
 A little way 117 
 
 Didn't think of losin* him 118 
 
 The home keeper 120 
 
 June dreams 121 
 
 A song of life 123 
 
 A sharp politician 125 
 
 Blackberries 127 
 
 Still in the ring . 130 
 
 A day in the woods 132 
 
 Jim Tuck's old woman 133 
 
 The shower 136 
 
 April 137 
 
 Uncle Jim 139 
 
 A little boy for sale 140 
 
 A fisherman in town 142 
 
 The old school exhibitions 144 
 
 In absence 146 
 
 In the fields 148 
 
 Gittin' home 150 
 
 Chattahoochee 151 
 
 The love feast at Waycross 154 
 
 A June pastoral 157 
 
 The mocking bird 158 
 
 Good-by 160 
 
 A Georgia barbecue 163 
 
 The last inn 164 
 
xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Easter bonnet . . i66 
 
 November nights i68 
 
 A tragedy 169 
 
 Some thoughts of Lee 170 
 
 The chap in the branch 172 
 
 The songs of the wind 174 
 
 The rainbow 176 
 
 The word he didn^t say 177 
 
 The whip-poor-will 179 
 
 Hunt him down 180 
 
 Close to springtime 182 
 
 A song of mysteries 183 
 
 Mary, after Calvary 185 
 
 Weary the waiting 187 
 
 Jones's cotton planter 189 
 
 Happy Ian' 192 
 
 Let Miss Lindy pass 194 
 
 A cheat ! 196 
 
 To a little fellow 197 
 
 A song . 199 
 
 My gifts 200 
 
 A little book 20i 
 
 Saint Michael's bells 203 
 
 Song 205 
 
 Maid o' the Mist . 206 
 
 A song of ships 208 
 
 Her beautiful hands 210 
 
 To the New Year 212 
 
 The Master's coming 214 
 
 A song of Liberty 216 
 
SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 A SONG OF SUMMER-TIME. 
 
 O summer-time in Georgy — I love to sing your 
 
 praise ! 
 Though I've got no voice fer singin\ it's a tune I 
 
 love to raise 
 When the birds is pantin', chantin', an' jest rantin' 
 
 roun' the rills, 
 
 With the juice o' ripe blackberries jest a-drippin* 
 from their bills ! 
 
 O summer-time in Georgy, when through leaves o' 
 
 green an' brown 
 
 The dew that smells o' violets comes twinklin', 
 
 tinklin' down 
 
 (i) 
 
2 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 On the wild an' wavin' grass that feels the sun- 
 beam as it slips, 
 
 An' the dusty lily puckers up its white an' thirsty 
 lips ! 
 
 O summer-time in Georgy, with the glory in the 
 
 dells, 
 Where the rich an' rainy incense from the fresh- 
 
 'nin' shower swells. 
 An' crost the bars to twinklin' stars float twilight's 
 
 fare-you-wells 
 In the lowin' o' the cattle an' the tinklin' o' the 
 
 bells ! 
 
 O summer-time in Georgy, when nigh the listenin' 
 vine, 
 
 Where the purple mornin'-glory an' the honey- 
 suckle twine. 
 
 The whip-poor-wills was singin' their notes o' love 
 an' bliss, 
 
 An' to my lips was clingin' the lips I loved to 
 kiss ! 
 
A SONG OF SUMMER-TIME, 3 
 
 Stay, like a dream o' beauty, while deares' dreams 
 
 depart, 
 An' rain your honey-sweetness in showers roun' 
 
 my heart ! 
 Pshaw ! I'm gittin' so soft-hearted, my eyes kin' 
 
 hardly see : 
 O summer-time in Georgy ! You're the best o' 
 
 times to me ! 
 
NIGHT IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 Here in the deep, June dark, 
 
 Laden with odors of the rose excessive, 
 Where not a star ray strikes the oaks to mark 
 
 Their glooms impressive, 
 
 I tilt my rustic chair — 
 
 The smoke from my Havana upward wreathing, 
 And o*er the rolling of the world I hear 
 
 The great Night breathing ! 
 
 The night that has no art 
 
 To hide her grief ; with dim-draped arms ex- 
 tended, 
 She waits to welcome to her widowed heart 
 
 The moonrise splendid. 
 
 And yet — so still is all 
 
 That if a bird's nest slipped its airy tether 
 
 (4) 
 
NIGHT IN THE SOUTH 5 
 
 There would be sound and feeling in the fall 
 Of one light feather ! 
 
 The rills that brawled all day, 
 
 Now with the tumbled pebbles make no 
 wrangle ; 
 The wind seems weary and has lost its way 
 
 In vines a-tangle. 
 
 In vines where odorous swings 
 
 The honeysuckle, o'er the senses stealing ; 
 Where humming-birds have brushed with beau- 
 teous wings 
 
 The wild grapes reeling ! 
 
 Night ! and the South ! and June ! 
 
 Silence — and yet, the sound of many voices ! 
 And now, dashed down the darkness, tune on tune, 
 
 And melody rejoices ! 
 
 Clear through the awakened night 
 
 The music rushes — all the joy-bells ringing; 
 
 And every leaf is trembling with delight 
 Born of that singing ! 
 
6 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 It is as if a word 
 
 Had flashed from God — aweary of the quiet ; 
 The soul of Music in a mocking-bird 
 
 In maddest riot ! 
 
 Night ! and the South ! and June ! 
 
 The wind awakes ; the river sings its story ; 
 Up from the black hills climbs the brimming moon 
 
 In full-blown glory ! 
 
 The distant hills grow bright : 
 
 The oaks stand clear ; the loneliest nook un- 
 covers ; 
 The keen vines listen for the footsteps light 
 
 Of whispering lovers ! 
 
 A flash on fields and streams, 
 
 And one bird's song tumultuous and tender ; 
 And then — the languor of melodious dreams, 
 
 And earth all splendor ! 
 
LYNCHED. 
 
 The tramp of horse adown a sullen glen ; 
 Dark forms of stern, unmerciful masked men : 
 
 A clash of arms, a cloven prison door, 
 
 And a man's cry for mercy ! . . . Then high o'er 
 
 The barren fields, dim outlined in the storm, 
 The swaying of a lifeless human form. 
 
 And close beside, in horror and affright, 
 A widowed woman wailing to the night. 
 
 (7) 
 
THE CALL OF THE REAPERS. 
 
 I know that it is reaping-time in all the fields of 
 
 Lee ; 
 I can hear the reapers singing o'er the meadows, 
 
 calling me : 
 " And wherefore come you not to-day to reap the 
 
 golden grain ? " 
 But I'll never see the fields of Lee, nor reap with 
 
 them again. 
 
 " And wherefore come you not to-day ? " they cry 
 
 across the wheat ; 
 "And wherefore come you not?'* the winds are 
 
 chiming low and sweet ; 
 And far and near sweet sounds I hear from over 
 
 mount and main ; 
 But I shall not see the fields of Lee, nor reap in 
 
 them again. 
 
 (8) 
 
THE CALL OF THE REAPERS, g 
 
 " Oh, wherefore come you not ? The hand of 
 
 Summer decks the sod ; 
 The world is like a picture where the harvests 
 
 smile to God ; 
 There's yet a late white rose for you in valley and 
 
 in plain.'* 
 But I shall not see the fields of Lee, where blooms 
 
 that rose, again. 
 
 " Ah, wherefore come you not ? The doves have 
 
 left their woodland nests, 
 With the silver sunrise gleaming on their downy, 
 
 tender breasts ; 
 And they're calling to you soft : * Come home ! ' " 
 
 But all their calls are vain ; 
 For I shall not hear the birds sing in the fields of 
 
 Lee again. 
 
 Oh, comrades, cease your crying, as ye reap in 
 
 fields of Lee ; 
 Ye have there so many reapers there is never 
 
 need of me ! 
 
lO SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 Oh, doves, leave not your nests, nor call in tender 
 
 tones and vain, 
 To him who hears, with falling tears, but can not 
 
 come again. 
 
 Reap on, ye men and maids of Lee ; for ye that 
 
 sow must reap ; 
 And I am reaping far away while ye your vigils 
 
 keep ; 
 But there is no song upon my lips, nor golden is 
 
 the grain. 
 
 And I shall not see the fields of Lee, nor reap 
 with you again ! 
 
WHAT BOTHERS HIM. 
 
 There ain't so much o' pleasure 
 In fishin' South in May, 
 
 Or any other blessed month — 
 No matter what they say ! 
 
 Because the river bank is green ; 
 
 The grass is soft an* deep, 
 An' where the shady willows lean 
 
 A feller falls to sleep. 
 
 An' jest when he begins to nod 
 'Longside his empty cup, 
 
 A fish comes jerkin' at his rod 
 An* always wakes him up ! 
 
 (XI) 
 
ME AN* MARY. 
 
 There's a lot o* fun in livin* an* a lot o' joy in 
 life 
 
 When a feller's got a sweetheart — 'fore he's think- 
 in' of a wife ; 
 
 An* sayin' that remin's me that I lived on honey- 
 comb 
 
 When Mary did the milkin' an' I drove the cattle 
 home. 
 
 I was mighty clost to twenty, an' was kinder shy 
 an' green, 
 
 An' the writin' in the Bible put down Mary seven- 
 teen ; 
 
 I'd been thinkin' o' the city — bein' much inclined 
 to roam, 
 
 But somehow I liked the cattle, an' kept drivin' of 
 'em home. 
 
ME AN' MARY. 13 
 
 You see, the cattle knowed me — been a-drivin* of 
 
 em* so ; 
 An' Mary had to milk 'em at a certain time, you 
 
 know ! 
 An' when I'd think o' clerkin' an' leavin' o' the 
 
 loam, 
 I'd wonder an' I wonder who would drive the 
 
 cattle home. 
 
 But there warn't so much in farmin', or in drivin' 
 
 cows to milk : 
 It kept me down to cotton-jeans an' Mary fur 
 
 from silk ; 
 So I made my mind up certain^ an' I packed my 
 
 trunk to start ; 
 An' I kept a-sayin' careless : " It'll break nobody's 
 
 heart." 
 
 I remember it was springtime — 'bout the settin* o' 
 
 the sun — 
 When I broke the news to Mary like 'twas jest the 
 
 biggest fun ! 
 
14 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 But I noticed while she listened that the milkin* 
 
 slowed — then stopped, 
 An' she looked acrost the meadows, an' her eyes — 
 
 they kinder dropped ! 
 
 An* I said : " I'm sorry, Mary, but the time is 
 
 come to go : 
 I hate to leave the country, likin' all the cattle 
 
 so!" 
 Then her eyes looked up an' met me, an' I felt 
 
 the lightnin' strike 
 As the words come mighty tremblin' : " Is the 
 
 cattle all you like ? " 
 
 Somethin' hit me ! thought a minute, lookin' down 
 
 into her eyes, 
 Wich was like a dream o' heaven, an' jest took in 
 
 all the skies ; 
 An' I felt myself a-shakin' like I'd struck a day in 
 
 fall; 
 But I said it — drawin' clost to her: ^^ Noy Mary^ 
 
 cows aint all! " 
 
ME AN' MARY. 15 
 
 It was quicker'n / kin tell it, or than even the law 
 
 allows, 
 But the milk drowned out the daisies, an' the 
 
 calves got with the cows ! 
 An' my arms was all aroun' her, an' my heart 
 
 jumped out my vest, 
 An' my vote was fer the country, fer I liked the 
 
 country best ! 
 
 Warn't no milk on that plantation that evenin' — ^ 
 
 not a drop ! 
 The cows got in the gyarden an' jest eat up half 
 
 the crop! 
 But the food that / was feedin' on was sweet as 
 
 honeycomb, 
 From the red, sweet lips o' Mary, as I kissed her 
 
 goin' home ! 
 
 I lost sight o' the city life, whatever it might 
 
 be: 
 One acre in the country was enough, an' more^ fer 
 
 me ! 
 
l6 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 An' I'm mixed up with the meadows, an* I never 
 
 want to roam, 
 Fer Mary does the milkin' an' I drive the cattle 
 
 home! 
 
AN OLD BATTLEFIELD. 
 
 The softest whisperings of the scented South, 
 And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth. 
 
 And where the thunders of the fight were born, 
 The wind's sweet tenor in the tinkling corn. 
 
 With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, 
 And blue skies bending over love and home. 
 
 But still the thought : Somewhere — upon the hills, 
 Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills, 
 
 Sad, wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat 
 For the loved sound of unreturning feet; 
 
 And when the oaks their leafy banners wave. 
 
 Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave ! 
 
 (17) 
 
A LITTLE HAND. 
 
 Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
 Somewhere in this sun-bright land ; 
 
 But I thank the Lord for his blessings, 
 And the clasp of a little hand. 
 
 A little hand that softly stole 
 
 Into my own that day, 
 When I needed the touch that I loved so much 
 
 To strengthen me on the way. 
 
 Softer it seemed than the softest down 
 On the breast of the gentlest dove ; 
 
 But its timid press and its faint caress 
 Were strong in the strength of love ! 
 
 It seemed to say in a strange, sweet way : 
 " I love you and understand " ; 
 
 (i8) 
 
A LITTLE HAND, 
 
 And calmed my fears as my hot, heart tears 
 Fell over that little hand. 
 
 Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
 Somewhere in this sun-bright land ; 
 
 But I thank the Lord for his blessings, 
 And the clasp of a little hand. 
 
 19 
 
THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 
 
 That picnic at Selina — it covered lots o' groun' ; 
 
 There was women, men, an' hosses from fifteen 
 mile aroun', 
 
 An' fiddles squeaked an' brogans creaked the mer- 
 riest kind o' song, 
 
 An' 'twas " Balance to your pardners ! " and 
 *^ Swing ! " the whole day long. 
 
 'Twas a powerful sight o* pleasure jest to see the 
 
 fellers whirl 
 Them lovely forms in calico, with all their hair in 
 
 curl ! 
 It was quite intoxicatin' ; you could hear the 
 
 rafters ring. 
 
 Till the old men couldn't stand it, an' cut the 
 
 " pigeon wing " ! 
 
 (20) 
 
THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 21 
 
 The old-time " double-shuffle " made the dust fly 
 
 from their heels, 
 An* 'twas sich a jolly scuffle in the Old Virginny 
 
 reels ; 
 The young men jest a-sweatin', an' the rosy gals 
 
 a-blowin' — 
 But they didn't mind the weather while they kept 
 
 the fiddle goin' ! 
 
 " It's jolly ! " roared the rafters. '' It's painful ! '* 
 
 groaned the floor : 
 ** It's dusty ! " said the women, but they only 
 
 danced the more ; 
 An' the young men called it ^^ stavin'," an' I reckon 
 
 they was right, 
 Fer that old-time Georgia ^* breakdown " made the 
 
 stars dance with delight ! 
 
 All day the fiddle's music was ringin' wild an^ 
 
 sweet ; 
 The nigger parson rolled it off an' kept time with 
 
 his feet : 
 
22 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 All day, with jest a breathin' spell 'long *bout the 
 
 time o' noon, 
 The dancers kept in motion an' the fiddle kept in 
 
 tune. 
 
 An' then here come the dinner — table stretchin" 
 
 *way 
 Out yonder, till it dwindled to a leetle mist o* 
 
 gray : 
 There was punkins, there was pullets, all a-lookin* 
 
 o* their best; 
 An' 'possums, an' pot licker, till a feller couldn't 
 
 rest ! 
 
 An' everybody went fur 'em — jest made a dash 
 
 f er all, 
 Till them chickens o' the springtime wished they 
 
 hadn't hatched till fall I 
 An' the punkins kept agoin' as they come in 
 
 reach o' me, 
 An' I made them 'possums wonder how they ever 
 
 climbed a tree! 
 
THE PICNIC A T SELINA. 
 
 23 
 
 But good things can't last furever; the honey 
 
 leaves the comb ; 
 An so, we had to be resigned to hitchin' up fer 
 
 home ; 
 An*, if I don't disremember, I was drivin' of a bay 
 On a zigzag road, an' huggin' of a widder all the 
 
 way ! 
 
 That picnic at Selina ! it ain't to be fergot ! 
 
 Fer a feller felt as happy 's if he owned a house 
 
 an' lot ! 
 An' thinkin' o' them women folks, all dressed up 
 
 fit to kill, 
 I kin feel my heart agoin' like a old rice beater 
 
 still ! 
 
 There'll be good times at Selina in the happy days 
 
 to be. 
 But never any times like that fer all the boys an' 
 
 me; 
 Fer the mem'ry o' that picnic — it'll live a hundered 
 
 years. 
 An' I'll feel my old feet shufflin' when I climb the 
 
 golden stairs ! 
 
FOR YOU. 
 
 For you, dear heart, the light — 
 God's smile, where'er you be, 
 
 And if he will — the night. 
 Only the night for me ! 
 
 For you Love's own dear land 
 Of roses, fair and free ; 
 
 And if you will — no hand 
 To give a rose to me. 
 
 For you Love's dearest bliss 
 In all the years to be ; 
 
 And if you will — no kiss 
 Of any love for me. 
 
 Thankful to know you blest, 
 
 When God your brow adorns 
 With the sweet roses of his rest, 
 
 I thank him for the thorns ! 
 
