THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA IRVINE GIFT OF FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY BANDANNA BALLADS AND 1ANCY HEARS THH ADVhN I ROLL THROUGH THAT OLD NEGRo s SOL l. ! Bandanna Ballads IXCLL DIXG " Shadows on the Wall : Verses and Pictures by Howard Weeden INTRODUCTION BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS Oh, south winds have long memories. EMERSON. NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE COMPANY 1899 COPYRIGHT, 1898, 1899, BY HOWARD WEEDEX DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE ABSENT INTRODUCTION I AM fortunate indeed in having 1 the op portunity to attach my name, even in a casual way, to the delightful materials out of which this volume is fashioned, for these materials not only possess a vital and an inherent charm of their own, but shed an illumination over all the various efforts, good, bad, and indifferent, that have been made to throw the figures of the old-time plantation negroes on the literary canvas. What has been attempted by many hands wielding the pen is here carried to comple tion by a woman s hand wielding the brush. This volume may therefore be said to be the connecting link between the art that is prolix and the art that is precise, between the art that suggests and the art that fulfils. The two arts have met and joined hands Introduction before, but never, so far as I know, under such satisfactory conditions and with such complete success ; for, as has been intimated, these memorial portraits illustrate the work of every conscientious writer who has en deavored to depict the character and indi viduality of the "quality negroes" familiar to the Southern plantations before the war not only illustrate it, but give it a fresh claim to consideration. It is safe to say that never before has an artist caught with such vital and startling- distinctness, such moving fidelity, the char acters which ofave to the old plantation, if O 1 not its chiefest charm, at least one of its most enchanting features. Moreover, these memorial portraits arrive upon the scene in the very nick and point of time. A new generation has arisen, and it has become O incredulous and sceptical in regard to the traditions and legends of the old plantation in general, and of the old-time quality negro in particular. These newcomers find a touch Introduction of romance in the reports that come to them from their forbears ; their curiosity receives a fillip ; the) would like to believe in the substance of what they hear ; but they live in a commercial age, and have a hard grip on what is practical and concrete. They look about them for some confirma tion of the stories that are told, and they find not a shred. If there were negroes in o the old days so quaint and gentle, so tender hearted and devoted, that novelists and writers of tales never tire of crowning them O with the halos that are convenient to fiction, what has become of them ? \Yhy have they disappeared from the face of the earth, leav ing no trace behind ? Why have they left no successors ? Such is the attitude of an incredulous generation, engaged in trying to snatch a few tufts of hair from the seventy- and-seven thousand prongs of the money- demon s tail. Not long ago, a Northern gentleman, who has been in the South lono- enough to make O O Introduction his mark there, wrote to an author of his acquaintance protesting against the whole sale method of making saints of the old-time negroes. "If YOU want to display genuine O A * <_> art," he said, "give it the relish of reality. Paint the negroes as thev now are. "When O * you do this, I ll take a thousand copies of your book, and send them broadcast among my friends in Xew York and Massachusetts." Well, the art of Miss Weeden s book is not only an answer to the sceptical, but is a welcome and necessary explanation of the plantation legends that have been preserved. Whatever the negroes are now, whatever they may become in the cold-storage con ditions of our commercial environment, these portraits present unimpeachable evidence of what they were. The art with which the facts are set forth is so felicitous in its touch, so faithful and so informing, that it goes deeper than character and individu ality : it revives and resurrects the period ; in some mysterious way it restores the Introduction atmosphere and color of the time. And each portrait stands out a little masterpiece, harmonious, powerful, charged with feeling, and illuminated by