1 • o* . Q'^ -(T^ ""^^^^ J"^^ ^ ^ > ^«. ^ ^"^m^ t^ ,& ^( / > .^^^ •3^^ o > % ^^ i."«^ **i^fe^ '^^ A^ *:. \n9 V r>^ s • • /• v> ?5. :^::. Digitize'^liy the Internet Archgy^ :^^r .<^ \ '^^'^^ in 2010 with funding fro^^ \ *-^^^* "^ ^ AT •^ •• A> * . -• • A? ^ ^ ^ JTitjD^^viAA^rdrcl^e.prg/d^ls?sbhg^6tdaysonsj^0^ Stdt LI I <&.' • '^ i.^ y. SONGS OF A DAY AND • SONGS OF THE SOIL byV FKANK L. 'BTANTON (^ MAR 17 J8S^ ^ U "i c ^ } NEW YORK JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 1892 \ v^^ Copyright, 1892, By frank L. STANTON. IIN^TRODUOTIOR THIS collection of Mr. Stanton's poems and songs is put forth neither as an experiment nor as a bid for the passing notoriety which in these days is sometimes mistaken for fame. It is issued in response to a demand v/hich has come from all parts of the country — not a popular demand, hut requests and suggestions from friends, stran- gers, and the press. That these poems have touched a popular chord is shown by the fact that they have been widely copied in the newspapers. Some of the pieces have been set to music, and in this shape have attracted wide attention. To my mind, the melody that is native to them is their finest setting. It should be said, not by way of apology, but by way of explanation, that the poems in this little volume are the flowers that have sprung up in the wilderness of daily iv INTRODUCTION. newspaper work, blooming unexpectedly, even to the author, between paragraphs or side by side with the results of the most arduous routine work. From the beginning of the book to the end, the reader will not find an artificial note. Sincerity and simplicity prevail throughout. Surely there is a touch of originality in the fact that the poet, with such remarkable facility for rhyme and metre and in the out- ward forms of his art, should cling so per- sistently to what is simple and true. Joel Chandler Harris. Atlanta, Ga., January 1, 1893. CONTENTS. Tlie Love Unknown 1 Clarisse 2 My Study 3 Love's llecompeuse 5 Lynched 5 A Little Hand 6 A Little Way ' 7 The Toiler 7 A Ghost 8 Weary and Waiting 9 A Love Note 10 A Love Song. , 11 The Reapers , .... 12 At the Grave of Paul H. Hayne 13 At Last 14 Little Elaine 15 The Master's Coming 16 St. Michael's Bells, , , 17 At Andersonville 19 The Thought of You— A Song , , 21 Kiss for Kiss , 22 The Last Inn , , 23 My Dead Friend , , 24 A New Year's Song. 27 " Nearer to Thee " 28 In the Fields .... 29 The Call of the Reapers 31 Slain 33 In a Swing 34 For You 35 Love's Visitor , 36 Stanley's Message , 38 The Violet ' ' . .' 41 No Cross, No Crown 43 St. Simon's Sound 44 Love's Bouquet 46 Through the Wheat 47 The After-Time 48 Love's Thanksgiving 50 CONTENTS. Tl Hunt Him Down . . . . „ 51 Going Home. 52 The New Love and the Old. 54 Her Beautiful Hands 56 Little Hands 57 Writing for Bread. 58 Her Valentine , 60 A Memory 61 If You Could Come. 62 A Song of Blessing 63 One Sad Day 64 Resolution , 65 After Death. 66 Thy Face 67 Faithful 68 One of the King's Own Girls 69 Way-Worn 70 The Vales of Rome 71 Love's Retrospect 72 A Christmas Comedy. 74 A Christmas Hymn . 76 Maid o' the Mist 78 SONGS OF THE SOIL. The Love Feast at Waycross ..... 83 To Robert J. Burdette 86 Summer-Time in Georgia. 88 The Picnic at Selina. .............................. . 90 Wearin' for You 92 When Jim Was Dead. ........... 94 The Old Pine Box. 95 Good-By 97 Old Times in Georgia 99 The Lazy Man 100 Didn't Think o' Losin' Him. 102 The Lighting Age 103 " Shoutin'."., ......... 105 Jones' Cotton Planter 107 SONGS OF A DAY. THE LOVE UNKNOWN. Sweetheart, you have not known me,- If I be great or wise ; Yet somewhere you shall own me Beneath God's splendid skies; Though now life's broken chalice No earthly sweets can, win, Some day, at Love's own palace, Your arms shall take me in ! Some day a rose will blossom White in the thorny ways, And on the dark Night's bosom Will fall the morning's rays; Some day when I am lying Pale from the storm and strife, Your lips shall seek me, dying, And kiss me back to life ! Then will the bird-songs, ringing, Fall soft on fields of bloom ; Then will the streams flow singing Through groves of rich perfume ! SONGS OF A DAY. Then shall the world benighted. The rarest splendor win, And at Love's palace lighted Your arms shall take me in ! CLARISSE. Kiss you? Wherefore should I, sweet? Casual kissing I condemn ; Other lips your lips will meet When my kisses die on them. Should I grieve that this should be? Nay, if you will kiss, kiss me ! Love you? That were vainer still ! If you win my love to-day, When the morrow comes you will Lightly laugh that love away. Should I grieve that this should be? Nay, if you must love, love me. Wherefore play these fickle parts? Life and love will soon be done. Think you God made human hearts Just for you to tread upon? Will you break them, nor repine? If you will, Clarisse, break mine ! MY STUDY. MY STUDY. The day in the west has faded, And night with auroral bai'^ The brow of the north has braided And brightened the blue with stars; And here in the firelight ruddy, In this temple of mystic art Which I modestly call "My study," I'm writing to you, sweetheart. I wish you could see me bending Over my books sublime, And drearily, wearily wending My way through the realms of rliyme ! I have sixteen songs and a sonnet Just finished (my stock in trade), And a verse, "On a Lady's Bonnet," Which will come tco high, I'm afraid. The room where I write is cheerful And warm— when it isn't cold; But its objects of art are fearful And wonderful to behold ! There's a chimney with grate of iron, Where the flaming firelight throws Its gleam on a bust of Byron, And a Caesar with broken nose ! SONGS OF A DAY. Then a bird on a bust of Pallas, The Raven of Edgar Poe, Looks down from the mantel callous To the years as they come and go. On a desk are the works of Schiller, . And Goethe, in bindings plain ; The songs of Joaquin Miller And the poems of Paul H. Hayne. Then Homer, the famed old Grecian, With an aspect devoid of joy, In a binding old (Venetian) , Comes next with the Siege of Troy. (Alas ! had the great bard ever Dreamed of this destiny sad, He'd have burned what he wrote, or never Penned a line of the Iliad !) I sometimes think that the Muses Grow thin in this Attic air ; But we live as our fortune chooses, And Fortune has left me here. I am used to her pranks and capers. But well does she act her part; She gives me my books and papers And a kiss from your lips, sv/eetheart ! LYNCHED. LOVE'S RECOMPENSE. Beneath the shroud the dead man lay And dreamed not that his love drew near ; But on his heart there fell that day — And angels saw it fall — a tear. When lo! above the barren sod, By never any sunshine lit, A white, sweet rose looked up to God, And God looked down and smiled on it ! 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. SONGS OF A DAY. 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;" 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. THE TOILER. 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 withered rose to give If one of us should go. And if these lips should ever learn to smile, With your heart far from mine, 'T would be for joy that in a little while They would be kissed by thine ! THE TOILER. Heavy the heart and weary the brain, But write, my pen, oh, write! For rest from labor will come again. With a kiss from her lips at night. Sonnet and story — trace them well, In beautiful lines and bright ; But the tenderest thought in my heart will dwell On the kiss from her lips at night. 8 SONGS OP A DAY. And the world may frown on the head bowed down, And its splendors veil from sight ; I bear the cross, for I gain the crown With a kiss from her Kjds at night ! A GHOST. All night beside my dreamless bed She walks with soft and thrilling tread — Living through death and all things dead. She does not speak — a form of mist, Holding with life a solemn tryst, With hands unclasped and lips unkissed. But could I touch those lips and feel The white, sweet arms about me steal ; Though Death did then his face reveal And flash his sword between us — I, Mad in that moment's ecstasy. Would kiss her heavenly lips and die ! WEARY THE WAITING. 