 (24) 
 
DREAMING OF HOME. 
 
 I can't jest tell what's come to her, an' yet I think 
 
 it's clear 
 That somethin's goin' wrong o' late — to see her 
 
 settin' there 
 A-dreamin' in the doorway, with that look inta 
 
 her eyes, 
 As if they still was restin' on the fur-off fields an' 
 
 skies. 
 
 She's always dreamin', dreamin' o' the life we left 
 
 behind — 
 The cozy little cottage where the mornin'-glories 
 
 twined ; 
 The roses in the garden — the yellow sunflowers 
 
 tall; 
 
 The violets — but she herself the sweetest flower 
 
 o' all ! 
 
 (25) 
 
26 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 You see, she use' to set there in the mornin's — so 
 
 content ; 
 The sunflowers foUerin' the sun, no matter where 
 
 he went ; 
 The brown bees sippin' honey an' a-buzzin' roun* 
 
 the place ; 
 The roses climbin' up to her an' smilin* in her 
 
 face ! 
 
 An' now, she can't fergit it ; when I tell her : 
 
 '' Little wife, 
 There ain't no use in grievin' fer that simple 
 
 country life," 
 She twines her dear arms roun* my neck, an* 
 
 smilin' sweet to see. 
 She whispers : ^' We're so fur away from where we 
 
 use' to be ! ** 
 
 There ain't no use in chidin*, or in sayin* words o* 
 
 cheer ; 
 There's nothin' in this city life like she was use to 
 
 there, 
 
DREAMING OF HOME. 
 
 27 
 
 Where preachin' come but once a month, an' street 
 
 cars didn't run, 
 An' folks they told the time o* day by lookin' at 
 
 the sun. 
 
 An' larks got up at peep o' day an' made the 
 
 meadows ring ! 
 I tell you, folks, when one's brought up to jest 
 
 that sort o' thing. 
 It's hard to git away from it — old feelin's bound 
 
 to rise 
 An' make a runnin' over in a woman's tender 
 
 eyes ! 
 
 So there she sets a-dreamin', till I git to dreamin', 
 
 too ; 
 An' when her head drops on my breast and sleep 
 
 falls like the dew 
 An' closes them bright eyes o' hers, once more we 
 
 seem to be 
 In the old home where we'll rest some day to- 
 ' gether — her an' me ! 
 
SLAIN. 
 
 Swiftly the shot from my rifle sped 
 
 To his heart, and he fell in the darkness — dead ! 
 
 With never a struggle, never a sigh, 
 I saw my enemy bleed and die. 
 
 And now, I said, is my peace secure ; 
 
 I shall fear his hand and his hate no more. 
 
 The black night came with a stealthy pace 
 And shed the shadows over his face, 
 
 Hidden forever from mortal view : 
 And only God and the darkness knew ! 
 
 But what would I barter of good and fair 
 To take the place of the dead man there, 
 
 As I face the future — the life to be, 
 With God and the darkness haunting me ! 
 
OLD TIMES IN GEORGY. 
 
 Old times in Georgy — them's the times fer me ! 
 No times now like them times, an' ain't agoin' to 
 
 be! 
 Long time 'fore the railroads an' steamboats 
 
 blowin' free — 
 How I like to dream o' them — good old times to 
 
 me ! 
 
 Old times in Georgy — them's the times that 
 
 make 
 My old eyes dance an' twinkle like sunshine on 
 
 the lake ; 
 
 An' sometimes, too, they kinder bring feelin's 'kin 
 
 to pain, 
 
 An' make my eyes run over like rivers full o'' 
 
 rain ! 
 
 (29) 
 
30 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 Old times in Georgy — can't fergit 'em quite — 
 Suns that made the daytime — stars that come at 
 
 night ; 
 Oh ! but they was good times — country smilin' 
 
 bright ! 
 Everything was love then — everything was light. 
 
 Old times in Georgy — hear my old heart beat 
 When they come a-ringin' with their music sweet 1 
 Dreamin' of 'em always, mountains, hills, an' dells, 
 They're like a sweet song's echo — a fur-off chime 
 o' bells ! 
 
 Old times in Georgy — they was sweet to know — 
 Old friends that loved us, friends that we loved so ! 
 Seem to lost my way, now — ain't much left to 
 
 see — 
 Them dear old times in Georgy is all life's got fer 
 
 me ! 
 
THE OLD BRIGADE. 
 
 When Pearson sang *^ The Old Brigade," how all 
 
 the boys kept time ! 
 The muskets rattled once again, the cannon 
 
 roared in rhyme ; 
 With shoulder close to shoulder still, again the 
 
 charge they made, 
 With all the torn flags waving o'er the old 
 
 Brigade ! 
 
 When Pearson sang ** The Old Brigade," 'twas 
 " Forward — march ! " and then — 
 
 The shouting of the captains and the rallying of 
 the men ! 
 
 The storming of the ramparts, and the battle, 
 
 blade to blade — 
 
 Oh, the story and the glory of the old Brigade ! 
 
 (30 
 
32 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 When Pearson sang *^ The Old Brigade/' the boys 
 
 kept time with sighs, 
 And something like a teary mist dimmed all their 
 
 dreaming eyes ; 
 For lo ! the fight is ended, the rust is on each 
 
 blade, 
 And the grass grows green forever o'er the old 
 
 Brigade ! 
 
NOT MELANCHOLY DAYS. 
 
 These ain't the ^'melancholy days," no matter 
 
 what they say! 
 There's more good fun in ail the ways than's been 
 
 there many a day ! 
 The crackin' of the teamster's whip — the shoutin' 
 
 of a bov 
 As the apples come a-tumblin' down — that's joy fer 
 
 you — big joy ! 
 
 These ain't the '* melancholy days " — there's lots o' 
 
 fun in sight ; 
 The cool and bracin' mornin's, an' the big oak fires 
 
 at night ; 
 The hounds upon the rabbit's trail — the wild doves 
 
 on the wing — 
 The maiden with the red lips, an' the lover with 
 
 the ring ! 
 
 (33) 
 
34 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 These ain't the ^'melancholy days" — not much! 
 
 they're full o' life, 
 An' you're thankful fer your sweetheart, an' you 
 
 praise God fer your wife ! 
 An' then, on general principles — in view of what 
 
 he's givin' — 
 You shout a hallelujah fer the privilege o' livin' ! 
 
FALLEN ASLEEP. 
 
 Only a little dust — 
 
 So small that a rose might hide it ; 
 And I trust in God — or I try to trust, 
 
 When I kneel in the dark beside it. 
 
 I kneel in the dark and say : 
 
 I only dream that I weep ; 
 She would not leave me and go away — 
 
 She has only fallen asleep. 
 
 Fallen asleep, as oft 
 
 She climbed to mv heart to rest, 
 Her white arms twining my neck, as soft 
 
 As down on a dove's sweet breast. 
 
 Tenderly — unawares, 
 
 Sleep came in the waning light 
 And kissed her there on the twilight stairs 
 
 That lead to the morning bright. 
 
 (35) 
 
36 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 And that she will wake I know, 
 And smile at a grief like this ; 
 
 It could not be she would leave me so, 
 With never a good-night kiss ! 
 
 So I kneel in the dark and say : 
 
 I only dream that I weep ; 
 She would not leave me and go away — 
 
 She has only fallen asleep. 
 
FALL TIME. 
 
 Fall time in the country ! ain't it out o' sight ? 
 Hick'ry nuts a-droppin' an* fires blazin* bright ! 
 'Taters in the ashes, apples on the shelf — 
 Pass aroun' the cider till you hardly know your- 
 self ! 
 
 Fall time in the country — people full o* life, 
 Everybody happy with his sweetheart or his wife ! 
 Blue smoke from the cabins — up an' up it curls. 
 While we go a-rollickin* an' ridin' with the gyrls ! 
 
 Fall time in the country — hardest time to beat ! 
 Follerin' the banjer an' the fiddle with your feet ; 
 Never nuthin' like it — happy day an' night, 
 Cider in the jimmyjohn an' fires blazin' bright ! 
 
 (37) 
 
THE THOUGHT OF YOU. 
 
 I care not whether the skies are blue, 
 Or the clouds gloom black above me ; 
 
 A sweet thought comes with the thought of you- 
 You love me, dear, you love me ! 
 
 When the world is cold and its friendships few, 
 
 And toil is a vain endeavor, 
 A sweet voice sings to my soul of you. 
 
 And the world is sweet forever. 
 
 And love, my love, with the bright eyes true 
 
 And the red lips kind with kisses. 
 There is no love like my love for you — 
 
 No joy in the world like this is ! 
 
 And whether the skies are dark or blue, 
 
 With stars or storms above me. 
 My life will shine with the thought of you— 
 
 You love me, dear, you love me ! 
 
 (38) 
 
WHEN JIM WAS DEAD. 
 
 When Jim was dead — 
 
 " It sarved him right," the neighbors said, 
 
 An' 'bused him fer the life he'd led, 
 
 An' him a-lyin' there at rest 
 
 With not one rose laid on his breast ! 
 
 Hard words, an' lots o' them, they said 
 
 When Jim was dead. 
 
 " Jest killed hisself," " Too mean to live : " 
 They didn't have one word to give 
 In comfort, while they crowded near 
 An' looked on Jim a-lyin' there! 
 " Ain't any use to talk/' they said : 
 " He's better dead ! " 
 
 But suddently the room growed still, 
 
 While God's white sunshine seemed to fill 
 
 (39) 
 
40 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 The dark place with a gleam o' life, 
 An' over him she bent — Jim's wife ! 
 An' with her lips laid clost to his — 
 Jest like he knowed an' felt the kiss — 
 She sobbed — a touchin' sight to see : 
 " Oh ! Jim was always good to me ! " 
 
 I tell you, when that come to light 
 
 It kinder set the dead man right; 
 
 An' round the weepin' woman they 
 
 Throwed kindly arms o' love that day ; 
 
 An' fallin' fast as hers, they shed 
 
 The tend'rest tears — when Jim was dead. 
 
A SONG FOR HER. 
 
 Sing for her, mocking bird, 
 
 Your warm breast heaving in the sun-bright blos- 
 soms ; 
 Sing sweeter songs than we have ever heard, 
 Until the wild heart of the world is stirred, 
 
 And love wakes wondering in a thousand bosoms ! 
 
 Sing for her, lark of dawn, 
 
 When on your breast the lofty light is gleaming I 
 Sing sweet, and bear the message on, and on- 
 Higher and higher, till the world is gone, 
 
 And at God's gates the melody is dreaming ! 
 
 Sing for her, whip-poor-will, 
 
 Your sweet voice ringing from the twilight covers, 
 
 Where stars stream splendid over vale and hill ; 
 
 Sing sweet, until your melting notes shall thrill 
 
 And throng the wide, awakened world with lovers ! 
 
 (41) 
 
42 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Sing, mocking bird ! Sing, lark ! 
 Sing, whip-poor-will — your songs in concert ring- 
 ing ; 
 
 Sing in the dewy dawn — sing in the dark ; 
 
 But while ye make your sweetest music, hark ! 
 A sweeter song to her my soul is singing! 
 
WEARYIN' FOR YOU. 
 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you — 
 All the time a-feelin' blue ; 
 Wishin' fer you — wonderin' when 
 You'll be comin* home again ; 
 Restless — don't know what to do — 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 
 
 Keep a-mopin' day by day : 
 Dull — in everybody's way ; 
 Folks they smile an' pass along 
 Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 
 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew — 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 
 
 Room's so lonesome, with your chair 
 
 Empty by the fireplace there, 
 
 (43) 
 
44 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Jest can't stand the sight o' it ! 
 Go outdoors an' roam a bit : 
 But the woods is lonesome, too, 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 
 
 Comes the wind with sounds that* jes' 
 Like the rustlin* o' your dress ; 
 An' the dew on flower an' tree 
 Tinkles like your steps to me ! 
 Violets, like your eyes so blue — 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 
 
 Mornin' comes, the birds awake 
 (Them that sung so fer your sake !), 
 But there's sadness in the notes 
 That come thrillin' from their throats! 
 Seem to feel your absence, too — 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you. 
 
 Evenin' comes : I miss you more 
 When the dark is in the door ; 
 'Pears jest like you orter be 
 There to open fer me ! 
 
WEAR YIN' FOR YOU. 
 
 45 
 
 Latch goes tinklin' — thrills me through, 
 Sets me wearyin* fer you ! 
 
 • ■ • • • • 
 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you — 
 All the time a-feelin* blue ! 
 Wishin' fer you — wonderin' when 
 You'll be comin' home again ; 
 Restless — don't know what to do — 
 Jest a-wearyin' fer you ! 
 
A SONG IN GOOD TIME, 
 
 Wishin* time, 
 
 Fishin' time, 
 Time to roll over 
 
 In shadders 
 
 Of medders, 
 On carpets of clover! 
 
 Swingin' time, 
 Singin' time. 
 
 Time to be sippin* 
 The sunny- 
 Made honey 
 
 Of melon juice drippinM 
 
 Merry time. 
 
 Berry time. 
 
 Time in good meter ; 
 
 Dove time, 
 
 An' love time. 
 
 An' life growin' sweeter ! 
 (46) 
 
A SONG OF WAITING. 
 
 I have waited for your coming as the blossoms 
 In the blighted buds of winter wait the spring ; 
 
 As the robins with the red upon their bosoms 
 Await the sweet and loving time to sing. 
 
 I have listened for your footstep as the meadows 
 Low listen for the dewfall in the night ; 
 
 As the parched plains droop and dream toward 
 the shadows — 
 As the leaves in darkness listen for the light ! 
 
 There is never any rose without the kisses 
 
 Of the spring upon its leaves of red and white ; 
 
 There is never any meadow if it misses 
 The dewfall on its bosom in the night. 
 
 There is never any robin's breast that, gleaming, 
 
 Shall feel the thrill and flutter of a wing, 
 
 (47) 
 
48 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 And set the world to loving and to dreaming, 
 If there never comes a sunny time to sing. 
 
 Let the dew the meadow's violets discover ! 
 
 Let the robin sing his sweetest to the close ! 
 There is never any love without a lover — 
 
 You are coming, and the world blooms like a 
 rose ! 
 
THE OLD PINE BOX. 
 
 We didn't care in the long ago 
 
 Fer easy chairs that was made fer show, 
 
 With velvet cushions in red an' black 
 
 An' springs that tilted a feller back 
 
 'Fore he knowed it — like them in town — 
 
 Till his heels went up an' his head went down ! 
 
 But the seat we loved when we all was poor, 
 
 Was the old pine box by the grocery store ! 
 
 There it stood in the rain an' shine, 
 Four foot long by the measurin' line ; 
 Under the chiny-berry tree, 
 Jest as cosy as she could be ! 
 Fust headquarters fer infermation — 
 Best old box in the whole creation ! 
 Hacked, an' whittled, but feelin'/r;W, 
 An' so blamed sociable all the time ! 
 
 (49) 
 
so 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 There we plotted, an' there we'd plan; 
 Read the news in the paper, an* 
 Talked o' politics fur an* wide. 
 An' got mixed up as we argyfied ! 
 An' the old town fiddler sawed away 
 At " Old Dan Tucker," an' '' Nelly Gray," 
 An' " Suwannee River," an' fifty more, 
 On the old pine box by the grocery store. 
 
 The boys in the village knowed it well ; 
 
 It was there they'd come when the meetin' bell 
 
 Rung out fer church ; fer they knowed the gyrls 
 
 Would pass that way in their crimps an' curls, 
 
 Smilin' sweeter'n honeycomb 
 
 When the boys would ax fer to see 'em home — 
 
 Likewise fer the purtiest rose they wore 
 
 Past the old pine box by the grocery store ! 
 
 It heard good music, it got hard knocks, 
 But still stood faithful — that old pine box ! 
 Fer every feller in town that could. 
 Cut out his name in the willin' wood, 
 
THE OLD PINE BOX. 5 1 
 
 An* his sweetheart's, mixed with the sayin* true 
 'Bout the rose bein' red an' the violet blue. 
 Oh, there's boxes still, but there ain't no more 
 Like the old pine box by the grocery store ! 
 
 It ain't there now, as it was that day — 
 
 Burnt, I reckon, or throwed away ; 
 
 An* some o' the folks that the old box knowed 
 
 Is fur along on the dusty road ; 
 
 An' some's crost over the river wide 
 
 An' foun' a home on the other side. 
 
 Is they all fergot ? Don't they sigh no more 
 
 Fer the old pine box by the grocery store ? 
 
 It seems to me, if my race was run, 
 
 An' I was there, where it's always sun. 
 
 With a crown to wear an' a harp to hold — 
 
 Loafin' roun' on the streets o' gold, 
 
 While the saints was singin' an' sayin' grace 
 
 I'd kinder look fer a shady place, 
 
 An' dream furever an' everm.oit 
 
 Of the old pine box by the grocery store! 
 
THE FIRST KISS. 
 
 Sweetheart, 'twas but a while ago — it scarce seems 
 
 yesterday, 
 Though now my locks are white as snow and all 
 
 your curls are gray — 
 When, walking in the twilight haze, ere stars had 
 
 smiled above, 
 I whispered soft : " I love you,*' and you kissed 
 
 me for that love! 
 