the imagination that makes its creations more real than life itself. Here are to be found the courtesy, the re finement, the dignity, the touch of conde scension which the old-time negroes caught <_> <_> from their masters and mistresses. Here, too, are portrayed the contradic tions that gave relish and zest to the negro character independence with loyalty, pride with gentleness, officiousness with zeal, per- verseness with graciousness, captiousness with affection and the flavor of gentility which was the result of neither apishness nor servility. Alas ! that the successors and descendants of these old negroes should now everywhere answer to the name of "coons," and that their rich melodies should be degraded into the vulgar and disgusting " rag-time " songs ! But, sooner or later, Time will play havoc Introduction with all things over which it claims do minion, and in many directions the South has had a surfeit of such changes as havoc o involves. Therefore I am moved to thank Heaven for the beautiful genius that has snatched from the past and preserved the handful of memories embodied in this book. For me, and for all who are in love with simplicity, there is a story behind each pa thetic face here pictured, and, indeed, some thing of the kind is more than intimated in the verses that face the portraits verses that accompany this symphony of art like a sweet and softly-played refrain, recurring- and filling up the pauses. In the midst of the furious striving for effect, characteristic of our brief da) , the simplicity and modesty of these little poems are very striking. They flutter across the page as shy and as delicate as the yellow falling leaves of the mimosa blown past a dear old lady s window years and years ago. JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. BANDANNA BALLADS Mammy s Lullaby, 2 Theology, 6 o ^ Old Times, 10 A Child s Eyes, 14 Homesick, 18 The Interpreter, 22 Eventide, 26 When Mammy Dies, 30 SHADOWS ON THE WALL Mother and Mammy, 34 The Old Boatman, 38 Aunt Judy and the Painter, 42 Two Lovers and Lizette, 46 BANDANNA BALLADS BANDANNA BALLADS Mammy s Lullaby " Swing low, sweet Chariot," low enough To give some heavenly rest To dis poor restless little one Dat sobs on Mammy s breast. " Swing low, sweet Chariot," wid your load Of angels snowy drest, And throw a dream out to de chile .Most sleep on Mammy s breast. " Swing low, sweet Chariot," so dat She Ma) T look into de nest, An see how sound her baby sleeps At last on Mammy s breast ! THEOLOGY Theology We only had one chile an hit We named Theology : He came on Sunday, so he tit A Sunday name ; besides I)e boy was so confusing like We thought he d make a preacher, An \vhite folks jes for devilment Dey called him Little Beecher ! Well, though Theology was smart, He was dat small an thin Dat by an by he died an den I )e angels took him in. Perhaps by time I gits to Heaben He ll be a growed up preacher Wid angels givin him for short I)e white folks name of " Beecher. OLD TIMES Old Times I haven t cooked a Possum- -Lord ! For such a long, long time, It seems to me I ve lost somehow De very chime an rhyme. De times is changed, an we ain t crot o o De consolations which We re bleeped to have if we would cook o De Possum sweet an rich. De cabin an de big (ire-place Dey neither one is lef- \Yith fires so good cle Possum would Almos jes cook his se f. I ought to think bout Canaan, but It s Ole Times crowds my mind, An maybe when I gits to Heaben It s Ole Times dat I ll find! A CHILD S EYES A Child s Eyes In the dusk of Chloe s rich brown cheek The dimples are never at rest, And bright would the <>dee of her voting face <r> o *:!> be, Did not the eyes protest. Chloe wears her dusk}- hair Twisted, elfin-wise ; And her face is in bloom with the smiles which illume All saving her solemn eyes. And no OIK.- knows how the idle face, So young and so nearly glad, Found and hid in its melting eyes That Something so deep and sad ! i . HOMESICK Homesick I long to see a cotton field o Once more before I go, All hot an splendid, roll its miles Of sunny summer snow ! I long to feel de warm sweet wind Blow down de river bank, Where fields of wavin sugar cane, Are oTowin r j ca an rank. I long to see dat Easy World Where no one s in a flurry ; And where, when it comes time to die Dis merger needn t hurry ! is THE INTERPRETER The world is a mighty confusin big- place For a nigger like me, you know, An tie only safe thing I have found, has been To keep a good grip on my hoe ! You can always depend on de fields an de sky Whichever way other things go An de res will get plain in time to de man Who keeps a good grip on his hoe ! EVENTIDE Eventide A child all wearied with its day Of laughter, tears, and play, O Is Is gathered, gainst its will, to rest At eye on Mammy s breast. She bends aboye him, dark and calm, And, tender as a psalm. She lays a long kiss on his lips, Till in that soft eclipse He melts away to sweet release And sleeps in smiling peace. Some day I, too, shall go to rest Upon a kind Dark Breast, And feel my soul slip through a kiss J o As dark and kind as this ! 