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 lay At anchor — somewhere in the far-away — (But it's v/eary 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'll grow 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!) There's a light somewhere that no dark can drown, 10 SONGS OF A DAY. And where life's sad burdens are all laid down, A crown — thank God! — for each cross — a crown ! (But it's weary the v/aiting, weary!) A LOVE NOTE. Do not forget me, dearest ; all day long I think of you, and wish the time more fleet ; My heart is always singing some sweet song, And thinking of you makes my labor sweet. And if the day seems anywise less bright — More vext with cares than I had thought 'twould be — I think with joy of the approaching night When the sv/eet stars shall guide my steps to thee. One thought still whispers — sweeter ever- more: "Thou shalt behold her when the day is o'er!" And so I shall ; for you will watch and wait When on the flowers the tears of twilight fall; Sweet are the roses 'round your garden gate, But you are still the sweetest rose of all ! A LOVE SONG. 11 And you are my rose — even my very own, And to my life your beauty you impart ; Bloom sweetly still, but bloom for me alone, And twine your tendrils closer 'round my heart. Dear, I shall soon within your presence be, And you are waiting with a kiss for me ! A LOVE SONG. Sweetheart, there is no splendor In all God's splendid skies Bright as the love -light tender That dwells in your 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!" 12 SONGS OP A DAY. THE REAPERS. The wind is soft in the waving wheat, With a sigh for the maids who love us; The hives are heavy with honey, sweet As the lips of the maids ho love us. Oh, reapers, sing As your keen blades ring, As blithe as the birds above us ! The golden crown Of the wheat bends down At the feet of the maids who love us. Here's gold for them in the golden wheat Which the palms that we press shall cover ; But a lass that loves with a true heart's beat Asks only love of her lover. Then, reapers, sing As your keen blades ring, Till the stars peep out above us ; And the twilight thrills With the whippoorwills Calling home to the hearts that love us ! AT THE GRAVE OF PAUL H. HAYNE. 13 AT THE GRA VE OF PA UL H.HA YNE. Where tlie winds their clamors cease, Wliere the dewy flowers of peace Sweeten through the grassy sod And the silence breathes of God ; Sweet he sleeps whose songs were sweet, And I pause with reverent feet As I lay ui3on his shrine This poor, v/ithered wreath of mine ! Withered, but each leaflet bears The soft imprint of my tears ! Tears from eyes his death made dim — Tears that fall for love of him ; For I loved his songs, and they Sing themselves to me to-day, Till I feel and see him near — Not in dust and daisies there! With the laurel on his brow, Sings the Master sweeter now ; And his loftier numbers rise Mid the palms of Paradise! Still, when twilight steals apace And the veil on Heaven's face 14 SONGS OF A DAY. Twinkles through with stars, I seem Listening still, as in a dream. To the melody that floats From his last sweet earthly notes ! Notes that blend at morn and even With the songs he sings in Heaven ! AT LAST. Oh, the sights that he had seen In the far and travelled lands ! His heart was cold and the sword was keen In his merciless, reckless hands. And never a foe he spared — No pangs for the lives he slew ; And never a God in the heavens he feared, Though God looked on and knew \ But God was wiser still; Love conquers hate and pride ; His shafts are keen to heal or kill, And at Love's feet he died! LITTLE ELAINE. 15 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 that 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! 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 Hght 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! 16 SONGS OF A DAY. 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 dream- ing I will steal to His couch of rest ; He will think of my weary vigils and wel- come me to His breast." But lo ! when the seal was broken, the couch where my Master lay Held only His shining garments — they had taken my Lord away ! 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 beauti- ful presence there ! SAINT Michael's bells. 17 And He said, as I fell and worshipped: "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 to His couch of rest ; His smile through the darkness lightens, and welcomes me to His breast ! 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 shin- ing 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, 2 18 SONGS OP A DAY. And at twilight I have hstened to the musi- cal farewells That came flying, sighing, dying from sweet Saint Michael's bells. 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 welcome o'er the sea; AT ANDERSONVILLE. 19 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! AT ANDERSONVILLE. When the weird, wondering wind is still. There, in tiie 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, Eibald 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. 20 SONGS OF A DAY. 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 Eesume their sorrowful, silent rounds ; While the glow-worm's lantern gleams and waves Adown the aisles of a thousand graves ; 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 Uquid notes Else 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, v/hen the wind is still, There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. THE THOUGHT OF YOU— A SONG. 21 THE THOUGHT OF YOU— A SONG. 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 friend- ships 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 ! 22 SONGS OF A DAY. KISS FOR KISS. Just one kiss? Nay, sweet, I know Love would never have it so. Should those lips of crimson stain Kiss me, I should kiss again ! What could fairer be than this — Love for love and kiss for kiss? I would owe you nothing, sweet. Not a heart's faint, fluttering beat! When I feel your fond heart thrill, Dearest, shall my own be still? Nay, it must be always this — Love for love and kiss for kiss ! Kiss for kiss ; the lilies white Kiss the wind and kiss the light ; And the wind the kiss returns, And the light its answer burns On the lily's lips — oh, bliss ! Love's a lily — kiss for kiss! THE LAST INN. 23 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 at the fare When Death is host to Life. Clean bed and board 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. What more? And when the keen winds blow, Sweet dreams in daisies 'neath the snow. Good-nighfc, 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. 24 SONGS OF A DAY. 3IY DEAD FRIEND. Adown the vale of Life together We walked in spring and winter weather, When days were dim, when days were bright ; My friend of whom God's will bereft me, Whose kind, congenial spirit left me And went forth in the Unknown Night. I saw his step grow more invalid, I saw his cheek grow jpallid — pallid, And wither like a dying rose ; Until, at length, being all too weary For Life's rude scenes and places dreary, He bade farewell to friends and foes. This is his grave. The Spring with flowers Bestrews it in the morning hours, Her rarest roses o'er him bowed ; And Summer pauses to deplore him. And weeping Winter arches o'er him Her solemn drapery of cloud. He was not faultless. God, who gave him Life, and Christ, who died to save him. Sent Sorrow, wherewith he was tried ; MY DEAD FRIEND. 25 And if, as I who loved him name him, There should he heard a voice to hlame him, May we not answer: " Christ hath died? " Ah, verily ! ... I fancy often I see his kindly features soften — I mark his melting eyes grow dim. While Hunger, with its pained appealing, Its want and woe and grief revealing, Stretched its imploring palms to him. He cannot answer now. He never, In all the dim, vast, deep Forever, Shall speak with human words again. He cannot hear the song birds calling ; He cannot feel the spring dews falling, Nor sigh when winter winds complain. Deep is his sleep. He would not waken Though earth were to her centre shaken By the loud thunders of a God. Though the strong sea, by tempest driven, With wailing waves rock earth and heaven, He would not answer from the sod. So be it, friend ! A little while hence. And in the dear, deep, dreamless Silence We too shall share thy couch of rest. 26 SONGS OF A DAY. When we have trod Life's pathways dreary, Kind Death will take the hands grown weary, And gently fold them o'er the breast. Sleep on, dear friend ! No marble column Gleams in the lights and shadows solemn Over the grasses on thy grave ; But flowers bloom there — the roses love thee ; And the tall oaks that tower above thee Their broad, green banners o'er thee wave. Sleep, while the weary years are flying; While men are born, while men are dying ! Sleep on thy curtained couch of sod ! Thine be the rest which Christ hath given, Thine be the Christian's hope of Heaven; Thine be the perfect peace of Grod ! A NEW year's song. 27 A NEW YEAR'S SONG. New Year ! that with merry sound Is coming up the slope, Pass Hghtly o'er that httle mound Where hes a Ufe's lost hope! For you have curls of gold, New Year, And curls of gold are resting there ! Sing, if you will, your happy stave O'er frosty vale and hill; But when you pass that little grave— Oh, let the song be still ! For lips that knew no song of cheer Are sleeping there — are sleeping there! Hide not with flakes of chilly snow The withered flowers that rest (Poor gifts of hearts that loved her so !) Upon that little breast. The only flower two lives held dear Lies withered at your feet, New Year ! But oh, the years must come and go, Nor heed our wish or will ; And yet I hope, and yet I know He loves His children still Whose hand makes crosses hard to bear- Even like this little grave, New Year ! 