 The first kiss, dear ! and then your hand — your 
 little hand so sweet. 
 
 And whiter than the white, white sand that twin- 
 kled 'neath your feet — 
 
 Laid tenderly within my own ! Have queens such 
 lovely hands ? 
 
 No wonder that the whip-poor-wills made sweet 
 
 the autumn lands ! 
 (53) 
 
THE FIRST KISS, 
 
 55 
 
 It seemed to me that my poor heart would beat to 
 
 death and break, 
 While all the world, sweetheart ! sweetheart ! 
 
 seemed singing for your sake ; 
 And every rose that barred the way in glad and 
 
 dying grace. 
 Forgot its faded summer day and, leaning, kissed 
 
 your face ! 
 
 I envied all the roses then, and all the rosy ways 
 That blossomed for your sake are still my life's 
 
 bright yesterdays ; 
 But thinking of that first sweet kiss and that first 
 
 clasp of hands. 
 Life's whip-poor-wills sing sweeter now through all 
 
 the winter lands ! 
 
TOSSUM AN' TATERS. 
 
 Talk about ^<?(^^eatin*, we — 
 
 Party jest made up o' three, 
 
 An' a woman, sweet, or sweeter 
 
 Than ^' Praise God " in old long meter — 
 
 That's the sweetest kind o' song 
 
 After sermonts six mile long — 
 
 Had a layin' out that day, 
 
 At the hotel crost the way ! 
 
 An' I'll say in self-defense, 
 
 Never did feel hungry sence ! 
 
 Talk o' turkey, breast so white, 
 Goose baked brown an' sarved up right ; 
 Smokehouse ham an' likes o' that — 
 Streak o' lean an' streak o' fat ; 
 Juicy backbone, steak on toas', 
 Mutton chops 'at some likes mos' — 
 
 (54) 
 
'POSSUM AN' TATERS. 55 
 
 Sakes ! they ain't a 'simmon blossom 
 To a big, fat, Georgy 'possum ! 
 
 Had one ? Well, you jest kin bet ! 
 (Tears like I kin taste 'im yet !) 
 Sarved up in old-fashion' style, 
 'Nough to make a parson smile ! 
 Thar he lay an' graced the feas', 
 Sides jest gleamin' with the grease, 
 Brown an' juicy, crisp an' crackin' — 
 (Sally's lips was jest a-smackin' !) 
 How they stared — them hotel waiters — 
 At that 'possum, dressed in taters ! 
 
 Doctor — fust he made a start, 
 
 Carved that 'possum to the heart ; 
 
 Sich a hurry fer the dressin' 
 
 Mos' fergot to ask a blessin'. 
 
 " Hoi' up, boys," he says : " The case 
 
 Is a fittin' one fer grace ! " 
 
 But the words come sorter jerkin' 
 
 When he seen my mouth a-workin' ! 
 
 (Comes to 'possum — 'tain't no cheatin' — 
 
 I kin say grace while I'm eatin' !) 
 
56 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Doctor axed a blessin' prime : 
 " Now, Miss Sally, it's your time! '* 
 Sally went to pass her plate, 
 But she foun* mine couldn't wait! 
 Warn't no manners there that day — 
 Struck her crock'ry jest half way ! 
 Had the biggest kind o* laugh 
 When my plate come smack in half ! 
 But that didn't stop the game — 
 'Possum got there jest the same 
 
 Every appetite was willin' ; 
 
 Taters sweet an' mighty fillin' ! 
 
 Good old ** yams " they raised last year- 
 
 Yallerer than Sally's hair ! 
 
 (I could most eat alligators 
 
 Cooked 'longside o' Georgy taters ! 
 
 When they fix 'em up down South, 
 
 Melt like honey in your mouth ! 
 
 Give a man a right good load, 
 
 Pay the last red cent he owed !) 
 
 Well ! we eat that 'possum ! I 
 Never seen Time gallop by 
 
'POSSUM AN' TATERS, 
 
 As she did at that 'ere feed 
 With the 'possum in the lead ! 
 Brotherin, this here ain't no fable: 
 When I drawed off from that table, 
 Felt that I was goin' to bust 
 Like the cotton baggin' trust ! 
 But I didnt — as you see. 
 No 'possum gits the best o' me/ 
 
 57 
 
A BOUQUET. 
 
 Red roses, wherefrom the dew drips, 
 
 Staining the turf at my feet, 
 You were never as red as her lips — 
 
 Or as sweet ! 
 
 Blue violets, tender and true — 
 
 A mirror for sun-sprinkled skies, 
 Do you think you were ever as blue 
 
 As her eyes ? 
 
 Rare lilies, in garments of white, 
 
 Which winds with warm kisses beguile, 
 
 Have you yet known a sunbeam as bright 
 As her smile ? 
 
 Kiss, lily, rose, violet — kiss ! 
 
 Ere time doth your beauty destroy ; 
 
 For her white hand hath touched you, and this 
 
 Is your joy ! 
 
 (s8) 
 
THE LIGHTNING AGE. 
 
 What's the world a-comin' to, a feller'd like to 
 
 know, 
 When they're makin' ice to order an' manufactur- 
 
 in' snow ? 
 An' now, as if to vex us, another thing we 
 
 hear : 
 They're makin' rain in Texas without a word o' 
 
 prayer ! 
 
 They jest git in a open fiel', where all the folks 
 
 kin view. 
 An' fire off a cannon ball an' split a cloud in 
 
 two ! 
 An' then you hear a thunderin', and the rain 
 
 comes big and bright ; 
 But I jest can't help a-wonderin' if that kind o' 
 
 rain is right ! 
 
 (59) 
 
6o SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 Tears like the Lord ain't in it, when the string a 
 fellow jerks 
 
 Kin fire off a cannon 'at'li bust his water- 
 works ; 
 
 An' it's jest as true as preachin', an' I'm talkin' of 
 it plain — 
 
 No crop in this here country'!! ever grow from 
 sich a rain ! 
 
 The cities — they're gone out o' sight ; it 'pears 
 
 jest like a dream, 
 Fer when they has a cloudy night they runs the 
 
 stars by steam ! 
 And here's the lightnin' with a song proclaimin' 
 
 man is boss, 
 An' all the street cars skimmin' *long without a 
 
 mule or hoss I 
 
 An' here's that ringin' telephone, which never 
 
 seems to tire. 
 But takes your voice a-travellin' crest twenty mile 
 
 o' wire ! 
 
THE LIGHTNING AGE, 6i 
 
 They said it reached to t'other worT, an' I reckon 
 
 it was so, 
 Fer when I axed wher' Molly was, it hollered 
 
 back: ''Hello!'' 
 
 Then, there's that funny phonygraph — I never 
 
 seen the like ! 
 But there's no tellin' nowadays where lightnin's 
 
 goin' to strike ; 
 You jest put in a word or two, an' then take up 
 
 the slack, 
 An', like a woman when you talk, it keeps a-talkin* 
 
 back ! 
 
 Lord ! how the world is movin' on, beneath the 
 
 sun an' moon ! 
 I can't help thinkin' I was born a hunder'd year 
 
 too soon ; 
 But when I go — praise be to God ! — it won't be in 
 
 the night, 
 Fer my grave'll shine like glory in a bright 
 
 electric light ! 
 
AT ANDERSONVILLE. 
 
 When the weird, wondering wind is still, 
 There, in the valleys at Andersonville, 
 At that shivering hour — the grim half way 
 Of the ghostly march of the dark to-day, 
 There are sounds too mystical to repeat ; 
 Eager voices, hurrying feet, 
 Ribald laughter and jest — and then 
 The prayers and pleadings of ^prisoned men. 
 
 At dead of night, when the wind is still, 
 
 There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. 
 
 When the hills gloom black in the midnight shade 
 
 There are signs of life in the old stockade : 
 
 The phantom guards in the prison bounds 
 
 Resume their sorrowful, silent rounds; 
 
 While the glowworm's lantern gleams and waves 
 
 Adown the aisles of a thousand graves ; 
 
 (62) 
 
A T ANDERSONVILLE, d^ 
 
 And then to the listening ear there comes 
 The mystic roll of the muffled drums. 
 
 The drama ends and the dreamer wakes : 
 
 In the flowering fields and tangled brakes 
 
 The birds are singing ; the liquid notes 
 
 Rise to heaven from their thrilling throats ; 
 
 The sunlight falls with a softened beam 
 
 On the voiceless graves where the dead men 
 
 dream ; 
 While hill and valley and prison sod 
 Rest in the smile and the peace of God. 
 
 But at dead of night, when the wind is still, 
 There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. 
 
A LAZY CHAP. 
 
 I'm the laziest chap, I reckon, that a feller ever 
 seen : 
 
 Feel drowsy at the tinkle of a bell or tam- 
 bourine; 
 
 Warn't never made fer reachin' wher' the revenue 
 is foun' — 
 
 Fm what you'd call ^^ a lazy chap,'' jest built fer 
 lyin' roun'. 
 
 Contented ? Mighty right, I am ! when spring 
 
 winds whistle sweet 
 In the meadows where the daisies make a carpet 
 
 fer your feet. 
 Where the nestin' birds is chirpin' ; where the 
 
 brook in witchin' play 
 
 Goes laughin' on, jest pushin' all the lilies out his 
 
 way, 
 
 (64) 
 
A LAZY CHAP, 65 
 
 You'll find me almost any time, a-huntin' shady 
 
 trees, 
 With the lull song o' the locust, and the drowsy 
 
 drone o' bees 
 Above me an' all roun' me : I'm a queer one, so 
 
 they say, 
 Fer I'd ruther hear the birds sing than to shoot 
 
 'em, any day ! 
 
 I wouldn't nigh be guv'ner, though it's kinder 
 great to be, 
 
 An' the Georgy legislatur' ain't a drawin' card fer 
 me ! 
 * An' as fer that old Congress — now, what's ifs big- 
 gest seat 
 
 To a feller on a river bank with lilies at his 
 feet? 
 
 Jest let 'em take the offices an' keep 'em in a 
 
 whirl ! 
 I'd ruther have a vi'let from the sweet hand of a 
 
 girl 
 
66 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Than run the whole United States ! So let the 
 
 country roll ! 
 Fer a streak o' April sunshine is a-lightin' up my 
 
 soul. 
 
 I'm a-rollin* in the blossoms as they come a- 
 
 tumblin' down, 
 An' I'm glad as all creation there's a fence 'twixt 
 
 me an' town ; 
 I'm rakin' in the sunshine an' takin* of my 
 
 ease, 
 Whistlin* when I want to an* singin' when I 
 
 please ! 
 
 Jest laziness^ they tell me, an' I reckon that 
 
 they're right ; 
 But the world's so full o' beauty, an' the sun goes 
 
 down at night ! 
 But diff'runt folks hac diff'runt minds, an' drink a 
 
 diff 'runt cup : 
 When I'm talkin' to the lilies they're a-plowin' of 
 
 'em up ! 
 
A LAZY CHAP. 67 
 
 My field's a pasture fer the cows, an' though it 
 
 never pays, 
 It's a powerful source o' pleasure jest to see the 
 
 creeturs graze ! 
 The tinkle, tinkle o' the bells is sich a pleasin' 
 
 soun' — 
 But I'm a lazy chap, you know, jest built fer lyin' 
 
 roun' ! 
 
 
FAITHFUL. 
 
 It is something, sweet, when the world goes ill 
 To know you are faithful and love me still; 
 To see, when the sunshine has left the skies, 
 The love-light shining in your dear eyes ; 
 Beautiful eyes, more dear to me 
 Than all the wealth of the world could be ! 
 
 It is something, dearest, to feel you near 
 
 When life with its sorrows seems hard to bear ; 
 
 To feel when I falter the clasp divine 
 
 Of your tender and trusting hand in mine; 
 
 Beautiful hand, more dear to me 
 
 Than the tenderest things of earth could be! 
 
 Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong 
 For God gives grief with his gift of song, 
 And poverty, too ! But your love is more 
 To me than riches and golden store ; 
 Beautiful love, until death shall part 
 It is mine, as you are — my own sweetheart ! 
 
 (68) 
 
'^ GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING 
 BROOKS." 
 
 Jim Riley sent it to me, as fresh as fresh kin be, 
 With paper print that's big enough fer any one to 
 
 see ; 
 But sometimes when I'm readin' it the print right 
 
 misty looks — 
 Jest like as if 'twas rainin' on " Green Fields an* 
 
 Runnin' Brooks!" 
 
 But soon the rain — it's over; jest lasts a little 
 
 while, 
 An' the sun streams on the clover an' makes the 
 
 medders smile; 
 An' then you smell the violets that peep from cozy 
 
 nooks, 
 
 An' hear your sweetheart singin' by " Green Fields 
 
 an' Runnin' Brooks." 
 (69) 
 
70 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 It's good o* Riley jest to think o' me, so fur away; 
 To take a patch o' winter skies an' weave 'em into 
 
 May ; 
 To coax the birds to sing fer us, until it kinder 
 
 looks 
 As if the world was wadin' through " Green Fields 
 
 an' Runnin' Brooks ! " 
 
 But Jim's " the same old Riley," an' he sings from 
 
 left to right, 
 Till he sets the world to music an' jest tangles it 
 
 in light ; 
 An' so, it ain't no wonder that they put him down 
 
 in books. 
 Like the blessed one he sent me from "Green 
 
 Fields an' Runnin' Brooks ! " 
 
A PORTRAIT IN A GRAVE. 
 
 Bright in that spot where his brave heart had 
 dreamed 
 Itself to dust, the faded portrait lay — 
 A woman's face that went with him that day 
 
 Into the battle where the lightnings gleamed. 
 
 Smiling and sweet and beautiful it seemed — 
 That face, death-hidden in its frame of clay : 
 A soldier of the blue, or of the gray — 
 
 Over his dead heart still the dark hair streamed ! 
 
 Dimly remembered is the conflict done — 
 The clamor of the captains — the retreat. 
 When Death cried " Halt ! " This memory 
 above 
 
 All others crowns the battle : Here was one 
 
 Whose dying lips a woman's kiss made sweet — 
 
 Whose grave is glorious with a woman's love ! 
 
 (71) 
 
THROUGH THE WHEAT. 
 
 When she came tripping through the wheat 
 It seemed to bend to kiss her feet, 
 And roses all the sod made sweet 
 And birds sang cheery ; 
 
 The honey bees were humming low — 
 Gold specks on roses white as snow, 
 Sweet roses — not so sweet, I know, 
 As she was — Mary ! 
 
 Her footstep seemed to wake a sound 
 Of tinkling music from the ground 
 That thrilled the winds that whistled round 
 With sweet caresses ; 
 
 And on her forehead, white and sleek, 
 The rarest blossoms fell to wreak 
 Their love, and played at hide-and-seek 
 In her gold tresses. 
 (72) 
 
THROUGH THE WHEAT 
 
 Down fell the scythe upon the grass, 
 And " Mary, Mary, will you pass ? ** 
 ** You're in my way," she said. " Alas ! 
 1 must be going! " 
 
 " Not till you pay the forfeit sweet 
 Of coming this way through the wheat ; 
 Ah ! Mary — lips were made to meet — 
 A kiss you're owing ! '' 
 
 Up went the dainty finger tips, 
 To shield the rich and rosy lips, 
 And all their red was in eclipse^ — 
 My luck seemed missing. 
 
 A moment only ! Then, as she 
 Fled like a shaft of light from me, 
 She cried : " I paid no forfeit — see ? 
 You did the kissing ! " 
 
 73 
 
THE TRUANT. 
 
 Oh, school's took in, but it ain't took tnCy 
 
 Fer I'm goin' 'crost the meadows jest a-skim- 
 min'! 
 When I ain't kite-flyin' wher' the wind blows free, 
 I'm six yards furder 'an my folks kin see, 
 Fishin', or strippin' off fer swimmin'! 
 
 Oh, school's took in, but it ain't took me^ 
 
 Fer the pond with the tadpoles is a-brimmin'! 
 When I ain't in the top o' the chinyberry tree, 
 I'm six yards furder 'an my folks kin see, 
 Fishin', or strippin' off fer swimmin'! 
 
 (74) 
 
A LITTLE BIT OF A BOY. 
 
 There was never a smile in a weary while, 
 
 And never a gleam of joy, 
 Till his eyes of light made the whole world 
 bright — 
 
 A little bit of a boy ! 
 
 He came one day when the world was May, 
 
 And thrilling with life and joy ; 
 And with all the roses he seemed to play — 
 
 A little bit of a boy ! 
 
 But he played his part with a human heart, 
 
 And time can never destroy 
 The memory sweet of the pattering feet 
 
 Of that little bit of a boy ! 
 
 We had wondered how he could play all day 
 With never a dream of rest ; 
 
 (75) 
 
76 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 But once he crept in the dark and slept 
 Still ,on his mother's breast ! 
 
 There was never a smile in a weary while, 
 
 And never a gleam of joy ; 
 But the world seems dim since we dreamed of 
 him — 
 
 A little bit of a boy ! 
 
JENNY AND I. 
 
