The Coast of Bohemia Part 9

"_Roses are red; violets are blue; Pinks are sweet, and so are you._"

Roses are red in my sweetheart's cheeks, Deepening tints whenever one speaks; Violets are blue in the eyes of one; In the eyes of the other smileth the sun; But never were roses half so rare And never were pinks a t.i.thing as fair And never have they in their garden-bed A hundredth part of the fragrance shed,

As my two flowers in their sweet home-frame, Both flowers by nature and one by name.

So as sure as the bloom grows on the vine I 'll choose them for my valentine: My sweet-heart one and my sweet-heart two, Both little sweet-hearts sweet and true-- To love and to cherish forever mine: To cherish and love as my valentine.

DIALECT POEMS

FROM "BEFO' DE WAR"

UNCLE GABE'S WHITE FOLKS

Sarvent, Marster! Yes, suh, dat 's me-- 'Ole Unc' Gabe' 's my name; I thankee, Marster; I 'm 'bout, yo' see.

"An' de ole 'ooman?" She 's much de same: Po'ly an' c'plainin', thank de Lord!

But de Marster's gwine ter come back from 'broad.

"Fine ole place?" Yes, suh, 't is so; An' mighty fine people my white folks war-- But you ought ter 'a' seen it years ago, When de Marster an' de Mistis lived up dyah; When de n.i.g.g.e.rs 'd stan' all roun' de do', Like grains o' corn on de cornhouse flo'.

"Live' mons'ous high?" Yes, Marster, yes; D' cut 'n' onroyal 'n' gordly dash; Eat an' drink till you could n' res'.

My folks war n' none o' yo' po'-white-trash; Nor, suh, dey was of high degree-- Dis heah n.i.g.g.e.r am quality!

"Tell you 'bout 'em?" You mus' 'a' hearn 'Bout my ole white folks, sho'!

I tell you, suh, dey was gre't an' stern; D' didn' have nuttin' at all to learn; D' knowed all dar was to know; Gol' over dey head an' onder dey feet; An' silber! dey sowed 't like folks sows wheat.

"Use' ter be rich?" Dat warn' de wud!

D' jes' wallowed an' roll' in wealf.

Why, none o' my white folks ever stir'd Ter lif' a han' for d' self; De n.i.g.g.e.rs use ter be stan'in' roun'

Jes' d' same ez leaves when dey fus' fall down; De stable-stalls up heah at home Looked like teef in a fine-toof comb; De cattle was p'digious--I mus' tell de fac'!

An' de hogs mecked de hill-sides look lite black; An' de flocks o' sheep was so gre't an' white Dey 'peared like clouds on a moonshine night.

An' when my ole Mistis use' ter walk--

_Jes'_ ter her kerridge (dat was fur Ez ever she walked)--I tell you, sir, You could almos' heah her silk dress talk; Hit use' ter soun' like de mornin' breeze, When it wakes an' rustles de Gre't House trees.

An' de Marster's face!--de Marster's face, Whenever de Marster got right pleased-- Well, I 'clar' ter Gord! 't would shine wid grace De same ez his countenance had been greased.

Dat cellar, too, had de bes' o' wine, An' brandy, an' sperrits dat yo' could fine; An' ev'ything in dyah was stored, 'Skusin' de Glory of de Lord!

"Warn' dyah a son?" Yes, suh, you knows _He_ 's de young Marster now; But we heah dat dey tooken he very clo'es Ter pay what ole Marster owe; He 's done been gone ten year, I s'pose.

But he 's comin' back some day, of co'se; An my ole 'ooman is aluz 'pyard, An' meckin' de Blue-Room baid; An' ev'ry day dem sheets is ayard, An' will be tell she 's daid; An' dem styars she 'll scour, An' dat room she 'll ten', Ev'y blessed day dat de Lord do sen'!

What say, Marster? Yo' say, you knows--?

He 's young an' slender-like an' fyah; Better-lookin' 'n you, of co'se!

Hi! you 's he? 'Fo' Gord! 't is him!

'T is de very voice an' eyes an' hyah, An' mouf an' smile, on'y yo' ain' so slim-- I wonder whah--whah is de ole 'ooman?

Now let my soul Depart in peace For I behol'

Dy glory, Lord!--I knowed you, chile-- I knowed you soon 's I see 'd your face!

Whar has you been dis blessed while?

Yo' 's "done come back an' buy de place?

Oh, bless de Lord for all his grace!

De ravins sh.e.l.l hunger, an' sh.e.l.l not lack De Marster, de young Marster is done come back!

LITTLE JACK[1]

[1] In memory of John Dalmey, of Richmond, Virginia: a man faithful to all trusts.

Yes, suh. 'T was jes' 'bout sundown Dad went--two months ago; I always used ter run down Dat time, bec'us', you know, I wudden like ter had him die, An' no one nigh.

You see, we cudden git him Ter come 'way off dat lan'-- 'E said New House did n' fit him, No mo' 'n new shoes did; an'

Gord mout miss him at Jedgment day, Ef he moved 'way.

"How ole?" Ef we all wondered How ole he was, he 'd frown An' say he was "a hundred an-- Ole Miss done sot it down, An' she could tell--'t was fo' or five-- Ef she was live."

Well, when, as I was sayin', Dat night I come on down, I see he bench was layin'

Flat-sided on de groun'; An' I kinder hurried to'ds de do'-- Quick-like, you know.

Inside I see him layin'

Back, quiet, on de bed; An' I heahed him kep on sayin': "Dat 's what ole Marster said; An' Marster warn' gwine tell me lie, He 'll come by-m'-by."

I axed how he was gettin'.

"Nigh ter de furrow's een',"

He said; "dis ebenin', settin'

Outside de do', I seen De thirteen curlews come in line, An' knowed de sign.

"You know, ole Marster tole me He 'd come for me 'fo' long; 'Fo' you was born, he sole me-- But den he pined so strong He come right arter Little Jack, An' buyed him back.

"I went back ter de kerrige An' tuk dem reins ag'in.

I druv him ter his marriage; An', n.i.g.g.e.r, 't was a sin Ter see de high an' mighty way I looked dat day!

"Dat coat had nary b.u.t.ton 'Skusin' it was ob gole; My hat--but dat warn't nuttin'!

'T was n.o.ble ter behole De way dem hosses pawed de yar, Wid me up dyar.

"Now all 's w'ared out befo' me!-- Marster, an' coat, an' all; Me only lef--you know me!-- Cheat wheat 's de lars' ter fall: De rank grain ben's wid its own weight, De light stan's straight.

"But heah! Ole Marster 's waitin'-- So I mus' tell you: raise De jice dyar; 'neaf de platin'-- De sweat o' many days Is in dat stockin'--toil an' pain In sun an' rain.

"I worked ter save dem figgers Ter buy you; but de Lord He sot free all de n.i.g.g.e.rs, Same as white-folks, 'fo' Gord!

Free as de crows! Free as de stars!

Free as ole hyars!

"Now, chile, you teck dat money, Git on young Marster's track, An' pay it ter him, honey; An' tell him Little Jack Worked forty year, dis Chris'mus come, Ter save dat sum;