38 SONGS OP A DAY. ''NEARER TO THEE." They were singing, sweetly singing, And the song melodiously On the evening air was ringing : "Nearer, my God, to Thee!" In my eyes the tear-drops glistened As it stirred the twilight dim, And I wondered as I listened If it brought them nearer Him? Were they like the wanderer weary, Song and life in sweet accord ; Resting in the darkness dreary In that nearness to the Lord? Had His spirit ever sought them To be slighted or denied? Had that dear song ever brought them Closer to the Saviour's side? I have heard its music often. Felt its meaning deep and sv/eet; And my weary heart would soften Singing at my Master's feet; "Nearer Thee," — oh, precious feeling !- Nearer Thee in gain and loss ; Nearer Thee when I am kneeUng In the shadow of Thy Cross ! IN THE FIELDS. 29 Nearer Thee wlien Love, descending, Falls in blessing on my head ; Nearer Thee when I am bending O'er the graves that hide my dead! Nearer Thee in joy, in sorrow, 'Tis the same where'er I roam; Nearer Thee to-day, to-morrow, my King, my Christ, my Home ! IN THE FIELDS. 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. 30 SONGS OF A DAY. 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? When you hind 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. 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? THE CALL OF THE REAPERS. 31 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. "Oh, wherefore come you not? The hand of autumn decks the sod ; The world is like a picture where the har- vests smile to God ; There's yet a late white rose for you in val- ley and in plain." But I shall not see the fields of Lee, where blooms that rose, again. 33 SONGS OF A DAY. "Ah, wherefore come you not? The doves have left their v^oodland nests, With the gold of autumn 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 ! Oh, doves, leave not your nests, nor call in tender tones and vain, To him who hears, with falling tears, but cannot come again. Reap on, ye men and maids of Lee; for those 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 ! SLAIN. SLAIN. 33 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! 34 SONGS OF A DAY. IN A SWING. Here's a picture of the spring (Happy spring !) — It is beauty in a swing (Such a swing !) Made of vines from garden bowers Where the blossoms fall in showers, With embroidery of flowers — Pretty thing ! She is Beauty. Up she goes In the air, And there tumbles down a rose From her hair. I can catch — I will not miss it — Tumble, tumble — ah, this is it. And with lips of love I kiss it For my dear. " Swing me ! swing me !" It is clear I am caught In a fairy, silken snare, All for naught; For her sweet commands are ringing And she will not cease the swinging, Though the birds of love are singing- Happy lot ! FOR YOU. 35 "Swing me, swing me!" How her tones Ring and ring, Till the heart within me groans — Tired thing ! But her heart is like a feather ; Would to heaven in just such weather We could go through life together In a swing! FOB 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 ! 36 SONGS OF A DAY. LOVE'S VISITOR. I see her in the near hght, in the far light, In the morning, when the sunbeams kiss the dew ; In the evening, when the shimmer of the starhght The tangle of the vines comes peeping through ; And her eyes, as in the sweet and far-away time, Are beautiful and tender ; and her cheek Is fragrant with the freshness of the May time — But the rosy lips are silent when I speak ! Perhaps the loving name by which I knevf her Is not the name by which they know her there Beyond — where stars are brighter, skies are bluer. Where never any darkness draweth near. Perhaps the v/oven love words that I bring her She treasures in sweet silence, little worth : love's visitor. 37 She'd rather hear the songs the angels sing her, Than listen to the lowlier songs of earth. Yet wherefore from the seraph-guarded portal Beyond, where flows the dark, dividing sea, Whose waters lave the shining shore im- mortal. In light and night comes hack my love to me? Forever comes? Oh, doubting heart! no Heaven — Howe'er its walls may tower the stars above, With gates that look down on the unfor- given, Can stay the hands that love holds out to love! 38 SONGS OF A DAY. STANLEY'S MESSAGE. How did the men with Stanley die? Under the blazing Afric sky, Struck by the python's fangs, or slain By poisoned arrows that fell like rain ; Or tracked and torn on the desert way By hungry lions that watch for prey. The desert's sands and the Congo's flood Were crimsoned deep with their sacred blood. Brave and faithful they were; but one — Though his life is ended, his mission done, Lives in the love of our hearts again — Best and bravest of Stanley's men ! For lo ! when the black king — savage, grim, Stayed the leader and heard from him How One called Christ on the cross had died. Scourged and bleeding and crucified. He cried : " brother ! across the sea Send this Christ of the cross to me !" STANLEY'S MESSAGE, 39 Then Stanley summoned his men and said : " The way ye have travelled is reeking red With the blood of your hearts. But who will bear This message? Ho! for a volunteer!" Then out from the ranks came one and said : "Be mine the duty," and bowed his head. Then Stanley traced with a trembling hand These words: "Send Christ to this darkened land!" n. Over the desert scorched and bare ; Swift through the forest wild and drear; Leaping light by the lion's lair; Coiled sleek serpents that hissed in air ; By the unseen foe that hurled the dart Or winged the arrow after his heart, Sped a brave and bleeding man To Gordon's camp in the far Soudan. And the goal is gained, and they crowd around A bleeding form on the holy ground, 40 SONGS OP A DAY. (Made holy then !) and they strive to wrest The poisoned shaft from his crimson breast. No word he said as his glazing eyes Looked their last on the world and skies ; But the brave hand pointed the bloody way To the heart where the letter of Stanley lay, Rent by the fierce and fatal dart And stained by the blood of his faithful heart ! Only these words, in Stanley's hand: "Send the Christ to this darkened land!" Was this the message of high emprise? Ay! And down from the Christ's own skies Swiftly the sorrowing angels came, With wings of white and swords of flame — Came, in the arms of love to take The life that died for the dear Christ's sake; The life whose record was written then : "Best and bravest of Stanley's men!" THE VIOLET. 41 THE VIOLET. In life's last, lone December There blooms one violet. But why should I remember When she can so forget? She \\all not mourn or miss it When cruel frosts shall kill; But lean, fond lips, and kiss it, For we remember still ! In unknown paths and places Her fairy steps may be, But still her pictured face is The dearest dream to me ; And though the skies above me With stormy scenes are set, The dark eyes seem to love me — Ah, how could they forget? Oh, that the winds might waft her This dying violet's breath; That I might follow after And die the violet's death ! For then her heart, believing, Would leave, poor, wounded dove, Upon my lips, half grieving. The first, last kiss of love ! 42 SONGS OF A DAY. NO CROSS, NO CROWN. I sometimes think, when life seems drear And gloom and darkness gather here ; When Hope's bright star forsakes my skies And sorrov>r o'er my pathway lies, It would be sweet, it would be best To fold my tired hands and rest; But then God sends an angel down Who sweetly says: "No Cross, no Crown." I heard the reckless river moan With sad and melancholy tone ; I saw its waters flashing free And dashing to the distant sea. I would have plunged beneath its tide And on its friendly bosom died. But then God sent the angel down Who whispered sweet: "No Cross, no Crown." Then turned I from the river's shore To bear my bitter task once more ; With aching heart and burning head To battle for my crust of bread. But Hunger came, who knew me well, And fainting by the way I fell ; But still the angel fluttered down. And weeping said: "No Cross, no Crown." NO CROSS, NO CROWN. 