 Jenny and I were lovers, 
 
 Many and many a year ; 
 Poor as I be — but Jenny gave me 
 
 The gold of her moonlight hair ; 
 And I said, *^ Too ragged a lover 
 
 To wed with the winsome witch ! ** 
 But she bent her head, with her lips o' red, 
 
 And kissed me, and made me rich ! 
 
 Jenny and I were lovers, 
 
 Yonder — in storm and fair; 
 But her blue-bright eyes made the summer skies, 
 
 And her smile the spring o' the year. 
 Poor as a wayside beggar, 
 
 With her tresses around me curled, 
 Like veins o' gold in the rugged mold, 
 
 I was richer than all the world ! 
 
 (77) 
 
78 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Jenny and I were lovers, 
 
 With only the sky above ; 
 And we cared not for a painted cot, 
 
 For heaven was over our love. 
 The brooks were our mirrors — the water wine 
 
 That sparkled by hill and glen ; 
 Her face beamed pink where I stooped to drink, 
 
 And the water was sweeter then ! 
 
 Jenny and I were lovers, 
 
 Many and many a year ; 
 But the rose was wed to her lips o' red, 
 
 And the moonlight envied her hair ; 
 And the red rose creeps where her true heart 
 sleeps, 
 
 And the moonlight falleth drear 
 Where Jenny and I were lovers — 
 
 Many and many a year ! 
 
THE FAMILY RECORD. 
 
 Thar's John — he is a doctor, an' William kinder 
 
 laws, 
 An' Reuben, he's a traveler in the missionary 
 
 cause ; 
 An' Moses runs a grocery store, an' Zekiel, he's 
 
 the mayor ; 
 An' Bob, he deals in real estate, where all the cash 
 
 is clear ; 
 An' Jim, he's tradin' horses, an' Ben, he runs the 
 
 mill, 
 An* Jeremiah deals in corn an' moonlight at the 
 
 still ; 
 An' Jackson — well, he ain't no 'count — jes' keeps 
 
 'em on the stir 
 
 To make a livin' fer him : Jack's 2l politicianer ! 
 
 (79) 
 
SINGING OF YOU. 
 
 Blossoms and blossoms and blossoms ! and birds 
 
 singing of 'em, so sweet ! 
 Pressing the down of their bosoms 'gainst the 
 
 flowers that fall at your feet ! 
 Clinging and swinging and flinging their souls to 
 
 the heavens so blue — 
 Oh, sweet to my soul is their singing, because they 
 
 are singing of you ! 
 
 Singing of you 
 
 In the dawn and the dew — 
 
 Singing of heaven and singing of you ! 
 
 Blossoms and blossoms and blossoms ! sparkling 
 
 with beautiful pearls, 
 
 Twining themselves for your tresses, and falling 
 
 and kissing your curls ! 
 (80) 
 
SINGING OF YOU. 8i 
 
 And all the birds swinging and flinging their souls 
 to God's heavens of blue, 
 
 And my soul dreaming soft in their singing, be- 
 cause they are singing of you ! 
 
 Singing of you 
 
 In the dawn and the dew — 
 
 Singing of heaven and singing of you! 
 
LITTLE ELAINE. 
 
 Where have you gone, little Elaine, 
 
 With the eyes like violets wet with rain — 
 
 Silvery April rain, that throws 
 
 Melting diamonds over the rose ? 
 
 (Ah, never were eyes as bright as those !) 
 
 You have left me alone ; but where have you 
 
 flown ? 
 God knows, my dear, God knows ! 
 
 Where have you gone, little Elaine, 
 
 With laughing lips of the crimson stain — 
 
 Lips Aat smiled as the sunlight glows 
 
 When morning breaks like a white, sweet rose 
 
 Over the wearisome winter snows ? 
 
 Shall I miss their song my whole life long ? 
 
 God knows, my dear, God knows ! 
 
 (82) 
 
LITTLE ELAIiYE, 83 
 
 You have left me lonely, little Elaine : 
 I call to you, but I call in vain ; 
 I sing to you when the twilight throws 
 Its dying light on my life's last rose, 
 While the tide of Memory ebbs and flows. 
 Is it God's own will I should miss you still ? 
 God knows, my dear, God knows ! 
 
OUT OF THE RACE. 
 
 Let *em fix their slates fer votin' — 
 Let 'em light to git the place ; 
 
 While they're jawin' I'm a co'tin' — 
 Smackin' of a purty face ! 
 
 I ain't with 'em — take my note in — 
 Tell 'em that I'm out the race ! 
 
 Let 'em tell their jokes so funny, 
 (They ain't never understood !) 
 
 While the bees is storin' honey 
 In my hives of hollowed wood; 
 
 While I'm makin' heaps of money 
 
 Fishin' fer the neighborhood ! 
 (84) 
 
THE PARTING OF POOR JACK. 
 
 'A made a finer end, and went away, an it had been any 
 
 Christom child ; . . . for after I saw him fumble with the 
 
 sheets, and play with flowers, ... I knew there was but one 
 
 way. ... So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet , . , 
 and all was as cold as any stone. — Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 I do forgive him for his raid 
 
 On Gad's Hill— valiant knight ! 
 For Mistress Quickly's scores unpaid — 
 
 The sword he hacked for fight ; 
 For all his frequent calls for sack — 
 
 (The brawler bluff and old !) 
 Because of that sad day — poor Jack ! — 
 
 That day he was a-cold ! 
 
 That day when, stealing to his den, 
 
 (As history repeats) 
 
 He " babbled of green fields," and then 
 
 Pale, *^ fumbled with the sheets"; 
 (85) 
 
S6 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Crept to his darkened lodge — alack ! 
 
 Sir John, so stout and bold : 
 ** The king had killed his heart " — poor Jack !■ 
 
 That day he was a-cold ! 
 
 And Mistress Quickly I revere 
 
 In that she stood his cause 
 And faced them down that Jack was there 
 
 Where ** Arthur's bosom " was ! 
 Forgot were all his unpaid scores — 
 
 Her grievous wrongs untold ; 
 She had not turned him out o* doors 
 
 That day he was a-cold ! 
 
 Poor Jack ! he did not hearken then 
 
 To "chimes o' midnight ** wild; 
 But parted from his fellow-men 
 
 "Like any Christom child." 
 His cloudy memory bore him back 
 
 To flowery days of old ; 
 He " babbled of green fields " — poor Jack !— 
 
 That day he was a-cold ! 
 
THE PARTING OF POOR JACK. 87 
 
 So, I forgive him for his raid 
 
 On Gad's Hill— with the rest ; 
 For Shallow's thousand pounds unpaid, 
 
 And every brawling jest; 
 For Bardolph's nose, a-shine with sack, 
 
 And Pistol's tirades bold ; 
 He parted from us young — poor Jack ! — 
 
 That day he was a-cold ! 
 
A DAY OFF. 
 
 When a feller takes a day off — sets his soul to 
 
 loafin, roun' 
 Where the hills climb up to heaven an* the rushin* 
 
 rivers soun', 
 Tears like the world is newer, with a good deal 
 
 more o' light, 
 An' his eyes is seein' truer, an' his heart is beatin' 
 
 right ! 
 
 When a feller takes a day off, there is lots o' things 
 
 to see ; 
 I can hear the winds away off, jest a welcomin' o* 
 
 me; 
 An' the violets peep so purty ! an' the rose I use- 
 
 ter miss 
 Feels the red a-rushin' roun' it, an' comes climbin* 
 
 f er a kiss ! 
 
 (88) 
 
A DAY OFF, 89 
 
 When a feller takes a day off — oh, he learns a lot 
 
 o' things 
 From the very doves a-fiyin', with the music in 
 
 their vvings ; 
 From the hills an' from the valleys, where the 
 
 dreams an' dews is foun' — 
 When a feller takes a day off, an' his soul is loafin' 
 
 roun' ! 
 
AFTER. 
 
 After the noonday heat, 
 Cool shadows, soft descending from above, 
 
 And all the bells of twilight chiming sweet, 
 And love — thy love ! 
 
 After the storm and strife, 
 Over the calm seas, swift and sure — the dove, 
 
 Bearing the olive through a rainbowed life, 
 Sweet with thy love ! 
 
 After the darkened light. 
 Faith that finds wings, stars and great stars above. 
 And earth's last memory sweet with thy " Good- 
 night "— 
 
 Thy lips, thy love ! 
 
 (90) 
 
'TWAS FAR AWAY. 
 
 'Twas far away where skies are fair, 
 
 And sweet with song and light, 
 When I had but my scythe, my dear, 
 
 And you your needles bright. 
 
 So far away ! And yet, to-day, 
 
 For all the distance drear, 
 My heart keeps chime with that dear time 
 
 And dreams the old dreams there ! 
 
 There, where love learned its sweetest words 
 
 And built its brightest bowers; 
 Where sang the rarest mocking birds 
 
 And bloomed the fairest flowers ! 
 
 And fields were golden-rich, and clear 
 The streams flowed in the light — 
 
 When I had but my scythe, my dear, 
 And you your needles bright ! 
 
 (oi) 
 
92 sojVGS of the soil. 
 
 How soft and sweet across the wheat 
 Your dear voice seemed to roam, 
 
 When stars of love peeped pale above 
 And I went dreaming home ! 
 
 Life had no sweeter joy than this — 
 
 To rest a little while 
 There, where you met me with a kiss 
 
 And blest me with a smile ! 
 
 So far that sweet time seems to-day, 
 Here 'neath these darkened skies; 
 
 And yet, across the weary way 
 You light me with your eyes! 
 
 And I would give earth's gold to share 
 Once more that day — that night, 
 
 When I had but my scythe, my dear, 
 And you your needles bright. 
 
WATERMELON SONG. 
 
 Oh, the Georgia watermelon — it's a-growin' cool 
 
 an' green, 
 An'll soon be pullin' heavy at the stem; 
 An* the knife — it needs a whettin', an' the blade is 
 
 gittin' keen. 
 Oh, the Georgia watermelon is a gem ! 
 
 Melons cool an' green — 
 Jest the best you ever seen ! 
 See the sweet juice drippin' 
 From them melons cool an' green! 
 
 Oh, the Georgia watermelon — with the purtiest 
 
 sort o' stripe ! 
 
 It ain't a streak o' fat an' streak o' lean ; 
 
 You thump her with your fingers, an' you hear her 
 
 answer, ^' Ripe T' 
 
 Oh, the Georgia watermelon cool an' green ! 
 
 (93) 
 
94 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Melons cool an' green — 
 Jest the best you ever seen ! 
 See the sweet juice drippin' 
 From them melons cool an' green ! 
 
 When you pull a Georgia melon you must know 
 what you are at, 
 An' look out how your knife is goin' in; 
 Put one half on this side o' you, the other half on 
 that, 
 An' then you git between 'em an' begin! 
 
 Melons cool an' green — 
 They're the best you ever seen ! 
 How the juice comes drippin' 
 From them melons cool an' green ! 
 
 They're mighty, mighty fiUin' with their flamin' 
 hearts o' red — 
 Like the reddest o' the roses in the South; 
 When cotton's down to nothin', take the place o' 
 meat an' bread ; 
 Make you think a hive o' honey's in your 
 mouth ! 
 
WATERMELON SONG. 95 
 
 Melons cool an* green — 
 Best the country ever seen ! 
 Oh, the meltin' sweetness 
 Of them melons cool an' green ! 
 
 But it's Vay ahead o' honey — as a slice or two 
 will prove ; 
 It's slicker, an' it's sweeter as it slips ! 
 There ain't no *' nigger problem " when the melon's 
 on the move — 
 Make the white man an' the nigger smack his 
 lips ! 
 
 Melons cool an' green — 
 Don't want any fence between ! 
 But I'd outclimb all creation 
 For them melons cool an' green ! 
 
THE DUEL. 
 
 There, in the merciless morn's first glow, 
 Grim, defiant, I faced my foe ; 
 
 He who had wronged me with savage hate, 
 Face to face on the field of fate. 
 
 And I said, " He must die ; he has played his part; 
 My sword shall cleave through his hateful heart ! " 
 
 Then to the battle : with one true thrust 
 He stood defenseless, his sword in dust. 
 
 I marked the spot where his false heart lay, 
 I lifted my glittering blade to slay ; 
 
 When lo ! in my fury I seemed to feel 
 A hand that clutched at the lifted steel : 
 
 A hand that warded the blow I dealt ; 
 
 And wild before me a woman knelt ! 
 
 (96) 
 
THE DUEL. 97 
 
 I could not strike him — my hated foe ; 
 In wrath and mercy I bade him go. 
 
 Fool ! forgetting the wrongs of years, 
 To drown revenge in a woman's tears ! 
 
FOR SALLY. 
 
 It's happy every mornin', 
 
 Every evenin* I will be ; 
 Fer I hoe the corn fer Sally, 
 
 An' she bakes the bread fer me. 
 
 It's a little farm I'm runnin', 
 An' the soil is kinder rough ; 
 
 But I'm workin' it fer Sally, 
 An' the crop grows fast enough. 
 
 All day long I hear her singin'. 
 
 An' a lot of joy it brings ; 
 Fer there ain't no song that's sweeter 
 
 Than the song that Sally sings. 
 
 Fer she sings because she's happy, 
 
 An' I stop the plow an' hoe 
 When I hear her, feelin' thankful 
 
 That it's me has made her so ! 
 
 (98) 
 
FOR SALLY. 
 
 She keeps the pails all shinin', 
 An* the bees a-workin' hard ; 
 
 Calls the cows up fer the milkin*, 
 Trains the roses in the yard ; 
 
 An' she keeps furever singin' 
 
 When the household troubles press; 
 With a kiss fer little fingers 
 Always tuggin' at her dress. 
 
 Oh, it's happy every mornin', 
 
 Every evenin' I will be ; 
 Fer I hoe the corn fer Sally, 
 
 An' she bakes the bread fer me ! 
 
 99 
 
ONE SAD DAY. 
 
 One sad day when the sun's gold crown 
 Jeweled the desolate, dreamy west, 
 
 I came with a burden, and laid it down 
 Under the lilies and leaves to rest ; 
 
 And, weeping, I left it and went my way 
 
 With the Twilight whispering, " God knows 
 best ! " 
 
 One sad day — it was long ago, 
 
 And thorny the paths my feet have pressed 
 Since with tears and kisses I laid it low — 
 
 Soul of my soul and life of my breast ! 
 But kneeling now in the dark to pray. 
 
 There comes with a song from the sunless west 
 The same sweet voice that I heard that day — 
 
 The Twilight whispering, " God knows best ! " 
 
 (lOO) 
 
THE OLD POSTMASTER. 
 
 Been runnin' of the office 
 
 Fer fifteen year an' more ; 
 Beat all the other candidates — 
 
 Walked in an' locked the door ! 
 
 He wears two pair o' spectacles, 
 
 His sight is growin' dim ; 
 He knows each man that ever 
 
 Had a letter writ to him. 
 
 He says: " Bill Brown, here's somethin'- 
 
 Handwritin's kinder slant ; 
 I guess it's from your daddy, 
 
 Or a letter from your aunt ! *' 
 
 He strikes a yaller envelope 
 
 With printin' on one end ; 
 He han's it to the groceryman : 
 
 "About them goods, my friend ! '* 
 
 (lOl) 
 
102 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Knows everybody's business, 
 An' tells 'em of it, too ; 
 
 " A letter from your sweetheart," 
 Or " Another bill fer you ! " 
 
 No politics kin hurt him, 
 No matter who may win ; 
 
 He sees the presidents go out 
 While he keeps stayin' in. 
 
 But the truth about the matter 
 To all is mighty clear : 
 
 He's been a-runnin' things so long, 
 They've done fergot he's there ! 
 
A FAIR POLITICIAN. 
 
 She has asked, ^* How will you vote?" 
 And I make no vague condition 
 
 In reply, because I note: 
 Dora is a politician ! 
 
 Would her red-rose lips condemn 
 
 If I voted straight for them ? 
 
 How the gold curls gleam above, 
 How the blue eyes beam beneath ! 
 
 There's no politics in love — 
 Just a kiss, a rose, a wreath ! 
 
 When her curls and eyes I note, 
 
 Need she ask me how I'll vote ? 
 
 But the question still she plies 
 With the shyest, sweetest art, 
 
 And the twinkle in her eyes 
 
 Makes a light around my heart ! 
 
 And I answer, bending o'er her, 
 
 " By God's grace I'll vote for Dora ! '* 
 (103) 
 
A COUNTRY PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 The cold has killed the corn off an* blighted all 
 the wheat ; 
 
 The ice is on the peach blooms an' the apple blos- 
 soms sweet, 
 
 An' the country is in mournin' from the mountains 
 to the sea, 
 
 But the good Lord runs the weather, an* it ain't 
 a-botherin' me ! 
 
 The bees was out fer honey an' a-workin' fer their 
 
 lives, 
 But the blizzard stopped their buzzin', an' they're 
 
 froze up in their hives ; 
 An' there won't be any sweet'nin' fer the coffee or 
 
 the tea. 
 
 But the good Lord runs the weather, an' it ain't 
 
 a-botherin' me ! 
 