26 WHEN MAMMY DIES When Mammy Dies We re always young- till mammy dies ; But when her hand no longer lies As once it did upon our head We feel that youth with her has tied. We watch her wing her way to Rest, And see ourselves upon her breast. Our young selves cradled as of yore- Xow borne from us forevermore. We hear their last faint lullaby Blown softly backward from the sky, And as they soar beyond our reach We wave farewell to each, to each ! MOTHER AND MAMMY Mother and Mammy Among the ranks of shining saints <_> o Disguised in heavenly splendor, Two Mother-faces wait for me, Familiar still, and tender. One face shines whiter than the dawn, And steadfast as a star ; None but my Mother s face could shine So bright and be so far ! The other dark one leans from Heaven, Brooding still to calm me ; Black as if ebon Rest had found Its image in my Mammy ! 34 THE OLD BOATMAN The Old Boatman I changed my name, when I got free, To " Mister" like the res , But now dat I am oilier Home, <_> <"> I likes de ol name bes . Sweet voices callin "Uncle Rome," Seem ringin in my ears ; An swearin sort o sociable, Ol Master s voice I hears. De way he used to call his boat, Across de river: " Rome ! You damn ol nigger, come an bring Dat boat, an row me home ! " He s passed Heaven s River now, an soon He ll call across its foam : "You, Rome, you damn ol nigger, loose Your boat, an come on Home !" AUNT JUDY AND THE PAINTER Aunt Judy and the Painter I can t allow my picture took l)e way you wants to draw A-leavin off my Freedom-look For fashions fore cle war. You d have my dress, you say, " be plain, Of dat dull quiet blue, Dat caught from years of sun and rain, Its tender faded hue." An on my "head a turban red Worn wid a stately grace "To harmonize I think you said, " Wid my rich, dark brown face." No, Lord ! my picture can t be caught By man wid no sich manners; Dat s zactly why de war was fought To end dem same bandannas ! *Y TWO LOVERS AND LIZETTE Two Lovers and Lizette Who, me ? in love, an wid Lizette ? You better b lieve I ain t ; Xo sassy cral like dat could give o o Dis nigger heart-complaint. If Gord don t love her more den !, Den all I got to say Is, dat her soul s in danger sho , An she had better pray ! It s her, dat is in love wid me ; An I jes laughs an tell her, " De fruit dat drapsd out bein shook Is sho to be too meller ! " But all de same, you talks too much To suit me, bout Lizette: Some (^ent man s nio-u-er cr\vine iret hurt o o o <_> o About dat same ^al yet ! THE BANJO OF THE PAST The Banjo of the Past You ax about dat music made On banjos long ago, An wants to know why it ain t played By niggers any mo . Dem banjos b longecl to by-gone days When times an chimes was rare, When we was ""ay as children case, O * We didn t have a care. But when we got our freedom, we Found projeckin was done ; Our livin was to make you see, An dat lef out de fun. We learned to vote an read an spell, We learned de taste ob tears An when you gets dat sponsible, De banjo disappears ! POSSUM TIME Possum Time When autumn skies are deeper blue Than any skies June ever knew ; When frost has touched the mellow air Till yellow leaves fall everywhere ; When wild grapes scent the wind with wine, And ripe persimmons give the sign, Then Life seems happy as a rhyme Because it s nearly Possum time ! When fires roar on the cabin-hearth, And ovens bubble low in mirth ; When sweet potatoes slowly bake, And Mammy makes her best ash-cake ; j When Daddy climbs the "jice" and throws A string of peppers down, it shows, That Life is happier than a rhyme, Because at last it s Possum time ! 5-1 TOO LATE Too Late Yes, Master, clat s jes what I think : Dat Freedom is first rate. I only means to say it came For some of us, too late ! De days dat you call "slavery days Seemed happy ones, you see, Becase I was so YOU n if an !