43 No Cross, no Crown ! While standing there The cross too heavy seemed to bear, And for the crown — I could not see That it was ever meant for me ! The words I could not understand E'en while I pressed the angel's hand; But still he looked with pity down, And still he said: "No Cross, no Crown." I said: "The world is dark and lone; There is no hand to hold my own : I cannot bear the noonday heat. The sharp thorns pierce my bleeding feet 1" "Behold," he cried, "where, sacrificed. Shine the red, bleeding wounds of Christ !" And fell his tears of mercy down While still he said: "No Cross, no Crown." Back to the world I turned again To court life's joys, endure its pain. But all the sweetness that it gave I followed weeping to the grave; And from the cold and quiet sod 1 raised my streaming eyes to God, And saw the angel coming down And in his hands a golden crown ! Then did I laugh at earthly loss. And, kneeling, lifted up the cross, Though all that once made life so sweet Lay 'neath the lilies at my feet. 44 SONGS OF A DAY. A radiance from the realms of light Flashed for a moment on my sight ; A still, small voice came fluttering down : " It is enough. Keceive the crown !" SAINT SIMON'S SOUND. How mad the white stars danced that night— A wild and merry round, As fast we fled in foam and light Across Saint Simon's Sound. The sail, like some glad gull's white wing, Still made the vessel bound And speed, as if a living thing, Across Saint Simon's Sound. I did not heed the lamps that flashed From warning towers around. As through the dark and light we dashed Across Saint Simon's Sound. I did not fear the roaring sea Where love is whelmed and drowned — Your gold hair blowing over me On sweet Saint Simon's Sound. SAINT SIMON'S SOUND, 45 Your soft white arms about my neck — A splendid necklace wound, White as the foam that washed the deck On glad Saint Simon's Sound. Mine was no heart to faint or fear When roared the storm profound ; I only knew that Love was near On sweet Saint Simon's Sound. I only felt his living breath, And for that rapture found, I dared the danger and the death Across Saint Simon's Sound. When lightning quivered from the skies, In stormy darkness drowned, Fair flashed the starlight from your eyes On dark Saint Simon's Sound. That starlight which with beams divine Made bright the world around. Till God's own glory seemed to shine Above Saint Simon's Sound. Oh, dark and light and storm and night, And waves where love is drowned, Give back to me that dream so bright On sweet Saint Simon's Sound! 46 SONGS OF A DAY. And take these rainbows arching peace In skies by sunlight crowned, For love, in storms that never cease On dark Saint Simon's Sound! LOVE'S BOUQUET. Eed roses, wherefrom the dew drips, Staining the turf at my feet. You were never as red as her Hps — 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 v/ith 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 ! THROUGH THE WHEAT. 47 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 wi'eak Their love, and played at hide-and-seek In her gold tresses. Down fell the scythe upon the grass. And "Mary, Mary, will you pass?" "You're in my way," she said. "Alas! I must be going!" 48 SONGS OF A DAY. "Not till yon pay the forfeit sweet ^ Of coming this way throngh the wheat ; Ah! Mary — lips were made to meet — A kiss yon 're owing!" Up went the dainty finger-tips, To shield the rich and rosy lips, And all their red was in eclipse — My Inck 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!" THE AFTER-TIME. There cometh a time for laughter, And joy for the days and years; But ever there cometh after A time and a place for tears. We weary of revel and riot, And sick of the worldly strife; God sendeth the peace, the quiet, That quicken the founts of life. And the spirit is disenchanted With joys that are bitter-sweet; . And the soul which for rest hath panted Falls down at the Master's feet; THE AFTER-TIME. 4d The world and its ways seem lonely And love at the best seems loss— What help is there then but only To cling to the crimson cross? To cling to the cross that blossoms With blood for the erring shed, On the tenderest of tender bosoms To pillow the weary head, To feel the love that is glowing From the heart that is quick to beat, With even the harsh nails going In the beautiful scarred white feet ! O bird by the storm-winds driven Where never a sweet bird sings, From the wild and angry heaven Fly homeward with weary wings! And ye that are worn and weary — Who faint by the way and fall. Fly fast from the darkness dreary To the Rock that was cleft for all! 60 SONGS OF A DAY. LOVE'S THANKSGIVING. Thanksgiving for you, dear — a sweet thanks- giving For what you were in all the past to me ; For what you are — a joy that sweetens living — For what you are to be. Thanksgiving for those eyes — the kind, the splendid — Dear eyes, whose light the whole wide world would miss; Your voice, in v/hich all melodies are blended — Thanksgiving for your kiss ! Thanksgiving for your smile, like sunlight streaming Over my heart, which still for you must beat; Dear, if to love you be but idle dreaming, Never was dream so sweet ! Thanksgiving for you ! Though my heart shall miss you. Drifting like some wrecked vessel far at I lean toward you in the dark aud kiss you — Sweetheart, kiss me 1 HUNT HIM DOWN. 51 HUNT HIM DOWN. Ho ! good people of every town, Here is a brother: hunt him down! Eoar 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 ! 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 ! 5^ SONGS OF A DAY. 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 ! GOING HOME. Adieu, sweet friends ; I have waited long To hear the message that calls me home, And now it comes like a low, sweet song Of welcome over the river's foam. And my heart shall ache, and my feet shall roam No more — no more ! I am going home. I am going home. O'er the river's tide, Crystal-white in the noonday sun, I see the friends on the other side Who the beautiful pearly gates have won ; And far and sweet from the shining dome They call to me still — come home! come home! GOING HOME. 53 Do not weep for me, friends ; but lay Peacefully over my silent breast The hands whose labor is done, and say : "He hath entered in at the gates of rest." And God is merciful — God knows best, And sweet to the weary is rest, sweet rest ! Why should I linger? I long to go, And though "no price in my hand I bring," The Christ who died for us loves us so ! And simply still to His cross I cling. Never more from that cross to roam, I am going home ! I am going home ! Home! where no storm and no tempest raves In the light of the calm, eternal day ; Where no willows droop over lonely graves And tears from our eyes shall be wiped away. And my heart shall ache and my feet shall roam No more — no more i I am going home. 54 SONGS OP A DAY. THE NEW LOVE AND THE OLD. Gone is the old-time glory — the passion and pain of love, When the world heard the wondrous story and smiled to the skies above ; When the rivers rippled and glistened, and music thrilled from the birds, And the roses blushed as they listened, and the winds and the waves had words. Gone are the dreams, the fancies and fears that once were Love's; Stolen kisses and tender glances, seen only by mating doves In the paths where the fairies led us — the beautiful paths and sweet, Where Love his litany read us in the violets at our feet. Memories, these ! Do we miss them — the wonderful days of old? Would we cherish them, keep them, kiss them, as misers cherish their gold? Ah, dear, had those days the sweetness of the latter, lovelier days When love in its all-completeness is blossom- ing 'round our ways? THE NEW LOVE AND THE OLD. 55 No dreams — for the world is real — torture and tempt me now ; You are my soul's ideal, my queen of the crownless brow! Then I was mad with the meaning a look or a tone expressed ; Then you were shyly leaning away from my waiting breast. But now, with your white arms twining — a necklace — around me, I Can see in your bright eyes' shining a love that can never die; The love that the years have hastened; that will live in the years to be ; Tender and true and chastened, and dearer than life to me ! And, sweet, if we loved each other in the beautiful blossomed past, Still cHnging to one another, we who loved first, love last! But the last love is the best love — and only the sweeter grows : You were then a bud on my breast, love, but now you're a full-blown rose! 56 SONGS OF A DAY. HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS. God's roses are sweet and His lilies are fair As they bend 'neatli the dews from above ; They are splendid and fair — but they can- not compare 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! And not for earth's gems, or its bright dia- dems, Or the pearls from the depths of the sea. Or the queens of the lands with their beauti- ful hands Should these dear hands be taken from me. What exquisite blisses await their com- mands ! They were made for my kisses, these dear, sweet hands. 