 (104) 
 
A COUNTRY PHILOSOPHER. 105 
 
 The mockin' birds was singin' jest the sweetest 
 
 kind o' notes, 
 But now they're sittin* silent with a flannel roun' 
 
 their throats ; 
 An' there won't be any music 'til the summei' 
 
 time to be, 
 But the good Lord runs the weather, an' it ain*t 
 
 a-botherin' me ! 
 
 It don't make any difference what these changin' 
 seasons bring ; 
 
 If it's cold, the fire's a-blazin', an' I hear the chim- 
 ney sing ; 
 
 If it's hot, the trees is shady, with the breeze 
 a-blowin' free, 
 
 Fer the good Lord runs the weather, an' it ain't 
 a-botherin' me ! 
 
THE SHIPS OF MELTON. 
 
 How sail the ships to Melton, 
 
 That lieth far and fair 
 And dreamlike in the haven 
 
 Where skies are calm and clear ? 
 With blown sails leaning whitely, 
 
 Sure winged *neath storm or star, 
 They straightly steer — for still they hear 
 
 The love-bells o'er the bar. 
 
 How sail the ships to Melton, 
 
 Within whose cots of white 
 Love dreams of love and listens 
 
 For footsteps in the night ? 
 Like gulls, their glad way winging, 
 
 They speed from lands afar ; 
 For still they hear in music clear 
 
 The love-bells o*er the bar. 
 
 (io6) 
 
THE SHIPS OF MELTON-. 107 
 
 How sail the ships to Melton ? 
 
 Love-blown across the foam ; 
 For still the sea sings ever 
 
 The songs of love and home ; 
 Nor spicy isles with splendid smiles 
 
 Can win their sails afar, 
 While softly swells that chime of bells — 
 
 The love-bells o'er the bar. 
 
 Oh, ships that sail to Melton, 
 
 With captains glad and grand, 
 The stars that light the ocean 
 
 Are the stars that light the land ; 
 But say for me, adrift at sea 
 
 On lonely wrecks afar : 
 My heart still hears, and dreaming nears 
 
 The love-bells o'er the bar ! 
 
THEY'VE HUNG BILL JONES. 
 
 They've hung Bill Jones to the sycamore tree, 
 An' his wife an' his mother is a-weepin' ; 
 
 An' his children's come from the house to see, 
 An' the col' wind a-wailin' an' a-creepin* ! 
 
 Oh, the coF wind's a-wailin' an' a-creepin', 
 An' the wife an' the mother is a-weepin'; 
 
 An' the children's there 
 
 Fer to stand an' stare, 
 An' the col' wind a-wailin' an' a-creepin' ! 
 
 They've hung Bill Jones fer a crime of his. 
 An' his wife an' his mother is a-dyin' ; 
 
 An* his children's took where the orphants is — 
 An' the col' wind a-creepin' an' a-sighin'! 
 
 Oh, the col' wind's a-creepin' an' a-sighin', 
 An' the wife an' the mother is a-dyin' ; 
 
 An' his children's 'way 
 
 Where the orphants stay — 
 An* the col' wind a-creepin' an' a-sighin'! 
 
 (io8) 
 
THE TOP FLOOR. 
 
 Noisy sparrows build their nests 
 
 Underneath the eaves : 
 I can almost touch their breasts 
 
 In the straw and leaves. 
 From the housetops o'er the 'way 
 
 Curious pigeons peer 
 At me as I rhyme each day — 
 
 Only tenant here. 
 
 How they pout, and coo and kiss 
 All the bright day long ! 
 
 I can learn a trick from this : 
 Love — and then a song ! 
 
 Song for sixpence ! It is well ; 
 For the music floats 
 
 Freely as the notes that swell 
 
 From the birds' clear throats. 
 
 (109) 
 
no SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Here's a song, then : Life is sweet, 
 
 Though it hurries by • 
 Cheerily the world I greet, 
 
 Up six stories high. 
 Knowing little of its cares ; 
 
 Closer to the skies ; 
 Love — who will not climb the stairs— 
 
 In the window flies. 
 
 And I hold a man may love 
 
 Nobly, truly, when 
 He is lodged so far above 
 
 All his fellow-men ! 
 For he breathes a purer air : 
 
 Days are never dim : 
 Stars that tinge the atmosphere 
 
 Brighter seem to him. 
 
 Suns are warmer — or, at least, 
 Shine with greater grace ; 
 
 Nature is his soul's high priest, 
 And his temple — space ! 
 
THE TOP FLOOR, m 
 
 And the world's rude voices rise 
 
 Murmuringly aloft ; 
 For the distance to the skies 
 
 Melts and makes them soft. 
 
 In a garret life must be 
 
 Far from busy throngs ; 
 Little sparrows, chirp to me : 
 
 Teach my soul your songs ! 
 Teach me that God's world is sweet, 
 
 Though I dwell above ; 
 With the print of children's feet 
 
 In the paths of love. 
 
 Sing, and build your little nests 
 
 Underneath the eaves ; 
 Though the heart that loves you rests 
 
 With life's fallen leaves. 
 Sing ! for life is kind and sweet 
 
 As it hurries by : 
 Cheerily the world we greet, 
 
 Up six stories high ! 
 
DON'T YOU? 
 
 When you see the hills away off 
 Lookin' green an' gold an' blue, 
 
 It is time to take a day off 
 With the daisies an' the dew. 
 
 Don't you wish 
 
 Fer a fish 
 Where the trees is goin' ^^ swish *' ? 
 When you hear the birds a-singin'^ 
 An' the cattle bells a-ringin', 
 An' the honeysuckles swingin' — 
 
 Don't you wish ? 
 
 When March is headin' May off, 
 
 With a rumple in his curls, 
 
 It is time to take a day off, 
 
 Huntin' violets with the girls. 
 (112) 
 
DON'T YOU? 113 
 
 Don't you pine 
 
 Fer the shine 
 Of the meadows fair and fine? 
 Fer the lilied rills a-flowin', 
 Fer the woods with blossoms blowin', 
 Fer the world with beauty glowin' — 
 
 Don*t you pine ? 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 In my poor cot there dwelleth not 
 
 A lady lulled in laces 
 And satins fine ; none such is mine — 
 
 But very sweet her face is : 
 For God, when first her heart did beat, 
 Smiled on her face and made it sweet. 
 
 She robeth not her dear self in 
 Rare gowns of queenly splendor ; 
 
 She hath won all that she would win — 
 A heart's love, loyal, tender ; 
 
 She is not rich ; and yet I know 
 
 One smile of love can make her so ! 
 
 No jewels glitter on her hands, 
 
 And ne'er to love betrayed her ; 
 
 Of all the ladies of the lands. 
 
 She's just as God hath made her ; 
 (114) 
 
MY LADY. 
 
 For when he made the morning he 
 Made one rose for himself and me ! 
 
 And close beside my heart I wear 
 That flower that fadeth never ; 
 
 And if I pray, 'tis but this prayer : 
 To keep that rose forever. 
 
 But lo ! my lady comes, and she 
 
 Brings roses of her love to me! 
 
 "S 
 
THE RATTLESNAKE. 
 
 I'm the first of the season ; my venomous head 
 Is poised for the conflict : Beware how you 
 
 tread ! 
 My fangs, they are fatal — my warning expressed: 
 You just touch the button, and I'll do the rest ! 
 
 Yet, far from these liars of men I repose, 
 
 And coiled in contentment I lazily doze, 
 
 Till their footsteps arouse me from visions un- 
 
 blest ; 
 Then, they touch the button, and I do the rest ! 
 
 What liars they are — all these creatures called 
 men ; 
 
 They multiply each of my rattles by ten ; 
 
 And hence, with my black tongue my wrath is ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 And they touch the button, and I do the rest ! 
 
 iii6) 
 
A LITTLE WAY. 
 
 A little way to walk with you, my own — 
 
 Only a little way, 
 Then one of us must weep and walk alone 
 
 Until God's day. 
 
 A little way ! It is so sweet to live 
 
 Together, that I know 
 Life would not have one withere(^ rose to give 
 
 If one of us should go. 
 
 And if these lips should ever learii lo smile, 
 With thy heart far from mins^ 
 
 'Twould be for joy that in a little wfciU 
 They would be kissed by thine ! 
 
 ("7) 
 
 N 
 
DIDNT THINK OF LOSIN' HIM. 
 
 Always wuz abusin' him — 
 Rough an* rougher usin' him, 
 Love an* all refusin' him, 
 
 Though his tears 'ud fall ; 
 Didn't think o' losin' him — 
 
 Not at all ! 
 
 He, poor feller, he'd jest sigh, 
 
 With a waterin' o' the eye — 
 
 Say : '' It's all my fault," and try 
 
 T' stave 'em off a while ! 
 " Some day I'll lay down arC die — 
 
 Then they'll smile r 
 
 An' he did. God's sometimes heap 
 Kinder to His poor, lost sheep 
 Than the ones 'at has their keep ; 
 So, one lonesome day, 
 
 ("8) 
 
DIDN'T THINK OF LOSIN' HIM. 
 
 He jest told him, '' Go to sleep,*' 
 In His own kind way. 
 
 Then the poor, sad, weary eyes 
 Smiled their thanks to God's own skies, 
 With a kind o' sweet surprise — 
 
 And the heart growed still. 
 Said one of 'em : '* Thar he lies; 
 
 It's God's will ! " 
 
 Always wuz abusin' him — 
 Rough an' rougher usin' him, 
 Love an' all refusin' him. 
 
 Though his tears 'ud fall ; 
 Didn't think o' losin' him — 
 
 Not at all ! 
 
 119 
 
THE HOME KEEPER. 
 
 About her household moving glad each day, 
 
 With heartful care of all the simplest things ; 
 
 And near her side a child voice coos and sings — 
 She hears the noise of pattering feet at play, 
 And pauses oft to kiss the lips that say 
 
 ** Mother I " and joys to feel the hand that 
 clings 
 
 Close to her heart, as to her apron strings — 
 Nor would she chide that little hand away ! 
 
 Then, when the day hath drifted to the dark, 
 
 And brightening stars loom through the twilight 
 
 late. 
 
 She feels the heart within her bosom stir 
 
 At every leaf that strikes the lattice. . . . Hark ! 
 
 Her life's reward — a footstep at the gate. 
 
 And love that comes to claim the love of her ! 
 
 (120) 
 
JUNE DREAMS. 
 
 There*s something in the hazy, lazy, daisy atmos- 
 phere 
 
 That makes a fellow mellow all the saul he has to 
 spare 
 
 In the scented, sweet, contented subtle season 
 when the tunes, 
 
 Of a million birds make music for a million, tril- 
 lion Junes ! 
 
 You are dreaming in the gleaming — you are blind- 
 ed by the glow 
 
 Of the white light and the bright light, where the 
 splendid rivers flow ; 
 
 Or in dells where bells of twilight ring their re- 
 quiem of rest. 
 
 You are drifting with the rose leaves to the 
 Night's voluptuous breast ! 
 
 (I2l) 
 
122 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 Life is languor, with no anger of a storm to strike 
 and slay 
 
 The peace that makes the perfect and splendid- 
 vista'd day ; 
 
 Life is glory, and the story, told in Love's melo- 
 dious tunes 
 
 /(lakes the world move to the music of a million, 
 trillion Junes ! 
 
A SONG OF LIFE. 
 
 He that clingeth unto life 
 For the fond lips of a wife 
 Hath, I know, great joy to live: 
 Earth hath nothing more to give — 
 Of all gifts the heavens confer, 
 Sweeter than the love of her ! 
 
 He that is to life beguiled 
 
 By the clinging of a child 
 
 Hath, I know, great store of grace, 
 
 And with Love a dwelling place; 
 
 For all heaven hath dreamed and smiled 
 
 In the sweet face of a child. 
 
 He that unto life is drawn 
 When the dark hath drowned the dawn ; 
 When no wife's lips sigh or sing, 
 When no child's arms clasp and cling, 
 
 (ia3> 
 
124 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Still hath hope — for in the night 
 Cometh dreams and gleams of light ! 
 
 So, though love be lost to thee 
 Life, though lonely, sweet may be ; 
 Canst thou take, when sore opprest, 
 Others' burdens to thy breast. 
 Love unto the loveless give ? 
 Thou shalt bless thyself and live ! 
 
A SHARP POLITICIAN. 
 
 Jim Jones — he run fer Congress; they beat him 
 
 out o' that — 
 Likewise a mule, a pair o' boots, an' bran new 
 
 beaver hat ; 
 But when he saw that he was whipped — did Jones 
 
 feel sad an' sick ? 
 Not him ! He bought another mule an* run fer 
 
 Sheriff quick ! 
 
 Then they put up another man, they said was 
 
 shore to win, 
 An' shore enough Jim Jones went out while that 
 
 same chap went in ! 
 But did they find him sulkin' when he knowed 
 
 they'd whipped him clear ? 
 Not him! He bought another mule an' run like 
 
 bricks fer mayor ! 
 
126 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 An* then he got elected, an' when he held the fort 
 He summoned them as whipped him out to come 
 
 into his court ; 
 An* he fined 'em each ten dollars — it was all jest 
 
 like a dream — 
 An' when they paid an' went away Jim Jones was 
 
 rich as cream ! 
 
BLACKBERRIES. 
 
 Blackberries — do you know 
 
 Where to find them ? 
 Oh, their briers prick you so — 
 
 Never mind them ! 
 
 Get your cap, you queen in curls! 
 
 (Don't be shy, dear !) 
 For the sun will kiss the girls. 
 
 (So will I, dear!) 
 
 'Tis a quaint cap that you take — 
 
 Nay, a bonnet ; 
 But the sunbeams — they will make 
 
 Ribbons on it ! 
 
 Let me tie the strings. (I'll hold 
 
 My caresses.) 
 
 Now it's hidden half the gold 
 
 Of your tresses ! 
 (127) 
 
128 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 But we go where drops of dew 
 
 (Looking-glasses) 
 Paint the rosy face of you 
 
 On the grasses. 
 
 O'er the bars I climb, and so — 
 
 In the clover, 
 (I have willing arms, you know !) 
 
 Take you over. 
 
 Now the birds sing in the blooms 
 Where theyVe found us. 
 
 Where a million sweet perfumes 
 Swoon around us : 
 
 ** Berries, berries, black and sweet, 
 
 Love, forsake them ! 
 They were made for birds to eat — 
 
 Do not take them ! 
 
 " In the hedges, by the rills — 
 
 In shy covers, 
 They are sweetening our bills 
 
 For our lovers." 
 
BLA CK BERRIES, 
 
 129 
 
 But the berries black we pull 
 
 (Play your part, love!) 
 Till your bonnet's brimming full — 
 
 Like my heart, love ! 
 
 Now you've spilled them ! Let them go, 
 
 While love sips, dear, 
 Sweeter juices than they know 
 
 From your lips, dear. 
 
 Give the berries to the birds. 
 
 Singing near them; 
 Love would say some little words: 
 
 Will you hear them ? 
 
 Suns may set, or suns may shine, 
 
 Birds sing never : 
 Love is thine and love is mine, 
 
 Sweet, forever ! 
 
STILL IN THE RING. 
 
 TO C. J. B. 
 
 You say IVe stopped from singing and some sor- 
 row youVe expressed, 
 
 That my muse is gittin' lazy since I left the sweet 
 Southwest ; 
 
 Well, maybe so an' not so : we're better when we're 
 brief : 
 
 But the rose of song's a-bloomin', though the frost 
 is on the leaf. 
 
 I'll tell you why I'm quiet — why I don't chirp as 
 
 before : 
 'Tain't because my whistle's broken an' needs 
 
 fixin' at the store ; 
 But I'm somethin' of a stranger to these towerin' 
 
 hills of snow, 
 
 An' my songs — they're all behind me, where the 
 
 Southland roses grow. 
 (130) 
 
STILL IN THE RING, 
 
 131 
 
 I'm always thinkin', thinkin* of the times that used 
 
 to be, 
 Where the springs and golden autumns flushed the 
 
 friendly fields of Lee ; 
 An* as I look back yonder, on them fur-off plains 
 
 an' skies, 
 The sun may be a-shinin', but — ifs rainiti routC my 
 
 eyes ! 
 
 Well ! here's a greetin* to you : I'm still inside the 
 
 ring, 
 An' a-lovin' an' a-list'nin' to the songs the others 
 
 sing ; 
 But my harp, jest fer the present, is reposin' on 
 
 the shelf, 
 An' my heart makes all the music, but it keeps it 
 
 to itself ! 
 
A DAY IN THE WOODS. 
 
 A mocking bird sweet singing on a spray 
 Of dewy blossoms, lightly shaken down ; 
 A river running by the rushes brown, 
 
 Its green banks drifting dreamily away, 
 
 And the sun centered in the splendid day ! 
 Far off, faint echoes of a noisy town, 
 And hills that wear a blue and golden crown, 
 
 And fields of corn, and meadows sweet with May! 
 
 And then — the bells of twilight — restful, sweet ! 
 
 A lulling murmur from the languid rills — 
 
 A gray star glimmering in the blended blue ; 
 
 And my heart heaving with a happier beat, 
 
 Answering the calling of the whip-poor-wills 
 
 That time my footsteps home to love and 
 
 you ! 
 
