The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 14

Standin' in yo' front do'

In de misty mo'n, Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin' in de co'n:

"O Miss Julie, Who-ah!

Love me truly, Who-ah!

Who-ah!"

Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so, W'en 'e try to mek 'im go: "Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!"

O you jolly black boy, Yod'lin' in de co'n, Callin' to yo' dawlin', In de dewy mo'n, Love 'er, boy, forevah, Yodel ever' day; Only le' me lis'n, As yo' sing away:

"O mah dawlin'! Who-ah!

Hyah me callin'! Who-ah!

Who-ah!"

Tu'n aroun' anothah row, Holler to yo' mule so: "Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!"

BLACK MAMMIES

If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,-- Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,-- Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy.

You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, An' dey'll all be black an' homely,--'less de Virgin Mary's one.

Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of n.o.ble birt'.

If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him; If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear, Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere.

She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full; Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown, She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down.

She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong, An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song; She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod; She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to G.o.d!

She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word,"

Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd,"

If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out;

But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine"; An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',-- Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'!

Leslie Pinckney Hill

TUSKEGEE

Wherefore this busy labor without rest?

Is it an idle dream to which we cling, Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best.

By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed."

So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, And so the thought is wedded to the thing; But what shall be the end, and what the test?

Dear G.o.d, we dare not answer, we can see Not many steps ahead, but this we know-- If all our toilsome building is in vain, Availing not to set our manhood free, If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, The South will wear eternally a stain.

CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE

Come home with me a little s.p.a.ce And browse about our ancient place, Lay by your wonted troubles here And have a turn of Christmas cheer.

These sober walls of weathered stone Can tell a romance of their own, And these wide rooms of devious line Are kindly meant in their design.

Sometimes the north wind searches through, But he shall not be rude to you.

We'll light a log of generous girth For winter comfort, and the mirth Of healthy children you shall see About a sparkling Christmas tree.

Eleanor, leader of the fold, Hermione with heart of gold, Elaine with comprehending eyes, And two more yet of coddling size, Natalie pondering all that's said, And Mary with the cherub head-- All these shall give you sweet content And care-destroying merriment, While one with true madonna grace Moves round the glowing fire-place Where father loves to muse aside And grandma sits in silent pride.

And you may chafe the wasting oak, Or freely pa.s.s the kindly joke To mix with nuts and home-made cake And apples set on coals to bake.

Or some fine carol we will sing In honor of the Manger-King, Or hear great Milton's organ verse Or Plato's dialogue rehea.r.s.e What Socrates with his last breath Sublimely said of life and death.

These dear delights we fain would share With friend and kinsman everywhere, And from our door see them depart Each with a little lighter heart.

SUMMER MAGIC

So many cares to vex the day, So many fears to haunt the night, My heart was all but weaned away From every lure of old delight.

Then summer came, announced by June, With beauty, miracle and mirth.

She hung aloft the rounding moon, She poured her sunshine on the earth, She drove the sap and broke the bud, She set the crimson rose afire.

She stirred again my sullen blood, And waked in me a new desire.

Before my cottage door she spread The softest carpet nature weaves, And deftly arched above my head A canopy of shady leaves.

Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies, Her days were bowers rife with song, And many a scheme did she devise To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong.

For on the hill or in the dell, Or where the brook went leaping by Or where the fields would surge and swell With golden wheat or bearded rye, I felt her heart against my own, I breathed the sweetness of her breath, Till all the cark of time had flown, And I was lord of life and death.

THE TEACHER

Lord, who am I to teach the way To little children day by day, So p.r.o.ne myself to go astray?

I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know How faint they flicker and how low The candles of my knowledge glow.

I teach them POWER to will and do, But only now to learn anew My own great weakness through and through.

I teach them LOVE for all mankind And all G.o.d's creatures, but I find My love comes lagging far behind.

Lord, if their guide I still must be, Oh let the little children see The teacher leaning hard on Thee.

Edward Smyth Jones

A SONG OF THANKS

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, For her coffers filled with their countless worth, For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, For the rippling streams which turn the mills, For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, For the songs of gladness on the gale,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, For the bounty which the rich soil yields, For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, For the sun which ripens the golden grains, For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine, For the tubers large and cotton white, For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, For the swan which floats near the river-banks,-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, For the plum and the peach and the apple red, For the dear old press where the wine is tread, For the c.o.c.k which crows at the breaking dawn, And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, For the game which hide in the shady nooks,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!