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; LITTLE HANDS. 57 I will kneel in the dark where the angel stands, And my kiss shall be last on these dear, sweet hands. LITTLE HANDS. Little hands whose work is o'er; Tired hands that toil no more; Tender little hands that rest Folded o'er the sinless breast — Bending o'er them mother stands, Kisses still these little hands. God, who ever does the best. Folded them and bade them rest. Would He then these hands condemn With a mother's kiss on them When they reach the shining lands? Mother loved these little hands ! Mother loved them in the past, Mother's kiss was on them last; Little hands, beneath the sod, Take a mother's kiss to God ! Waft it o'er the shining sands, Little snow-white angel hands. 58 SONGS OF A DAY. WRITING FOB BREAD. I sit alone — alone to-night, A shadow in the ghastly light That feebly flickers, faintly falls On cold, damp floor and barren walls; And o'er a desk of structure rude I bend in melancholy mood : For whether grief distract my breast, Or rob my weary eyes of rest. It matters not : by Hunger led, I still must write, must write for bread ! I sit alone; but is it strange? Through toil and sorrow, chance and change, I have sat thus for many years. In pain, in poverty and tears; Until my rapid, restless pen Has glided, o'er and o'er again, Into my heart, crushed by despair, As if to steal the life-blood there ! But what is heart, and what is head To him who writes, and writes for bread ? The world to me is like a dream : Once — once I saw its beauties beam, WRITING FOR BREAD. 59 In the sad, perished long ago, Before my Hfe was blighted so. I loved my brothers, all that earth Contained of tenderness and worth ; I held their love a shining gem, And sang my sweetest songs to them ; But banislied from their breasts I fled. And here, alone, I write for bread. Ah, God, what misery is mine! These stars, these cold, calm stars of Thine That gem the silent midnight skies Are not as sleepless as my eyes ! They — they have seen my life-blood drip. For we have held companionship ; And I have read them o'er in vain, Until they burned into my brain. I mark the scornful rays they shed On him who writes, and writes for bread. Cold, cruel lamp, thy spectral ray Shall flicker like my life away : For by this heart by sorrow crushed, And by this brow with madness flushed, This hollow cheek and sunken eye, These lips, too feeble for a sigh, I feel that life, even in its noon, Is ebbing and will vanish soon. Then, weary heart and aching head. We shall not need to write for bread ! 60 SONGS OF A DAY. Then will they lay me down to rest, And gently fold across my breast The hands whose weary work is o'er, And close the eyes that weep no more. And they will take from my cold clasp The pen that felt my living grasp, And calm and sweet my rest shall be. Though not an eye will weep for me. The dnst will be a sv/eeter bed A To him who, dying, wrote for bread. / HER VALENTINE. What shall I send you for a valentine? Perhaps there is nothing that would please me better Than to enclose this loving heart of mine Within the snowy pages of my letter. That would be very innocent and artless ; But, then, I know that you would deem me heartless. But take it, love, such as it is — a true And trusting heart. You did not seek to win it ; Unconsciously the poor thing went to you. Dreaming, and dazzled in one golden minute ! Let it be thrall to you ; (sweet service this is !) Its only recompense your smiles and kisses ! A MEMORY. 61 A MEMORY. I sit alone in my room to-night And think of her dear, sweet face — Here where I miss the tender hght Of her lovehness and grace. I read her letters over again — The letters she wrote last year ; The faded flowers in the folds remain As her white hands placed them there. Ah, little she thought when these flowers she pressed For the heart that adored her so, They'd soon be blooming above her breast, And she in the dust below ! But the beat of her holy heart was stilled Ere the voice in its depths could speak, And the Angel of Death, in his anger, chilled The rose of life on her cheek. Why do I read her letters o'er? Can they bring her back as of old? The hand that penned them can write no more, The lips that kissed them are cold ! 62 SONGS OF A DAY. Dear heart, we shall meet when the years are past, Under the dawn and dew, And light will break on my life at last When I dream in the dust with you ! IF YOU COULD COME. If you could come to me as I recall Your face, and I could feel ujDon my brow The warm breath of those lips, so silent now — Could hear some word from them in music fall. Thrilling the silence in my life with all The old-time sweetness! If I could but hear, When the sun sinks behind the western wall And tvdlight shades the weeping atmos- phere, A rustle in the roses at the gate. And, looking, I should see you standing there — My lonely life would not be desolate, For this v/ould comfort all my soul's despair. I know thy life is lovelier — God knows best, But still the dove mourns o'er its empty nest. A SONG OF BLESSING. 63 A SONG OF BLESSING. God's blessing, gentle eyes, Upon you for the glance you gave to-day ; Low 'neath your light my heart your debtor lies, Striving to find some thankful words to say. God's blessing, gentle lips, Uix)n you for a tender smile — like this ! His reddest rose with loveliest crimson tips Your parted petals, quivering with a kiss. God's blessing, gentle hand, Upon your downy whiteness, and the touch That thrills me so ! I cannot understand — Hands, lips, and eyes, I love you all so much ! God's blessing for you, dear; For all you are, and all that you may be ; Your glance, your kiss, your smile, your touch — the mere Thought of you ! Ah, how dear you are to me! 64 SONGS OF A DAY. ONE SAD DAY. One sad day when the sun's gold crown Jewelled the desolate, dreamy west, I came with a burden, and laid it dov^n Under the lilies and leaves to rest ; And, weeping, I left it and went my way With the Twilight whispering: "God knows best !" One sweet 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 I" RESOLUTION. 65 RESOLUTION. ^ Poor? Yea, I grant it! In the lowliest ways My feet shall tread until they gain the goal ; But not too poor— thank God !— to make my days Eich with the deeds that glorify the soul. Thorns? Yea! they pierce me ; but I will not bow Till every thorn hath for a sin sufficed ; I wear them for a crown upon my brow — Sweet with the memory of a dying Christ. Upward and onward still shall press my feet, No cross shall daunt me, though no crown I win ; Faithful, unswerving, till I hear the sweet "Well done" of Him whose servant I have been. 66 SONGS OF A DAY. AFTER DEATH. All night long the dead man lay Under the leaves and rain-washed clay; All night long in her dwelling dim The wife of his bosom wept for him. " And my heart is buried with him, " she said, "For I loved him living — I love him dead!" And the dead man dreamed in his narrow place That he felt her tears fall over his face ; And no dreams of the dead could sweeter be — "Down to death she was true to me!" But when o'er his grave, in the shine and rain, Eoses withered and bloomed again ; When the leaves fell brown on the cold earth's crust, And his bones were white and his heart was dust ; The woman he loved to another said : "I love you more than I loved the dead!" THY FACE. 67 And in that same hour the only rose That bloomed on a grave fell dead ! . . . Who knows If the dead can feel? But howe'er it be, Sweet, with the love that you have for me, Love me now, while I draw my breath ; Love me down to the gates of death ! This is all that I ask or crave — Love thrives ill on a voiceless grave ! THY FACE. Thy face is with me when I walk alone In thorny ways of sorrow and of night ; Thy smile my comfort and thine eyes my light, Lest I should dash my foot against a stone. And oft the tender thought of thee, my own. Sustains me when I waver and grow weak. Tempted, I call to mind thy farewell tone — The kiss I left upon thy conscious cheek At parting— and I feel thy jDresence near, A joy to comfort and a strength to bear ! dear, sweet face, be near me all the while ; O eyes of hght, dispel the darkness drear; O lips, beam on me with a loving smile, And I the wreath of victory shall wear ! 