 (132) 
 
JIM TUCK'S OLD WOMAN. 
 
 Jim Tuck's old woman's a sight, I say, 
 
 Whenever she takes a turn : 
 She don't stand none o' your foolish play, 
 
 An' none o* your tricks in her'n. 
 I found that out 'fore election day, 
 
 'Thout any remarks from him ; 
 When she said in a quiet an' meanin' way : 
 
 ** I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ? " 
 
 Now, you know, Jim Tuck an' myself wuz dead 
 
 Sot 'gin one ernuther — cross ez 
 Two sticks, an' couldn't be drove ner led. 
 
 An' never could set hosses ; 
 So, when she made that remark I said : 
 
 " His chances with me is slim." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she cried — an' she looked cross-eyed ; 
 
 " I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ! " 
 
 (133) 
 
134 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 That riled me, an' so — 'fore I seemed to know, 
 
 I blazed rite out an' cussed 
 Jim outen the county — high an' low — 
 
 But brotherin', she never fussed ; 
 Jest moved a step when I turned to go — 
 
 That woman wuz fur from slim — 
 An' locked the door an' remarked once more : 
 
 " I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ! " 
 
 An' sayin' this, with a sudden sweep 
 
 She riz with the kitchen broom ; 
 An' fallin' foul o' me, in a heap, 
 
 She walloped me roun' the room ! 
 She fit an' fout, an' she jumped erbout 
 
 Ten foot — an' she wuzn't slim — 
 An' still she'd shout as she laid me out : 
 
 " I reckon you'll vote fer Jim ! " 
 
 'Twas gittin' lively fer both of us, 
 
 An' so, I begin debatin' 
 That mebbe Jim wuzn't as big a cuss 
 
 As the feller that I'd been hatin' ; 
 
JIM TUCK'S OLD WOMAN. 135 
 
 An' so — but all o* you fellers know 
 
 The story 'bout her an' him : 
 He's sheriff now, an' — I can't tell how, 
 
 But I reckon I voted fer Jim ! 
 
THE SHOWER. 
 
 Fall, gentle rain, in blessed, brimming drops ; 
 
 Cool with thy kiss the city's burning streets ; 
 
 Moisten the meadows where the hot sun beats, 
 And fall refreshing on the thirsty crops ; 
 The warm wind for thy cordial greeting stops ; 
 
 The panting flock a merry welcome bleats ; 
 
 The famished fields unfold a thousand sweets ; 
 The grass bends dimpling on the mountain tops ! 
 
 Fall, gentle rain, on the rejoicing land ! 
 
 The incense rises from the dusty plain ; 
 The valley's violets, for a moment blurred. 
 Twinkle for joy ! and where the live oaks stand, 
 
 There rings a glad thanksgiving for the rain 
 
 In the wild music of the mocking bird ! 
 
 (136) 
 
APRIL. 
 
 Fellers, this is April — know it by the breeze 
 Caperin' roun' an' rumplin' the ringlets o* the 
 
 trees ; 
 Know it by my wishin' fer the woods an' streams ; 
 All day long I'm fishin' — ketch 'em in my dreams ! 
 
 Fellers, this is April — sunny, soft an' sweet ; 
 April from her bright eyes to the roses roun' her 
 
 feet! 
 Like a country maiden, rosy-faced she trips, 
 Sunshine on her yellow curls an' honey on her 
 
 lips ! 
 
 Fellers, this is April : git out in the air ! 
 
 Let her run her fingers fer a minute through your 
 
 hair ! 
 
 Hear her birds a-singin', while the world so blest 
 
 To her lips is clingin', an' dreamin' on her breast ! 
 
 (137) 
 
138 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Fellers, this is April, with a lap o* pearls ; 
 
 Seems to me you'd know it, holdin' han's with all 
 
 the gyrls, 
 An' huntin' wild flowers with 'em ! Oh, May is 
 
 sweet to see. 
 But April with her violets is joy enough fer me ! 
 
UNCLE JIM. 
 
 Uncle Jim — he only saw 
 
 The ocean once, and then 
 They put him in a bathing suit, 
 
 Just like the other men ; 
 But when, a-tiptoe on the beach, 
 
 He saw the billows rise. 
 And, breaking o'er him, strive to reach 
 
 To mansions in the skies. 
 He jerked that bathing suit of red 
 
 (Twas well the sun had set !) 
 
 And cried, as fast the bathers fled : 
 
 ** This blamed thing's ringin' wet ! " 
 (139) 
 
A LITTLE BOY FOR SALE. 
 
 Here is a little boy — 
 
 A little boy for sale ! 
 With all of his dimpled cheeks of joy 
 
 And the voice of a nightingale ; — 
 A little boy for sale, 
 
 A boy that is fair and fat ; 
 If you missed the joy of that little boy, 
 
 Would you know where your heart was at? 
 
 Here is a little boy — 
 
 A little boy for sale ! 
 Will you buy him now ? Here's a curly brow 
 
 And the voice of a nightingale ! 
 A little boy for sale — 
 
 Ho ! buyers, from east and west ! 
 
 It shall not fail that this nightingale 
 
 Shall sing near the mother nest ! 
 (140) 
 
A LITTLE BOY FOR SALE. 141 
 
 Some birds there be that fly 
 
 From the land o'er the ocean's foam, 
 But the voice of this bird is always heard 
 
 Where the sweet birds sing at home ! 
 At home where the light is bright — 
 
 At home where the love is best ! 
 Oh, the nightingale ! and the boy for sale! 
 
 They are bought for the mother's breast ! 
 
A FISHERMAN IN TOWN. 
 
 I jest set here a-dreamin' — 
 
 A-dreamin' every day, 
 Of the sunshine that's a-gleamin' 
 
 On the rivers — fur away ; 
 
 An' I kinder fall to wishin' 
 I was where the waters swish ; 
 
 Fer if the Lord made fishin', 
 Why — a feller orter fish ! 
 
 While I'm studyin', or a-writin', 
 In the dusty, rusty town, 
 
 I kin feel the fish a-bitin' — 
 See the cork a-goin' down ! 
 
 An' the sunshine seems a-tanglin' 
 
 Of the shadows, cool an* sweet ; 
 
 With the honeysuckles danglin', 
 
 An' the lilies at my feet ! 
 (14a) 
 
A FISHERMAN IN TOWN. 
 
 So, I nod, an* fall to wishin' 
 I was where the waters swish ; 
 
 Far if the Lord made fishin', 
 Why — a feller orter fish ! 
 
 143 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS. 
 
 Oh, the old school exhibitions ! will they ever come 
 
 again, 
 With the good, old-fashioned speaking from the 
 
 girls and boys so plain ? 
 Will we ever hear old " Iser,'* with its rapid roll 
 
 and sweep, 
 And " Pilot, 'tis a fearful night ; there's danger on 
 
 the deep " ? 
 
 Sweet Mary doesn't raise her lambs like Mary did 
 
 of old; 
 Their fleece is not ** as white as snow " ; they're 
 
 wandering from the fold ; 
 The boy upon *' the burning deck " is not one half 
 
 as fine — 
 
 He was not " born at Bingen, at Bingen on the 
 
 Rhine ! " 
 
 (144) 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS. 145 
 
 The girls don't speak in calico, the boys in cotton 
 
 jeans; 
 They've changed the old-time dresses 'long with 
 
 the old-time scenes ; 
 They smile and speak in crooked Greek; in broad. 
 
 cloth and in lace ; 
 And you can't half see the speaker for the collar 
 
 'round the face ! 
 
 Oh, the old school exhibitions ! They are gone for- 
 ever more ! 
 
 The old schoolhouse is deserted, and the grass has 
 choked the door ; 
 
 And the wind sweeps 'round the gables, with a low 
 and mournful whine 
 
 For the old boys "born at Bingen — at Bingen oq 
 the Rhine ! " 
 
IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Your mocking birds are mute 
 
 Amid the peach blooms and the pines that sigh- 
 ing 
 Delay the winds that pass them like a lute 
 
 Whose sweetest notes are dying. 
 
 Your lilies bend and weep, 
 
 Because in vain they lift their lips to kiss 
 you; 
 The morning-glories 'round your casement creep, 
 
 And, looking in, they miss you. 
 
 Your haunted brook glides o'er 
 
 The sparkling stones where wild flowers lean to 
 
 win it, 
 
 And moans its way, because it feels no more 
 
 Your face reflected in it. 
 
 (146) 
 
IN ABSENCE, 147 
 
 Birds, winds, brooks, flowers — they keep 
 
 Sad vigils where the lonely light is streaming ; 
 
 And I — across the darkness and the deep 
 My soul drifts to you, dreaming ! 
 
IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 Oh, maiden under the skies so blue, 
 
 Of the eyes and tresses brown, 
 I'd rather be walking the fields with you 
 
 Than going my way to the town ! 
 Is it far to your dwelling ? But here's a rose ; 
 Perhaps you slipped from its heart — who knows ? 
 
 It is like your face ; it is like the smile 
 
 Of your lips so red and sweet. 
 Do the roses bloom for a little while 
 
 And their hearts then cease to beat ? 
 How fair were the roses my youth-time knew ! 
 Were I a rose I would bloom for you. 
 
 Do you roam through the summers sweet and long 
 
 Over these fields so fair, 
 And blend your voice with the harvest song 
 
 That thrills through the scented air ? 
 
 (148) 
 
IN THE FIELDS. 149 
 
 When you bind the wheat with a golden skein 
 Are the tares not mixed with the ripened grain ? 
 
 Sowing and reaping my life has known, 
 
 And now with the gathered sheaves 
 There are fruitless weeds that have heedless 
 grown, 
 And thorns 'neath the rose's leaves. 
 Sowing and reaping, the harvest seems 
 Less than my labor and less than my dreams. 
 • ••••• 
 
 Oh, maiden under the skies so blue, 
 
 Of the eyes and tresses brown, 
 I'd rather be walking the fields with you 
 
 Than going my way to the town ! 
 Is it far to your dwelling ? But here's a rose ; 
 Perhaps you slipped from its heart — who knows? 
 
GITTIN' HOME. 
 
 Gittin* back to home ag'in, after all the strife, 
 The rattlin* an* the roarin' o' the busy city life; 
 Gittin' back to home ag'in — heart a-beatin' high, 
 Greener grows the meadows an' bluer is the sky ! 
 
 World seems all dressed up f er it — neat as any pin ! 
 
 Car wheels keep a-singin' : " Gittin' home ag'in ! " 
 
 Don't it please a feller when he's travelin' through 
 
 the Ian', 
 
 That home comes out to meet him an' takes him 
 
 by the han' ! 
 
 (150) 
 
CHATTAHOOCHEE. 
 
 Sweet sings the Chattahoochee on its way toward 
 the sea — 
 
 The curling Chattahoochee, 
 The whirling Chattahoochee — 
 And the mocking birds make answer to its music 
 wild and free; 
 
 The blue skies bend above it, 
 The green hills lean and love it, 
 And the Chattahoochee singeth of the summer and 
 the sea ! 
 
 Sweet sings the Chattahoochee with radiant, rip- 
 pled tides — 
 
 The dreamy Chattahoochee, 
 The gleamy Chattahoochee — 
 The Alabama hilltops from the Georgian it di- 
 vides ; 
 
152 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 But floats this song above them : 
 " I lave them, and I love them ; 
 The green fields are my lovers, and the green hills 
 are my brides ! *' 
 
 Sweet sings the Chattahoochee to the east and to 
 the west — 
 The olden Chattahoochee, 
 The golden Chattahoochee ; 
 But a secret in its bosom makes it love the sunset 
 best; 
 
 For its soul seems ever sighing 
 For a lost love unreplying, 
 When night steals from the mountains and is fold- 
 ed to its breast. 
 
 Sweet sings the Chattahoochee of the passion of 
 the past — 
 
 The grieving Chattahoochee, 
 Dream-weaving Chattahoochee, 
 And whatever be its secret still it holds — enfolds 
 it fast ; 
 
CHATTAHOOCHEE, 153 
 
 But when glooms the night above you, 
 Still that song : " I love you — love you ! 
 And the sweetest rose that blossoms near my 
 bosom is the last ! '* 
 
THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS. 
 
 It was in the town o* Waycross, not many weeks 
 ago. 
 
 They had a big revival there, as like enough you 
 know; 
 
 An' though many was converted an' fer pardon 
 made to call, 
 
 Yet the Sunday mornin' love feast was the hap- 
 piest time o' all ! 
 
 'Twas a great experience meetin', an' it done me 
 good to hear 
 
 The brotherin an' the sisterin that talked re- 
 ligion there ; 
 
 You didn't have to ax 'em, ner coax 'em with a 
 song ; 
 
 Them people had religion, an' they told it right 
 
 along ! 
 
 (154) 
 
THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS, 155 
 
 Thar was one — a hard old sinner — 'pears like I 
 
 knowed his name, 
 But I reckon I've fergot it — who to the altar 
 
 came ; 
 An' he took the leader by the han', with beamin* 
 
 face an' bright, 
 An' said : " I'm comin' home, dear fren's ; I'm 
 
 comin' home to-night ! " 
 
 Then a woman rose an' axed to be remembered in 
 
 their prayers : 
 " My husband's comin' home," said she, a-sheddin' 
 
 thankful tears ; 
 " I want you all to pray fer him ; he's lived in 
 
 sin's control. 
 But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on his 
 
 soul ! " 
 
 Any shoutin' ? Well, I reckon so ! One brother 
 
 give a shout : 
 Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged to let 
 
 it out ! 
 
156 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 An' the preacher jined the chorus, sayin' : "Broth- 
 
 erin, let 'er roll ! 
 A man can't keep from shoutin' with religion in 
 
 his soul ! " 
 
 I tell you, 'twas a happy time; I wished 'twould 
 
 never end : 
 Each sinner in the church that day had Jesus fer a 
 
 friend ; 
 But a good old deacon said to 'em, while tears 
 
 stood in his eye : 
 " There's a better time 'an this, dear fren's, 
 
 a-comin' by an' by ! " 
 
 I hope some day those brotherin'll meet with one 
 
 accord 
 In the higher, holier love feast, whose leader is 
 
 the Lord ; 
 An' when this here life is over, with its sorrow an* 
 
 its sighs, 
 May the little church at Waycross jine the big 
 
 church in the skies ! 
 
A JUNE PASTORAL. 
 
 Fleecy clouds above you roll — 
 
 All the world^s a tune 
 Thrillin' through a feller's soul, 
 
 Dreamin' here with June. 
 
 Butterflies with golden wings 
 
 Brush you — soft as silk, 
 While the poplar-shaded springs 
 
 Cool the buttermilk ! 
 
 In the old fence corner — whew ! 
 
 Melons — mind your tread ! — 
 Where the sun is streamin* through 
 
 To their hearts o' red ! 
 
 June she is — an' let her be ! 
 
 June in fields an' towns ; 
 
 Let her sweet lips stifle me, 
 
 While her honey drowns ! 
 (157) 
 
THE MOCKING BIRD. 
 
 He didn't know much music 
 
 When first he come along ; 
 An' all the birds went wonderin' 
 
 Why he didn't sing a song. 
 
 They primped their feathers in the sun, 
 An' sung their sweetest notes ; 
 
 An' music jest come on the run 
 From all their purty throats ! 
 
 But still that bird was silent 
 
 In summer time an' fall ; 
 He jest set still an' listened, 
 
 An' he wouldn't sing at all ! 
 
 But one night when them songsters 
 
 Was tired out an' still, 
 An' the wind sighed down the valley 
 
 An* went creepin' up the hill ; 
 
 (158) 
 
THE MOCKING BIRD. 
 
 When the stars was all a-tremble 
 In the dreamin* fields o' blue, 
 
 An' the daisy in the darkness 
 Felt the fallin' o' the dew ; 
 
 There come a sound o' melody 
 
 No mortal ever heard, 
 An' all the birds seemed singin' 
 
 From the throat o' one sweet bird! 
 
 Then the other birds went Mayin* 
 
 In a land too fur to call ; 
 Fer there warn't no use in stayin* 
 
 When one bird could sing fer all! 
 
 159 
 
GOOD-BY. 
 
 There's a kind o' chilly feelin' in the blowin' o* 
 
 the breeze, 
 An' a sense o' sadness stealin' through the tresses 
 
 o' the trees ; 
 An' it's not the sad September that's slowly 
 
 drawin' nigh, 
 But jest that I remember I'm here to say " Good- 
 
 by!" 
 
 ** Good-by," the wind is wailin* ; " good-by," the 
 
 trees complain, 
 An' bend low down to whisper, with green leaves 
 
 white with rain ; 
 " Good-by," the roses murmur, an' the bendin* 
 
 lilies sigh. 
 As if they all felt sorry that I'm come to say 
 
 '' Good-by." 
 