>~aY o o > An Dinah was wid me. Hut jes as Freedom come along My Dinah up an died ; An I got oY an couldn t learn De new ways, dough I tried. So when dev talks bout beino; free, s j An I don t seem to heed em, You may jes know my heart s brimful, An tears has clrownded Freedom ! A STUDIO DISPUTE A Studio Dispute In vain my palette bears a score Of browns, and yellows, too ; In vain I ask of other eyes \Yhat is my model s hue ? " A <dow from Afric suns," I cry, o * " Still lingers in her face, And keeps a light there, as if flame Shone through an amber vase ! A Poet near my easel thinks Her color-scheme was laid By that old Singer who once called A crirl " The Xut-Browne Mavde." o * Old Remus looks to where she sits, Posincr with half-turned head, o And says : " You gent men bof is wrong, Dat gal is ginger-bread ! " A REGRET A Regret Dar s always somethin wantin In my joy at bein free, When I think ol Master didn t Live to share dat joy with me. Dem was mighty big plantations Uat he owned before de war An he, de kindes master Dat darkies ever saw. But de care of dem was heavy, Makin him cle slave, not we An often I have heard him say He wished dat he was me ! An if he jes was livin , He would have his wish, you see- Dem movers couldn t own him now <_> o An Master would be free. 66 BEATEN BISCUIT Beaten Biscuit Of course I ll gladly give de rule I meks beat biscuit by, Dough I ain t sure dat you will mek Dat bread de same as I. Case cookin s like religion is Some s lected, an some ain t, An rules don t no more mek a cook Den sermons mek a Saint. Well, bout de grediances required I needn t mention dem, Of course you knows of flour and things, How much to put, an when ; But soon as you is got dat dough Mixed up all smoove an neat, Den s when your genius g\\ine to show, To get dem biscuit beat ! Two hundred licks is what I gives For home-folks, never fewer, An if I m spectin company in, I gives five hundred sure ! A PLANTATION HYMN A Plantation Hymn Far clown the west still crlows the li^ht o o Though elsewhere it is night. The fields are quiet as the stars, Save some one at the bars Whose full heart, quivering to the brim Flows over in a hymn. It sends its strangely solemn tide Of Hallelujahs, wide Across the fields, and up as far As to the fartherest star, Till all the Southern night s in bloom o With Song and Star-sown gloom And Fancy hears the Advent roll Through that old negro s soul ! A Banjo Song I plays de banjo better now Dan him dat taught me do, Becase he plays for all de worl An I jes plays for You. He learns his chimes I jes lets down A banjo string or two Into de deepest of my heart, An draws up chimes for You. Slowly dey comes swingin up A-quiverin through and through, Till wicl a rush of tineflin notes o Dey reaches light an You. I never knows if dey will shine Wet wid tears or dew ; I only knows dat, dew or tears, Dey shine becase of You. 77 THE BORROWED CHILD The Borrowed Child My chile ? Lord no, she s none </ mine. She s des one I have tried To put in place of Anna Jane My little one what died. Dat s lono- a<^o ; no one hut UK; Knows even where she lies : But in her place I ve always kept A borrowed chile, her size. As soon as it outgrows my chile, I lets it <ro, rii^ht straight > O O An takes another in its place To match dat Heabenly mate. So The Borrowed Child It s took a sight o chillun, sho , To ease dat dull ol pain, An keep de pretty likeness fresh Of my dead Anna Jane. Der s more den forty years, you see, Since she has been in Heaben, But wid de angels years don t count- So she s still only seben. Time treats us all up dere, des lak It do white ladies here It teches em so light one s still A cral at forty year ! t> .< j THE DEVIL S GARDEN The Devil s Garden On Master s ol plantation, where I lived before de war, A field called " Devil s Garden " was De worst you ever saw. De work right dere it was so hard We knew de Devil made it ; And often found a hoof-track dere Where he had been an laid it. When Freedom came I wanted ease ;- So off from dere I put ; But somehow every job I ve tried Has showed de cloven-foot ! 86 EASY LIVING Easy Living Dar s two times in de year dat Gord Made for de nigger sho , Two times when he s so rich he don t Ask Gord for nothin mo : Blackberry time- is one ; for den He neither hoes nor sows ; De nigger knows his daily bread Right on de bushes grows. De other s \Yatermilion time. ; An den Lord bless your soul ! Bof bread an water grows for him, In one big cool green bowl ! DATE DUE GAYLORD PRINTED IN U A 000664 70