68 SONGS OF A DAY. 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 ! ONE OF THE KING'S OWN GIRLS. 69 ONE OF THE KING'S OWN GIRLS. So fair and fleet are her dancing feet In the music's waves and whirls, My heart keeps time with a rhythmic beat — She is one of the king's own girls! The king is great in his robes of state — In his purple robes and white, And I crouch low down at his palace gate — Where her white feet flash to-night. And I kiss a rose, and its warm breath goes Through the portals, wild and sweet : Asd it sighs and dies 'neath her splendid eyes, In the flash of her fairy feet. It sighs and dies like the heart that lies In the warmth of her winsome breath ; For I kissed her lips and I kissed her eyes With my soul, and to kiss means death ! But so fair and fleet were her dancing feet In the music's waves and whirls, My heart died gladly with one wild beat For one of the king's own girls! 70 SONGS OF A DAY. WAT- WORN. I say to my soul that it would be best If the hands that labor were folded o'er The silent breast in the last sweet rest — When I think of the friends who have gone before, Who have crossed o'er the river's rolling tide And reached the home on the other side. It seems so far to the wished-for day, And weary and lonely and lost I roam ; I feel like a child who has lost his way And is always longing for home, sweet home; But I say to my yearning heart — "Be still: We'll go home when it is God's will." The night is long, but the day will break When the light of eternity, streaming down On the cross we bear for the Master's sake, Will guide our steps to the promised crown. A little while and the gate is passed — Home and heaven and rest at last ! THE VALES OF ROME. 71 THE VALES OF ROME. No cold and crumbling arches — The frolic of the Fates ; No senatorial marches Through lion-guarded gates; No Ceesar's glittering legions, Whose eagles crown its dome ; But love, in Love's own regions — The violet- vales of Rome. Theie rise the dark-blue mountains. Where clouds are fair and fleet ; There leap the living fountains — There sing the rivers sweet ! There morning breaks in showers Of light and silver foam. And from their airy towers Smile stormless stars on Rome. And there rare birds are winging Their wild and wondrous flight ; The splendid day dies singing A love song to the night ; And Love's sweet voices calling Love's weary wanderers home, In golden music falling, Thrill all the vales of Rome. 72 SONGS OF A DAY. That Love which woes and wonders Far from the wreck and strife, I hear it in the thunders And tempests of my life ; And ansv^er : " Love, I hear thee, O'er seas of storm and foam; Thy lover's steps draw near thee — Eing sweet, ye bells of Rome!" LOVE'S BETR08PECT. We sat there yester even beneath the listen- ing vines. Where still the mornin' glory above the doorway twines, And the nightingales were singin' just as they sang of yore, When first she said "I love you," but now she loves me more ! The same old place ; the rocker in which she sat while I, Half fearful that the stars would hear the secret in the sky. Leaned her way just a little, and said, "I love you!" Sure, I meant it then, and loved her true, but now I love her more ! love's retrospect. 73 The old days seemed to come again while sitting side by side Where first she said she'd be my wife — we didn't call it "bride"— I told her then, "How sweet you are!" an' felt my pulses thrill With all that sweetness close to me — but now she's sweeter still ! We talked it over, sitting there, near love's own happy lands. And once more felt the first sweet joy that comes of holdin' hands; She seemed to be my sweetheart still — 'twas all just as before — But we clasped each other closer, and we loved each other more ! 74 SONGS OF A DAY. A CHRISTMAS COMEDY. Two shrouded shapes on Christmas Eve, Grrim, ghostly, met Where winds in weird numbers grieve And raindrops wet The leaky roofs where dead men dream With stifled moans; The chill white starlight's dagger-gleam Laid bare their bones. "Away," cried one, "from death and dark- Where dead men be, To where the world is blazing. Hark ! Its revelry!" Then through the dreary night they sped, With wild desires, Where life with love and laughter fed The Christmas fires. When lo ! one standing near a hearth Where love did dv>^ell, Heard a child's wailing at its birth, And shuddering fell ; A CHRISTMAS COMEDY. 75 His white bones strewn about the place, His sockets dull, Light's mockery ! And before Love's face His staring skull ! The other, warming at the blaze, By Love's own side, Dreaming of life and of the days. Love glorified, Caught in his frozen bones the heat Life only knew ; The red flames thawed the graveyard sleet And pierced him through. Then creaked his bones, and one by one They crumbled white; His skull stared as his friend's had done And blurred the light. And when I left — too sad to say. But so it comes — Full fifty children were at play, With skulls for drums! 76 SONGS OF A DAY. A CHRISTMAS HYMN.'' From the centuries far away, On the kneeling world to-day Shines one splendid star — the gem Of the stars of Bethlehem. (0 Christ, for whom its beams were shed, Lo ! we were to Thy manger led With those that loved Thee, knelt with them ! Remember us at Bethlehem !) It is shining as when sweet, While their flocks fed at their feet, Dreamed the shepherds, and its beams Made the glory in their dreams. (0 Christ, the gentle and the sweet. We kiss Thy hands, we kiss Thy feet ! Though all our sins our love condemn, Do thou remember Bethlehem !) * The above poem appeared as the leading Christmas editorial in the Atlanta Constitution, December 25,1891. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 77 Ring, ye bells, your welcome ! Hail, Through the morning's misty veil, Love's own priceless diadem On the brow of Bethlehem ! (0 Christ, Thy dreaming face at rest Upon the blessed Mother's breast; Let not Thy lips our kiss condemn — Dream of us now at Bethlehem !) Ring, ye bells ! the stars above Tell the story, sweet with love ; Ring the glory that it gives — How Love dies, and dying lives ! (0 Christ, the merciful and sweet, For those sharp nails that pierced Thy feet ; Thy crown of thorns, our crown to be, Remember us at Calvary !) Sing, ye herald angels, sing, While the bells the music ring, Sing the message once again : "Peace on earth, good-will to men!" (0 Christ, the crowned and glorified. Teach us Thy love — the love that died And lives — and for Thy sacrifice Remember us in Paradise !) 78 SONGS OF A DAY. MAID O' THE MIST. Are you watching the ships sailing south- ward, 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'er the foam For joy of the lights in the harbor at home? Are you watching the ships sailing south- ward, 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. MAID O' THE MIST. 79 You are watching the ships saiHng south- ward, 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 ! SONGS OF THE SOIL. SONGS OF THE SOIL. THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS. It was in the town o' Way cross, not many weeks ago. They had a big revival thar, as like enough you know ; An' though many was converted an' for par- don made to call, Yet the Sunday mornin' love feast was the happiest time of all ! 'Twasa 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 them, nor coax them with a song, Them people had religion, an' they told it right along ! 