 (i6o) 
 
GOOD'S Y, i6i 
 
 I reckon all have said it, some time or other — 
 
 soft 
 An' easy like — with eyes low down, that couldn't 
 
 look aloft 
 Fer the tears that trembled in 'em, fer the lips 
 
 that choked the sigh 
 When it kind o' took holt o' the heart, an' made it 
 
 beat '' Good-by ! " 
 
 I didn't think 'twas hard to say, but standin' here 
 
 alone, 
 With the pleasant past behin' me, an' the future all 
 
 unknown, 
 A-gloomin' yonder in the dark, I can't keep back 
 
 the sigh. 
 An' I'm weepin' like a woman as I tell you all 
 
 '' Good-by ! " 
 
 The work I've done is with you ; maybe some 
 things went wrong, - 
 
 Like a note that jars the music in the sweet flow 
 of a song ! 
 
l62 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 But, brethren, when you think o' me, I only ask 
 
 you would 
 Say as the Master said o' one : " He's done jest 
 
 what he could ! '' 
 
 An' when you sit together in the time that's goin' 
 
 to be, 
 By your bright an' beamin' firesides in this 
 
 pleasant land o' Lee, 
 Let the sweet past come before you, an' with 
 
 somethin' like a sigh. 
 Jest say : " We ain't fergot him since the day he 
 
 said ' Good-by ! ' " 
 
A GEORGIA BARBECUE. 
 
 Faint wreaths of smoke are dreaming skyward in 
 rings of blue ; 
 
 A subtle, savory steaming is softly filtered through 
 
 The sheltering trees that whisper the secret every- 
 where, 
 
 While hill and valley revel in the dewed, delicious 
 air ! 
 
 And then, that crackle of the twigs above the 
 
 smoky pits ; 
 Where brown and palatable pigs make Wisdom 
 
 lose its wits ! 
 And then — and then — the cry to arms ! Knives, 
 
 forks, flash to and fro. 
 
 And hungry hundreds praise the Lord, from whom 
 
 all blessings flow ! 
 
 (163) 
 
THE LAST INN. 
 
 This is the inn that I 
 
 Have dreamed of all my days; 
 I enter — close the door — good-by ! 
 
 And the world may go its ways. 
 The soft, cool shadows round me creep; 
 I lay me down to rest — to sleep. 
 
 There is no reckoning here ; 
 
 Not any noise or strife ; 
 Nor shall one murmur to be where 
 
 King Death is host to Life. 
 Still, curtained rest for ye that come, 
 But sightless eyes and lips made dumb. 
 
 Cold ice at head and feet. 
 
 But flowers of colors grand 
 
 To make the air above you sweet 
 
 And paint the roof of sand. 
 (164) 
 
THE LAST INN. 165 
 
 What more ? And when the keen winds blow, 
 Sweet dreams in daisies 'neath the snow. 
 
 Good-night, friends, and farewell ! 
 
 Our lives must parted be ; 
 Grieve not that I with Death must dwell, 
 
 For Death is kind to me. 
 Tired, I lay me down to rest, 
 A child lulled on a mother's breast. 
 
THE EASTER BONNET. 
 
 Don't make 'em like they use to — done killed with 
 
 too much style — 
 Fixed up with birds an' ribbons, till you know 'em 
 
 half a mile : 
 They call 'em " Easter bonnets," in the big store 
 
 windows hung — 
 Ain't nuthin' like the bonnets that they wore when 
 
 we was young ! 
 
 How much completer, sweeter, and neater was the 
 
 old 
 Time bonnet, shadin' rosy cheeks an' ringlets 
 
 black an' gold ! 
 Plain, with no fixins on it — with a string o' red an' 
 
 blue ; 
 But a kiss beneath that bonnet was as sweet as 
 
 honey-dew ! 
 
 (i66) 
 
THE EASTER BONNET 167 
 
 Don't make *em like they use to — done killed with 
 too much style ; 
 
 An' yet — the girls that wear 'em give a feller sich 
 a smile, 
 
 He kinder smooths it over — fergives 'em, so high- 
 strung — 
 
 But they're nuthin' like the bonnets that they wore 
 when we was young ! 
 
NOVEMBER NIGHTS. 
 
 November nights — November nights ! 
 With all their rich and rare delights ; 
 The blazing fire whose sparkling flames 
 Gleam with a lovelier light than Fame's ! 
 Oh, heartful cheer ! Oh, peaceful sights, 
 Walled in by cool November nights ! 
 
 November nights — -the stories told ; 
 The lambs all gathered in the fold ; 
 The flickering lights and shadows shed 
 O'er little ones tucked up in bed ! 
 The mother's kiss — divine delights 
 That crown the sweet November nights ! 
 
 November nights ! the fiddler's feet 
 
 Keep time to music wild and sweet ; 
 
 And every echoing rafter rings 
 
 Where Love each rosy partner swings ! 
 
 Oh, rich are all the rare delights 
 
 That crown the cool November nights ! 
 
 (168) 
 
A TRAGEDY. 
 
 That's him there, on his coffin, in the cart, 
 An' that's his wife a-creepin' 
 In the crowd — 'way off an' weepin' ; 
 
 Oh, the law is jest a-breakin' of her heart ! 
 
 That's him there, on the scaffol'. See ! he speaks ; 
 There's a woman there, a-holdin' 
 Of the hands they'll soon be foldin', 
 
 An* the tears is jest a-rainin' down her cheeks. 
 
 That's him there in the coffin lyin' low, 
 
 An' the woman — first to love him 
 
 An' the last to bend above him, 
 
 Is his mother — but I reckon you would know! 
 
 (169) 
 
SOME THOUGHTS OF LEE. 
 
 How's all the boys down there in Lee — Joe John- 
 son an' Doc Brown? 
 
 When I think o' them, it 'pears to me the rain's 
 a-comin' down; 
 
 Or, it may be that the distance makes a haze aroun' 
 my eyes — 
 
 Fer the sunshine's kind o' blindin' when it comes 
 from them old skies ! 
 
 How's all the boys down there in Lee ? I guess 
 
 they're livin' still, 
 Fer I seem to hear 'em singin' down the road to 
 
 Wells' mill, 
 Where the water made sich music in the sweet an' 
 
 old-time years ; 
 (I think I hear it drippin' — but I guess it's jest my 
 
 tears !) 
 
 (170) 
 
SOME THOUGHTS OF LEE. 171 
 
 How's all the boys down there in Lee ? I guess 
 
 they've 'bout fergot 
 A feller what is gone away an' kinder changed his lot ; 
 But yet he ain't fergot 'em — wherever he may be 
 He'll always hear, in music clear, the far-off bells 
 
 o' Lee ! 
 
 The bells that used to ring fer us at early mornin' 
 
 light ; 
 The bells that used to sing fer us — soft in our 
 
 dreams at night ; 
 The dear old bells ! What organ swells one half 
 
 as sweet to me 
 As jest their " tinkle, tinkle " in the meadowy lands 
 
 o' Lee ! 
 
 But this isn't what I mean to say : How's all the 
 
 boys down there ? 
 I guess the frosts o' life has shed the silver on 
 
 their hair — 
 Or, it may be that the distance makes a haze aroun' 
 
 my eyes, 
 Fer the sunshine's kind o* blindin' when it comes 
 
 from them old skies ! 
 
THE CHAP IN THE BRANCH. 
 
 You may talk about your pleasures o' the summer 
 
 time, an' sich, 
 An' jest pile your money measures till the people 
 
 say you're rich ; 
 Take a trip off to the seashore, from your swel- 
 
 terin' city ranch, 
 But — the chap that has the most fun is a-wadin' in 
 
 the branch ! 
 
 You may kinder slip the weather by a trip acrost 
 
 the sea, 
 An' feel the salty blowin' o' the breezes brisk an' 
 
 free, 
 An' pay some other feller fer conductin' o' the 
 
 ranch. 
 
 But — the chap that keeps the coolest is a-wadin' 
 
 in the branch ! 
 
 (172) 
 
THE CHAP IN THE BRANCH. 
 
 173 
 
 Jest take a look an* see him : his feet is bare an' 
 
 flat ; 
 Suspenders made o' cotton, an' him wearin' one at 
 
 that! 
 His hat brim torn an' hangin' ! — jest keep your 
 
 city ranch — 
 The pictur' that's the brighest is the pictur' in the 
 
 branch ! 
 
THE SONGS OF THE WIND. 
 
 How sings the wind in the splendid day 
 * When the world is wild with the wealth of May ? 
 
 " The world is thrilling with light and love — 
 There was never a cloud in the heavens above : 
 Never a mateless and moaning dove ! 
 Never a grave for a rose to hide, 
 And never a rose that died ! " 
 
 How sings the wind in the hopeless night 
 When the lone, long winters are cold and white ? 
 
 " There are rainbows back of the storms to be — 
 Back of the storms and their mystery ; 
 But oh, for the ships that are lost at sea ! 
 And oh, for the love in the lonesome lands. 
 Far from the clasp of the drowning hands ! " 
 
 (»74) 
 
THE SONGS OF THE WIND, 
 
 175 
 
 So the wind singeth : Its God decrees 
 The wind should sing such songs as these — 
 Should laugh in the sunlight's silver waves 
 And toss the green on the world's sad graves. 
 But why, in the night, should it sing to me 
 Of the ships — the ships that are lost at sea ? 
 
THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Flash, storm, your lightnings from their sheath, 
 
 While bolt on bolt is hurled ; 
 
 Of your great wrath God makes a wreath 
 
 Of glory round the world ! 
 
 (176) 
 
THE WORD HE DIDNT SAY. 
 
 When we went to camp meetin' I had a word to 
 
 say, 
 But I kept a-puUin' roses — like they all was in the 
 
 way ! 
 An* I did say : '^ Here's a red 'un ! an' this vi'let — 
 
 ain't it blue ?" 
 But what I wanted most to say was — " ain't as 
 
 sweet as you ! " 
 
 I recollect, 'twas rainin' ; — no, 'pears like the sun 
 
 was out, 
 Fer I seen your curls a-shinin' on your neck an' 
 
 round about ; 
 An' the moon was — no she wasn't ! — don't think 
 
 the moon had riz ! 
 (When a feller's got a sweetheart, don't she turn 
 
 that head o' his ?) 
 
 (177) 
 
178 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 When we went to camp meetin' — here goes ! I had 
 
 a word 
 To say to you, and that was jest the one that 
 
 wasn't heard ! 
 But since you ain*t here listenin', with them bright 
 
 curls 'round your brow, 
 I'll say, I loved you ! an' — an' — an' I'm lovin* of 
 
 you now / 
 
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 
 
 That was the song ! We heard it years ago — 
 Hark ! from the wiry brambles and the deep, 
 Dark woods, and where the valley's violets sleep, 
 
 The curt, cool notes, melodiously flow ! 
 
 That was the song ! In many a nest I know 
 The birds are cuddled, and the clear skies weep 
 Upon the morning-glories ; shadows creep 
 
 Over the hollows where the hushed streams flow. 
 
 That song ! that song ! and still your hand in mine, 
 
 And still your true heart beating near my own ! 
 
 And still the vines — the place — the garden 
 
 still ! 
 
 Dear heart, I love you ! Let your lips incline — 
 
 The lips whose roses bloom for me alone 
 
 As blooms the same song of the whip-poor-will ! 
 
 (179) 
 
HUNT HIM DOWN. 
 
 Ho! good people of every town, 
 Here is a brother : hunt him down ! 
 Roar at his heels like a raging flood — 
 Slake your thirst with his heart's red blood ; 
 For he was tempted — he sinned, he fell 
 From heights of heaven to depths of hell ! 
 Fugitive — fleeing the saintly town, 
 Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 
 
 Ho ! good people of every town, 
 
 Sage and sinner and knave and clown, 
 
 Swell the ranks with their storm and strife 
 
 In the maddening race for a human life ! 
 
 Pause not ye for his gasp and groan — 
 
 Aim the arrow and hurl the stone ! 
 
 Past the village and through the town 
 
 Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 
 
 (180) 
 
HUNT HIM DOWN, i8l 
 
 Care not ye for the grief he feels ; 
 
 Let the bloodhounds howl at his burning heels; 
 
 Let the cold, sharp stones of the cruel street 
 
 Pierce the wounds in his bleeding feet ! 
 
 Hurl your hisses and block his way, 
 
 Till he stands at last like a beast at bay ! 
 
 Search the village and sack the town — 
 
 Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 
 
 Ho ! good people of every town, 
 Let not mercy your justice drown ; 
 '*Tis human game — 'tis a soul in woe, 
 Whose white Redeemer died long ago ! 
 Scourge him — slay him ! *tis little loss : 
 A sinner clings to the crimson cross, 
 Asking not for your shining crown, 
 Dead in the darkness — hunted down ! 
 
CLOSE TO SPRINGTIME. 
 
 Gittin' close to springtime — know it by the way 
 The sun is streamin', gleamin' in the middle o' the 
 
 day; 
 Know it by the river that is lazyin* along, 
 An' the mocking birds a-primpin' o' their feathers 
 
 fer a song ! 
 
 Gittin' close to springtime — know it by the signs, 
 Hear it in the whisper o' the maples an' the pines; 
 Feel it in the blowin' o' the breezes, singin' sweet ; 
 See it in the daisies jest a-dreamin' at my feet ! 
 
 Gittin' close to springtime; hope she'll come to 
 
 stay ; 
 
 Got a million kisses fer the red lips o' the May ! 
 
 Wearyin' to meet her — list'nin' all the time 
 
 Fer the tinkle o' her footsteps — her roses an' her 
 
 rhyme ! 
 
 (182) 
 
A SONG OF MYSTERIES. 
 
 Who shall say what snowflakes light 
 Falling on the lambs at night, 
 Clothed them in their coats of white? 
 Who shall say what veins of sun 
 Through the rose's petals run, 
 Till they crimson^ one by one ? 
 This, O Heart, is all our knowing: 
 Lambs are clad and flowers are blowing. 
 
 When the wild birds are a-wing 
 In the blue and bloom of spring. 
 Who shall say what makes them sing ? 
 Who shall tell this heart of mine 
 Why in thunder and in shine 
 Still the mossed-oak lures the vine? 
 We but know the wild bird singeth 
 And the lured vine clingeth, clingeth. 
 
1 84 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Who shall say why rosiest dawn 
 Gleameth, streameth, dreameth on, 
 To the breast of Darkness drawn ? 
 And why thou, by earth caressed, 
 Still hath sought me — lovea me best, 
 Crept like sunlight to my breast ? 
 Day and Dark may love and sever. 
 But thou lovest me forever ! 
 
MARY, AFTER CALVARY. 
 
 In the night when they scourged Him and crowned 
 Him 
 
 With thorns that were sharp as their spears, 
 They struck my white arms from around Him 
 And fast fell my tears. 
 
 And weeping and following slowly — 
 They mocking my love and my loss, 
 
 Knew not that my lips leaning lowly 
 Kissed His steps to the cross ! 
 
 They knew not my down-streaming tresses, 
 With myrrh and with spikenard made sweet, 
 
 Had covered with golden caresses 
 His beautiful feet ! 
 
 So, weeping, I followed my Master 
 
 Till the cross was laid wearily down, 
 
 (185) 
 
1 86 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 And the night in the heavens gloomed faster 
 On Calvary's crown. 
 
 And there — as He rested Him, weary, 
 My love knew its sweetest reward — 
 
 For His lips seemed to speak to me : " Mary ! " 
 My name from my Lord ! 
 
 No crown of sharp thorns did I weave Him 
 To crimson His forehead of white ; 
 
 The last in the darkness to leave Him, 
 The first in the light ! 
 
 For there, at the gates of His prison, 
 
 Faith freed from doubt's darkened control, 
 
 I knew that my Master was risen 
 And joy filled my soul ! 
 
 He liveth ! No more am I weeping, 
 But still, where God's angels are fair, 
 
 My love to His footstool is creeping 
 And He smiles on me there ! 
 
WEARY THE WAITING. 
 
 There's an end to all toiling some day — sweet 
 day, 
 But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
 There's a harbor somewhere in a peaceful bay 
 Where the sails will be furled and the ship will 
 
 stay 
 At anchor — somewhere in the far-away — 
 But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
 
 There's an end to the troubles of souls opprest, 
 
 But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
 Some time in the future when God thinks best 
 He'll lay us tenderly down to rest, 
 And roses '11 bloom from the thorns in the breast — 
 
 But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
 
 There's an end to the world with its stormy frown. 
 
 But it's weary the waiting, weary ! 
 
 (187) 
 
1 88 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 There's a light somewhere that no dark can 
 
 drown, 
 And where life's sad burdens are all laid down, 
 A crown — thank God ! — for each cross — a crown! 
 But it's weary the waiting, weary \ 
 
JONES'S COTTON PLANTER. 
 
 He ain't of no account at all, jest give up ever'- 
 
 thing 
 Fer what he calls " inventin'/' been a-foolin' 'long 
 
 sence spring 
 With a queer kind o' contraption which has turned 
 
 that head o' his ; 
 Calls it "Jones's Cotton Planter," but the Lord 
 
 knows what it is ! 
 
 He took it to the city, showed it to the board o' 
 
 trade, 
 An' they thought it was amazin' an' said: '* Jones, 
 
 your fortun's made ! " 
 I know they was a-foolin' him — got lots o' imper- 
 
 dence ! 
 But he come home highfalutin', an' he hain't 
 
 knowed nuthin' sence. 
 