6 84 SONGS OF THE SOIL. Thar was one — a hard old sinner — 'pears like I knowed his name, But I reckon I've forgot it — who to the altar came; An' he took the leader by the hand, 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 remem- bered in their prayers : "My husband's comin' home," said she, a-sheddin' thankful tears ; " I want you all to pray for him ; he's lived in sin's control, But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on his soul !" Then a young man rose an' told 'em he had wandered far av/ay. But felt like comin' home ag'in, an' axed 'em all to pray ; An' sich a pra'r they made for him! I'll hear the like no more Till I hear the sweeter music on the bright celestial shore. THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS. 85 Any shoutin'? Well, I reckon so! One brother give a shout : Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged to let it out ! An' the preacher joined the chorus, sayin' : " Brotherin, let 'er roll ! A man can't keep from shoutin' with relig- ion in his soul!" I tell you, 'twas a happy time; I wished 'twould never end : Each sinner in the church that day had Je- sus for a friend ; But a good old deacon said to 'em, while tears stood in his eye : "Thar's a better time than this, dear fren's, a-comin' by an' by !" I hope some day those brotherin'U meet with one accord In the higher, holier love feast, whose leader is the Lord ; An' when this life is over, with its sorrow an' its sighs, May the little church at Waycross join the great church in the skies ! 86 SONGS OF THE SOIL. TO BOBERT J. BURDETTE. I've bin readin' of your writin's, Bob, for many a year gone by ; They're jes like household words ter me, an' mixed with wet an' dry; But of all things you've written, I think the sweetest still Is them lines erbout Jim Eiley and that night at Shelby ville ! I ain't so tender-hearted as a feller might suppose. Though I wouldn't press a thorn agenst the white breast of a rose; But readin' o' that piece o' your'n I felt the warm tears fill My eyes — as ef I'd bin thar, in that room at Shelbyville. We know Jim Riley down this way — I think you call him " Jim" — . An' we'd enjoy a settin' up in any place with him; He's got the run o' ail our hearts — we love him well ; but yet Thar's a powerful sight o' feelin' 'mong us all f er Bob Burdette ! TO ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 87 You seem ter think, like Riley did, you're "no account at all," But thar's not a rose you planted but has climbed above the wall An' spilled its fragrance on us ! You're " the best one of 'em yet!" An' our hearts can hold Jim Eiley without crowdin' Bob Burdette. Though the "Sweet, old-fashioned Eoses" in the old-time ways may grow, Yet " The Gray Day" has its flowers, sleej)in' somewhere 'neath the snow ; An' "Mists are kissed from laughin' skies" that shine serenely yet — An' ef Jim's "the same old Eiley," you're the same old Bob Burdette. I'm runnin' on confusely; but I keep er thinkin' still Of what you told us 'bout that night you silent at Shelby ville; An' ef you ever steer this way, I hope you'll not forget That when it comes ter "settin' uj)," we're with you, Bob Burdette ! SONGS OF THE SOIL. SUMMER-TIME IN GEORGIA. summer-time in Georgy, I love to sing your praise, When the green is on the melon an' the sun is on the blaze ; When the birds are pantin', chantin', an' jes' rantin' round the rills With the juice of ripe blackberries jes' a-drippin' from their bills! Oh summer-time in Georgy, when through leaves of green an' brown The bright an' violet-scented dews jes' rain their richness down On the cool an' clingin' grasses where the fickle sunbeam slips. An' the famished lily puckers up its white resplendent lips ! summer-time in Georgy, with, the glory in the dells. Where the rare an' rainy incense from the fresh 'nin' shower swells. SUMMER-TIME IN GEORGIA. 89 An' o'er the bars to twinklin' stars float twilight's sad farewells In the lowin' of the cattle an' the tinklin' o' the bells! O summer-time in Georgy, when 'neath the listenin' vine, Where the purple mornin' glory an' the honey-suckle twine, The whippoorwills were sin gin' their notes o' love and bliss. An' to my lips were clingin' the lips I used to kiss. Stay, like a dream eternal, while dearest dreams depart. An' rain your honey sweetness in showers round my heart. Pshaw ! I'm gettin' so pathetic my eyes can hardly see : summer-time in Georgy ! You're the best o' times to me. 90 SONGS OF THE SOIL. THE PICNIC AT SELINA. That picnic at Selina — it covered lots o' ground ; Thar was wimmen, men an' hosses from fifty miles around, An' fiddles squeaked an' brogans creaked the merriest kind o' song, An' 'twas " Balance to your partners !" an' "Swing!" the whole day long. 'Twas a powerful site o' pleasure jes' to see the fellers whirl Them lovely forms in calico, an' swing girl after girl. It was quite intoxicatin' ; you could hear the rafters ring Till the old men couldn't stand it, an' cut the " pigeon-wing !" The old-time "double-shuffle" made the dust fly from their heels, An' 'twas sich a jolly scuffle in the Old Vir- ginny reels; THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 91 The young men jes' 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 pain- ful!" groaned the floor. "It's dusty!" said the wimmen, but they only danced the more. An' the young men called it "stavin," an' I think that they was right, For the old-time Georgia "breakdown" made the stars dance with delight I All day the fiddle's music was ringin' wild an' sweet, The nigger-parson rolled it off an' kept time with his feet ; All day, with jes' a breathin' spell 'long 'bout the time o' noon, The dancers kept in motion an' the fiddle kept in tune. That picnic at Selina— it ain't to be fer- got, For a feller felt as happy 's if he owned a house an' lot; 93 SONGS OF THE SOIL. An' when I think about them gals m rib- boned calico, I feel like sin gin': "Praise the Lord from whom all blessin's flow!" There'll be good times at Selina in the happy days to be, But never any times like that for all the boys an' me. For the mem'ry of that picnic — it'll live a hundred years. An' I'll feel my old feet shufflin' when I climb the golden stairs ! WEAR YIN' FOR YOU. Jest a-wearyin' for you. Air the time a-feelin' blue; Wishin' for you, wonderin' when You'll be comin' home agen; Restless — don't know what to do, Jest a-wearyin' for you. Keep a-mopin' day by day; Dull — in everybody's way; wearyin' fob you. 93 Folks they smile an' pass along Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew — Jest a- wearyin' for you. Room's so lonesome, with your chair Empty by the fireplace there ; Jest can't stand the sight of it; Go out doors an' roam a bit, But the woods is lonesome, too, Jest a-wearyin' for you. Comes the wind with soft caress Like the rustlin' of your dress; Blossoms fallin' to the ground Softly, like your footsteps sound; Violets like your eyes so blue. Jest a-wearyin' for you. Mornin' comes. The birds awake (Use to sing so for your sake), But there's sadness in the notes That come thrillin' from their throats! Seem to feel your absence, too. Jest a-wearyin' for you. Evenin' comes. I miss you more When the dark glooms in the door ; 94 SONGS OP THE SOIL. Seems jest like you orter be There to open it for me ! Latch goes tinkKn' — thrills me through- Sets me wearyin' for you. Jest a- wearyin' for you! All the time a-feelin' blue! Wishin' for you — wonderin' when You'll be comin' home agen. Restless — don't know what to do — Jest a- wearyin' for youl WHEN JIM WAS DEAD. When Jim was dead — "Hit sarved him right, "the nabors sed, An' 'bused him for the life he'd led, An' him a-lyin' thar at rest With not a rose upon his breast ! Ah ! menny cruel words they sed When Jim was dead. " Jes' killed hisself," "Too mean ter live." They didn't hav' one word ter give Of comfort as they hovered near An' gazed on Jim a-lyin' there ! "Thar ain't no use to talk," they sed, "He's better dead." THE OLE PINE BOX. 95 But suddenly the room growed still, While God's white sunshine seemed ter fill The dark place with a gleam of life, An' o'er the dead she bent — Jim's wife! An' with her lii^s close, close ter his. As though he knew an' felt the kiss, She sobbed — a touchin' sight ter see — "Ah! Jim was always good ter me!" I tell 3^ou, when that cum ter light, It kinder set the dead man right ; An' round the weepin' woman they Throwed kindly arms of love that day. An' mingled with her own they shed The tenderest tears — when Jim was dead. THE OLE PINE BOX. We didn't care, in the long ago, Fer easy-chairs 'at were made fer show — With velvet cushions in red an' black An' springs 'at tilted a feller back Afore he knowed it — like them in town — Till his heels flew up an' his hed went down! But the seat we loved in the times of yore, Wuz the ole pine box by the grocery store ! 96 SONGS OF THE SOIL. Thar it sot in the rain an' shine, Four foot long by the measurin' line; Under the chiny-berry tree — Jes' as cozy as she could be ! Fust hed quarters fer infermation — Best ole box in the whole creation ; Hacked an' whittled an' rote with ryme, An' so blamed sociable all the time. Thar we plotted an' thar we planned, Eead the news in the paper, an' Talked o' polly ticks fur an' v/ide, Got mixed up as we argyfied ! An' the ole town fiddler sawed away At "Ole Dan Tucker" an' "Nelly Gray! " Oh, they's boxes still — but they ain't no more Like the ole pine box at the grocery store. It ain't thar now, as it wuz that day — Burnt, I reckon, or throwed away ; An' some o' the folks 'at the ole box knowed Is fur along on the dusty road ; An' some's crost over the river wide An' found a home on the other side. Have they all f ergot? Don't they sigh no more Fer the ole pine box by the grocery store? GOOD-BY. 97 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 jist that I remember I have come to say "Good-by!" "Good -by," the wind is wailin'; "good- by," the trees complain, And they bend low down to whisper with their green leaves white with rain ; "Good-by," the roses murmur, an' the bendin' lilies sigh, As if they all felt sorry I have come to say "Good-by." I reckon all have said it, some time or other — soft An' easy Uke — with eyes cast down, that dared not look aloft, For the tears that trembled in them, for the lips that choked the sigh — When it kind o' took holt o' the heart, an' made it beat " Good-by !" 98 SONGS OF THE SOIL. I didn't think 'twas hard to say, but stand- in' here alone — ■ With the pleasant past beliin' me, an' the future dim, unknown, A-gloomin' yonder in the dark, I can't keep back the sigh — An' I'm weepin' like a woman, as I bid you all "Good-by!" The work I've done is with you; maybe some things went wrong Like a note that mars the music in the sweet flow of a song ! But, brethren, when you think of me, I only ask you would Say as the Master said of one: "He hath done what he could !" And when you sit together in the time as yet to be. By your love-encircled firesides in this pleas- ant land of Lee, Let the sweet past come before you, an' with somethin' like a sigh, Jist say: "We ain't f ergot him since the day he said 'Good -by!' " OLD TIMES IN GEORGIA, 99 OLD TIMES IN GEORGIA. Old times in Georgy — them's the times for me! No times now like them times, an' never- more will be ; Long before the railroads, an' steamers blowin' free, How I like to dream o' them — dear old times to me ! Old times in Georgy — them's the times that make My old eyes shine like sunlight on some sweet mountain lake; An' sometimes, too, they kinder bring feelin's full o' pain. An' make my eyes run over, like rivers swelled by rain ! Old times in Georgy — I can't forget 'em quite. Suns that made the daytime, stars that made the night ; Wasn't they jest splendid — didn't they shine bright? All the world was love then, all the world was light! 7 100 SONGS OF THE SOIL. Old times in Georgy — hear my old heart beat When they come a-ringin' with their music sweet ! Dreamin' of 'em always, here where Mem'ry dwells, They're like a sweet song's echo — a far-off chime o' hells ! Old times in Georgy, they was sweet to know — Old fren's that loved us, fren's 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 has for me ! THE LAZY MAN. I'm the laziest m.an, I reckon, that a mortal ever seed! Got money? Nary dollar! I wasn't built fer greed, Fer graspin' an' fer gripin' where the rev- enue is found; I'm what you call a lazy 'un — jes' built fer lyin' round! THE LAZY MAN. 101 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 are chirpin' ; where the brook, in witchin' play, Goes laughin' on, a-pushin' all the lilies out his way, You'll find me almost any time a-lyin' at my ease With the lull song o' the locust an' the drowsy drone o' bees Above me an' aroun' me. I'm a poet in my way, An' I'd rather hear the birds sing than to shoot 'em any day ! " Jes' laziness," they tell me, an' I reckon they are right; But the world's so full o' beauty, an' you can't see much at night ! But different folks has different minds, nor drink from the same cup ; When I'm laughin' with the lilies, they're a-plowin' of 'em up. My field's a pasture fer the cows, an' though it never pays, It's a powerful source o' pleasure jes' ter see the creeturs graze! 102 SOKGS OF THE SOIL. The tinkle, tinkle o' the bells is such a pleasin' sound — But I'm a lazy chap, you know, jes' built fer lyin' round ! DIDN'T THINK O' LOSIN' HIM. Always wuz abusin' him — Eough 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 just sigh, With a waterin' o' the eye — Say: "It's all my fault," an' try T' stave 'em off awhile! " Some day I'll lay down an' die — Then they'll smile." An' he did. God's sometimes heap Kinder ter His poor lost sheep Than the ones 'at has their keep; So, one darkened day. He jest told him, "Go to sleep," In His own kind way. THE LIGHTNING AGE. 103 Then the poor, sad, tearful eyes Smiled their thanks ter God's own skies With a kind o' sweet surprise — And the heart growed still. Said one of 'em: "Thar he lies; 'Tis 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! THE LIGHTNING AGE. What's the world a-comin' to, a feller'd like to know. When they're makin' ice to order an' man- ufacturin' snow? An' now, as if to vex us, another thing we hear: They're makin' rain in Texas without a word o' prayer! 104 SONGS OF THE SOIL. The cities — they're gone out o' sight; it 'pears jes' like a dream, For when they have a cloudy night they run the stars by steam ! And here's the lightnin', with a song, pro- claimin' man is boss, An' all the street cars skimmin' 'long with- out Si mule or hoss ! An' here's that ringin' telephone, which never seems to tire. But takes a man's voice, free o' charge, across six mile o' wire; An' here's the blessed phonygraf, which makes your memory vain. An', like a woman, when you talk, keeps talkin' back again ! Lord ! how the world is movin' on, beneath the sun an' moon ! I can't help thinkin' I was born a hundred years too soon ; But when I go — praise be to God ! — it won't be in the night. For my grave will shine like glory in a bright electric light ! shoutin'." 105 ''SHOUTIN':' There's lots an' lots of people (if you'll jes' • believe my song) What says we shoutin' Methodists has got the business wrong. Well, they're welcome to their 'pinions, but of one thing I'm secure: If they ever git religion they will shout a hundred sure ! I was once into a love-feast, an' talk of shoutin' — why. It almost shook the windows in the everlast- in' sky! An' the Presbyterian people, they were happy — not a few — An' the Baptist brother come along an' jined the shoutin', too. I tell you, folks, religion is a curious kind o' thing; It gives a man a heart to pray — a powerful voice to sing ! An' if you've only got it — though there ain't no shoutin' heard — The people's bound to know it if you never say a word ! 106 SONGS OF THE SOIL. We're sailin' in the same old ship — no mat- ter where we roam ; The Baptists an' the Methodists — we're all a-goin' home: An' no matter how we travel, by our differ- ent creeds enticed, We'll all git home together if we're only one in Christ ! The paths we tread are sometimes rough, an' flowerless is the sod ; " This world is not a friend of grace to help us on to God !" But the lights o' Canaan shinin' o'er the river's crystal tide, Seem to woo us to the city that is on the other side ! Then let us sing together, for we're bound to git thar soon, " On the Other Side of Jordan" (will some brother raise the tune?) " Where the tree of life is bloomin', " sheddin' blossoms o'er the foam, "There is rest for all the weary;" an' we're goin', goin' home. JONES' COTTON PLANTER. 107 JONES' COTTON PLANTER. He ain't of no account at all, jes' giv' up everything For what he calls "inventin'," bin a-foolin' 'long sence sj^ring With a queer kin' o' contraption which has turned that head o' his ; Calls it " Jones' 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 wuz a-foolin' him — got lots of imperdence ! But he cum home highfalutin', an' he hain't knowed nuthin' sence. He's built himself a blacksmith shop, an' thar he 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 — Georgy, so I do ! 108 SONGS OF THE SOIL. It strikes me they've got things enough without his makin' more, Unless he fixed up somethin' for the grass that's at his cloor; But the cotton planter's got him, an' the children's worked to death, For 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. "I'ma gittin' thar!" he'll tell you; "she'll be ready by the fall ; And Jones' cotton planter '11 take the shine from off 'em all!" He's done fur. No use talkin' ; he's a ruined man as sure As Betsy, thar, is sittin' with her knittin' at the door ; Alas ! for all the children — they'll be down to skin and bones. An' ^ ones' cotton planter '11 be the epitaph o' Jones! X 1 m I .^'°-