 (i8g) 
 
190 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 He's built himself a blacksmith shop, an' there h$ 
 
 works away, 
 With the pesky bellows roarin' like a cyclone night 
 
 an' day ; 
 Ain't reg'lar at his meals no more, man of a fam'ly, 
 
 too ; 
 I wish that cotton planter was in — Halifax, 
 
 I do ! 
 
 It strikes me they've got things enough without 
 
 his makin' more. 
 Unless he fixed up somethin' fer the grass that's at 
 
 his door ; 
 But the cotton planter's got him, an' the children's 
 
 worked to death, 
 Fer he keeps 'em at the bellows till they're almost 
 
 out o' breath. 
 
 Sich a blowin', sich a hammerin', sich a sawin* — 
 
 never stops ; 
 Can't git him interested in the weather or the 
 
 crops. 
 
JONES'S COTTON PLANTER. 191 
 
 "I'm a-gittin' there!" he'll tell you; *' she'll be 
 
 ready by the fall ; 
 And Jones's cotton planter'll take the shine from 
 
 off 'em all ! " 
 
 He's done fur. No use talkin* ; he's a ruint man 
 
 as sure 
 As Betsy, there, is sittin' with her knittin' at the 
 
 door; 
 Alas ! fer all the children — they'll be down to skin 
 
 an' bones, 
 An' Jones's cotton planter'll be the epitaph o' 
 
 Jones ! 
 
HAPPY LAN'. 
 
 Three niggers with a banjer — it*s fun to hear *em 
 sing— 
 
 A rattlin' off the music on a knotted fiddle- 
 string 
 
 Acrost a old cigar box — they're happy on the 
 way, 
 
 An* they make '^ The Suwanee River '* sing a song 
 to '' Nellie Gray ! " 
 
 " With a plink, plank, plunk, 
 An' it's happy Ian' 
 Whar you doan give a nickel 
 Fer a po' white man ! " 
 
 Three niggers with a banjer — they're makin' music 
 
 fine ; 
 
 Jes' done a-choppin' cotton, where the white man 
 
 had 'em gwine ! 
 
 (192) 
 
HAPPY LAN\ 
 
 193 
 
 Doan care how corn's a-sellin' — be watermillions 
 soon, 
 
 An' that's why they're a-yellin' to the old planta- 
 tion tune — 
 
 ** With a plink, plank, plunk, 
 An' it's happy Ian' 
 Whar you doan give a nickel 
 Fer a po' white man ! " 
 
 Three niggers with a banjer — talk 'bout the " Sun- 
 ny South," 
 
 They sing like watermillions was a-meltin' in their 
 mouth ; 
 
 Jest happy as three blackbirds six miles from any 
 trap : 
 
 ** Oh, when yo' foot strike Zion yo' hat rim go 
 ker-flap ! " 
 
 " With a plink, plank, plunk, 
 An' it's happy Ian' 
 Whar you doan give a nickel 
 Fer a po' white man ! " 
 
LET MISS LINDY PASS. 
 
 Lizard on de fence rail, 
 
 Blacksnake in de grass ; 
 Rabbit in de brier-patch — 
 
 Oh, let Miss Lindy pass ! 
 
 Let Miss Lindy pass — 
 Her foot won*t ben' de grass; 
 Rabbit, lizard, blacksnake, 
 Oh, let Miss Lindy pass. 
 
 Squirrel in de co^nfieF, 
 
 Eat yo' br'akfas* fas' ; 
 Set up straight an' watch de gate 
 
 An* let Miss Lindy pass. 
 
 Let Miss Lindy pass, 
 
 Lak' de sunshine on de grass ! 
 
 Set up straight an' watch de gate 
 
 An' let Miss Lindy pass. 
 (194) 
 
LET MISS LINDY PASS. 195 
 
 White rose in de gyarden walk, 
 
 Wid a dewdrap lookin'-glass, 
 Bresh dat dew fum off' en you 
 
 An' let Miss Lindy pass. 
 
 Let Miss Lindy pass, 
 
 An' she'll pin you on at las' ; 
 
 De goodness knows she's de sweetes' rose — 
 
 So let Miss Lindy pass ! 
 
A CHEAT! 
 
 O April, you your skies may arch, 
 
 But you're a cheat — no doubt ; 
 
 You stole the blustering winds o' March 
 
 To blow your curls about ! 
 (196) 
 
TO A LITTLE FELLOW. 
 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 Long time since I have looked on you ! 
 But I know your eyes are the same bright blue- 
 April eyes, where the sun slips through : 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 
 Seem to feel, as I sit an' view 
 
 Your picture, there on the mantel shelf, 
 
 The arms, the charms of your own dear self ! 
 
 For you kissed me oft, and you loved me true: 
 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 
 Same little fellow that once I knew ? 
 
 Never a change for all the years — 
 
 Same sweet laughter and same bright tears ? 
 
 (197) 
 
198 SONGS OF THE SOIL, 
 
 Oh, for a word from the lips of you ! 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 
 Ho ! little fellow — far away ! 
 Dream, some time, of the words I say, 
 When the dark drifts over your eyes of blue, 
 And the angels look through the lace at you ! 
 Dream that I love you ; but love me, too ! 
 Ho ! little fellow — how d'ye do ? 
 
A SONG. 
 
 Sweetheart, there is no splendor 
 In all God's splendid skies 
 
 Bright as the lovelight tender 
 That dwells in thy dear eyes ! 
 
 Sweetheart, there are no blisses 
 Like those thy lips distil ; 
 
 Of all the world's sweet kisses 
 Thy kiss is sweetest still ! 
 
 Sweetheart, no white dove flying 
 Had e'er as soft a breast 
 
 As this sweet hand that's lying 
 Clasped in my own — at rest ! 
 
 Sweetheart, there is no glory 
 
 That clusters 'round my life 
 Bright as this bright, sweet story 
 
 ^* My sweetheart and my wife ! " 
 
 (199) 
 
MY GIFTS. 
 
 Give not to me life's splendors — they would blind 
 The eyes that now have light to see the way ; 
 Only a little sunlight for my day, 
 
 And for my night the shadows soft and kind ; 
 
 And for my wealth the quiet of the mind, 
 Gentle and sweet ; and lips that sing or say 
 In kindness, and are answered when they pray ; 
 
 And for my glory duty, love-defined. 
 
 And give to me the love of her whose kiss 
 Is recompense for toil ; whose smiles await 
 
 My coming, brightening with expected bliss 
 In some sweet spot where twilight lingereth 
 late; 
 
 And yet one other blessing crowning this, 
 
 In little footsteps pattering to the gate : 
 
 (200) 
 
A LITTLE BOOK. 
 
 [Charles Warren Stoddard's South Sea Idyls.] 
 
 A little book with here and there a leaf 
 
 Turned at some tender passage ; how it seems 
 To speak to me — to fill my soul with dreams 
 
 Sweet as first love, and beautiful though brief ! 
 
 Here was her glory ; on this page her grief — 
 For tears have stained it ; here the sunlight 
 
 streams, 
 And there the stars withheld from her their 
 beams 
 
 And sorrow sought her white soul like a thief ! 
 
 And here her name, and as I breathe the sweet, 
 Soft syllables, a presence in the room 
 
 Sheds a rare radiance ; but I may not look : 
 
 The yellowed leaves are fluttering at my feet ; 
 
 The light is gone, and I — lost in the gloom, 
 
 Weep like a woman o'er this little book. 
 
 (201) 
 
SAINT MICHAEL'S BELLS. 
 
 I wonder if the bells ring now, as in the days of 
 
 old, 
 From the solemn star-crowned tower with the 
 
 glittering cross of gold ; 
 The tower that overlooks the sea whose shining 
 
 bosom swells 
 To the ringing and the singing of sweet Saint 
 
 Michael's bells ? 
 
 I have heard them in the morning when the mists 
 
 gloomed cold and gray 
 O'er the distant walls of Sumter looking seaward 
 
 from the bay, 
 And at twilight I have listened to the musical 
 
 farewells 
 
 That came flying, sighing, dying from sweet Saint 
 
 Michael's bells. 
 
 (202) 
 
SAIXT MICHAELS BELLS, 203 
 
 Great joy it was to hear them, for they sang sweet 
 
 songs to me 
 Where the sheltered ships rocked gently in the 
 
 haven — safe from sea, 
 And the captains and the sailors heard no more 
 
 the ocean's knells, 
 But thanked God for home and loved ones and 
 
 sweet Saint Michael's bells. 
 
 They seemed to waft a welcome across the ocean's 
 
 foam 
 To all the lost and lonely : " Come home — come 
 
 home — come home ! 
 Come home, where skies are brighter — where love 
 
 still yearning dwells ! " 
 So sang the bells in music — the sweet Saint 
 
 Michael's bells ! 
 
 They are ringing now as ever. But I know that 
 not for me 
 
 Shall the bells of sweet Saint Michael's ring wel- 
 come o'er the sea ; 
 
204 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 I have knelt within their shadow, where my heart 
 
 still dreams and dwells, 
 But I'll hear no more the music of sweet Saint 
 
 Michael's bells. 
 
 Oh, ring, sweet bells, forever, an echo in my 
 
 breast 
 Soft as a mother's voice that lulls a loved one into 
 
 rest ! 
 Ring welcome to the hearts at home — to me your 
 
 sad farewells 
 When I sleep the last sleep, dreaming of sweet 
 
 Saint Michael's bells ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 Love is folly, Love is hate- 
 Let us dwell with Love : 
 
 He's a churl of low estate — 
 He's a God above ! 
 
 Piping robin — moaning dove — 
 
 Loved because his name is Love . 
 
 If he hath a garden spot — 
 
 Dwelling in the light ; 
 If he hath a savage cot, 
 
 Covered by the night ; — 
 
 We must love in praise or blame, 
 
 Since sweet Love's his name — his name ! 
 (205) 
 
MAID O' THE MIST. 
 
 Are you watching the ships sailing southward^ 
 
 O mystical Maid o' the Mist ? 
 Do you wave your white hand 
 When they're nearing the land — 
 
 Are the tips of your white fingers kissed 
 To the captains and sailors who shout o*ei the 
 
 foam 
 For joy of the lights in the harbor at home ? 
 
 Are you watching the ships sailing southward, 
 
 O beautiful Maid o' the Mist ? 
 When the waves on the bars 
 Make their moan to the stars, 
 
 Do you keep with the night winds a tryst ? 
 
 The watch fires are dead on the desolate strand 
 
 And darkness hath hidden thy beckoning hand. 
 
 (206) 
 
MAID a THE MIST. 207 
 
 You are watching the ships sailing southward, 
 
 O Maid o' the Mist ! but I know 
 That the pitiful waves 
 Never tell of the graves 
 
 Fathoms and fathoms below ; 
 And the winds that blow inland o'er sea and o'er 
 
 sound 
 In mercy have stifled the cries of the drowned ! 
 
A SONG OF SHIPS. 
 
 The sky made a whip o' the winds and lashed the 
 
 sea into foam, 
 And the keen blowing gales tore the flags and the 
 
 sails of the ships that were plunging home ; 
 Of the ships that were tossing home on the black 
 
 and billowy deep, 
 But who shall reach to the wrecks, the wrecks, 
 
 where the ships and their captains sleep ? 
 
 Oh, wrecks by the black seas tossed, 
 In the desolate ocean nights ! 
 
 Lost, lost in the darkness ! Lost 
 In sight o' the harbor lights! 
 
 The sky made a veil o' the clouds and a scourge o' 
 
 the lightning red, 
 
 And the blasts bowed the masts of the ships that 
 
 fared where love and the sea gulls led; 
 (208) 
 
A SONG OF SHIPS, 209 
 
 Of the ships that were faring home with love for 
 
 the waiting breast, 
 But where is the love that can reach to the wrecks 
 
 where the ships and their captains rest ? 
 
 Oh, ships of our love, wave-tossed, 
 In the fathomless ocean nights ! 
 
 Lost, lost in the blackness ! Lost 
 In sight o* the harbor lights ! 
 
 There was once a ship of my soul that tossed on a 
 
 stormy sea. 
 And this was my prayer when the nights gloomed 
 
 drear : '' Send my souFs ship safe to me ! 
 Send my soul's ship safely home from billows and 
 
 blackened skies ! *' 
 But where is the soul that can reach to the depths, 
 
 the depths where my soul's ship lies ? 
 
 Oh, ship of my soul, storm-tossed 
 In the far and the fearful nights ! 
 
 Lost, lost, in the blackness ! Lost 
 In sight o' the harbor lights ! 
 
HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 
 
 God's roses are sweet and His lilies are fair, 
 As they bend 'neath the dews from above ; 
 They are splendid and fair — but they can not com- 
 pare 
 With the beautiful hands of my love. 
 No jewels adorn them — no glittering bands — 
 They are just as God made them, these sweet, 
 sweet hands ! y 
 
 And not for earth's gems, or its bright diadems, 
 Or the pearls from the depths of the sea, 
 
 Or the queens of the lands with their beautiful 
 hands 
 Should these dear hands be taken from me. 
 
 What exquisite blisses await their commands ! 
 
 They were made for my kisses, these dear, sweet 
 
 hands. 
 
 (210) 
 
HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS, 21 1 
 
 Ay, made for my kisses ! And when, some day, 
 
 My life shall be robbed of its trust. 
 And the lips that are colder shall kiss them away 
 
 And hide them in daisies and dust ; 
 I will kneel in the dark where the angel stands 
 And my kiss shall be last on these dear, sweet 
 hands. 
 
TO THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 One song for thee, New Year, 
 
 One universal prayer : 
 
 Teach us — all other teaching far above — 
 
 To hide dark Hate beneath the wings of Love; 
 
 To slay all hatred, strife, 
 
 And live the larger life ! 
 
 To bind the wounds that bleed : 
 
 To lift the fallen, lead the blind 
 As only Love can lead — 
 
 To live for all mankind ! 
 
 Teach us, New Year, to be 
 
 Free men among the free, 
 
 Our only master Duty ; with no God 
 
 Save one — our Maker ; monarchs of the sod( 
 
 Teach us, with all its might, 
 
 Its darkness and its light ; 
 
 (212) 
 
TO THE NEW YEAR. 213 
 
 Its heart-beats tremulous, 
 
 Its grief, its gloom, 
 
 Its beauty and its bloom — 
 God made the world for us ! 
 
THE MASTER'S COMING. 
 
 In a desolate Night and lonely, afar in a desolate 
 
 land, 
 I waited the Master's coming — the touch of His 
 
 healing hand. 
 The gates of His house were guarded and sealed 
 
 with a seal of stone, 
 Yet still for His steps I waited and wept in the 
 
 dark alone. 
 
 And I said : " When the guards are dreaming I will 
 
 steal to His couch of rest ; 
 He will think of my weary vigils and welcome me 
 
 to His breast.'* 
 But lo ! when the seal was broken, the couch where 
 
 my Master lay 
 
 Held only His shining raiment — they had taken 
 
 my Lord away ! 
 
 (214) 
 
THE MASTER'S COMING. 
 
 215 
 
 Then my soul in its grief and anguish lay down in 
 the dark to die 
 
 Under a hopeless heaven, under a sunless sky ; 
 
 But my dreams were all of the Master — dear as 
 my soul was dear, 
 
 And waking, I saw the glory of His beautiful Pres- 
 ence there ! 
 
 And He said, as I fell and worshiped : ** Arise, 
 
 and the Master see ; 
 Behold the thorns that have crowned Him — the 
 
 wounds that were made for thee ! " 
 
 I wait for the Master's coming now as in days 
 
 gone by, 
 Under a hopeful heaven, under a cloudless sky ; 
 And still when the guards are dreaming I steal tc> 
 
 His couch of rest ; 
 His smile through the darkness lightens, and wel 
 
 comes me to His breast \ 
 
A SONG OF LIBERTY. 
 
 Across the land from strand to strand 
 Loud ring the bugle notes, 
 
 And Freedom's smile from isle to isle, 
 Like Freedom's banner floats. 
 
 The velvet vales sing '^ Liberty ! " 
 To answering skies serene ; 
 
 The mountains, sloping to the sea, 
 Wave all their flags of green. 
 
 The rivers, dashing to the deep, 
 
 Still echo loud and long, 
 And all their waves in glory leap 
 
 To one immortal song. 
 
 One song of Liberty and Life 
 
 That was and is to be, 
 
 Till tyrant flags are trampled rags 
 
 And all the world is free ! 
 (216) 
 
A SONG OF LIBERTY. 217 
 
 One song — the nations hail the notes 
 
 From sounding sea to sea, 
 And answer from their thrilling throats 
 
 That song of Liberty ! 
 
 They answer and an echo comes 
 From chained and troubled isles, 
 
 And roars like ocean's thunder-drums 
 Where glad Columbia smiles. 
 
 Where, crowned and great, she sits in state 
 
 Beneath her flag of stars. 
 Her heroes' blood the sacred flood 
 
 That crimsoned all its bars ! 
 
 Hail to our Country ! strong she stands^ 
 Nor fears the war drum's beat ; 
 
 The sword of Freedom in her hands — , 
 The tyrant at her feet ! 
 
 (12) 
 THE END.