De old place on de Ches'peake BayIs in my heart to-night—I hopes to git back d'yar some day,An' hongers for de sight.
Dee come an' tole me I was free,An' all my work was done;I left dem whar was good to me,An' now I 'se all alone.
De name of ole VirginiaIs sweet as rain in drouf—Oh! Master, say, has you been dy'ar?Hit 's way down in de Souf.
De grass dat grows 'pon top de hillDe ones I love does hide,I pray de Lord to spyah me stillTo sleep dyar by dee side.
De ole plantation 's sole an' all,But sometime dee will come,An' I will hear Brer Gabrull call,To fetch de ole man home.
De name ob ole VirginiaIs sweet as rain in drouf—Oh! Master, say, has you been dy'ar?Hit 's way down in de Souf.
You say the gods and muses allFrom earth now banished be?Will you believe that yester-eveI saw Terpsichore?
Her robe of snow and gossamerEnclad a form most neat;Such sandals green were never seenAs shod her twinkling feet.
Her every step was melody,Her every motion grace,That one might prize a thousand eyesTo note both form and face.
The motes that dance in sunny beamsTripped never in such wise;This lovely sprite danced in the lightThat beamed from her own eyes.
A man's head once was danced away—You know how it befell?My dainty fay danced yesterdayMen's hearts away as well.
What 's that? 'Twas but a graceful girlThat took the hearts for pelf?Nay, I was there, and 't was, I swear,Terpsichore herself.
All up the street at a stately paceThe maiden passed with her April-face,And the roses I 'd paid for, on her breastWere white as the eggs in a partridge-nest,While behind her—driver upon his stool—Tinkled the bell of the street-car mule.
"Going to walk up the street?" I said;She graciously bowed her beautiful head."Then I 'll walk, too; 't is a lovely day."—Thus I opened the ball in my usual way."Do you see the car anywhere?" inquiredThe April-face, "I 'm a trifle tired."
I urged a walk; 'twas a useless suit!She wildly waved her parachute;The stub-tailed mule stopped quick enow;I handed her in with a stately bow;And the bell rang out with a jangled quirk,As the stub-tailed mule went off with a jerk.
Three men as she entered solemnly rose,And quietly trampled their neighbors' toes;A dudish masher left his place,And edged near the girl with the April-face,Who sat on the side you 'd call "the lee,"(With the same sweet smile she 'd sat on me).
The day it was lovely; mild the air;The sky, like the maiden's face, was fair;The car was full, and a trifle stale(Attached to the mule with the stubbly tail);Yet the maiden preferred the seat she hired,To the stroll with me; for I made her tired.
And now when the maiden walks the streetWith another's flowers, and smile so sweet,Iwave to the driver upon his stool,And stop the stub-tailed street-car mule,While I purchase a seat with half my pelf;For it makes me a trifle tired myself.
So, Davie, you 're gaeing to tak yo' a wifeTo halve a' yo' sorrows, an' sweeten yo' life;An' Davie, my laddie, I wish you enowOf joy and content on your shiny auld pow.
She 's feat and she 's brightsome, I ken, as the dayWhen sinshine is whispering its luve to the May;Her cheeks are like blossoms, her mouth is a rose,And her teeth are the pearlies its petals enclose.
Of her voice, her ain music, I dinna' say mair,Than that 'tis a strain might a bogle ensnare,And her een they are stars beaming forth a bright flameTo cheer a puir wanderer and lead him safe hame.
Yes, Davie, ye villain, ye 're sleekit and slee,Ye 've lift the door sneck and looped in afore me;Ye 've steek it ahint ye and lea'ed me alain,Like a dowie auld cat blinkin' by the hearth-stane.
Yet Davie, belyve, should you mind in your joyThe puir lonely carlies you lo'ed as a boy,The memories of canty auld days we have spentWill come like the harp-tones o'er still waters sent.
Then come to me, Davie, auld days we 'll renew;We 'll heap the bit-ingle and bouse the auld brew;We 'll smoke the auld pipe, till we freshen your life,And send you back young as a boy to your wife.
Celia, before her mirror bends,Inquiring how to please her friends.
The mystery is solved apace:The mirror but reflects her grace.
Her mirror Celia now defies,She sees herself in all men's eyes.
Celia 's a witch, and hath such arts,Her image is in all men's hearts.
A lover left his new-made brideAnd shot a dove with her mate at her side.
I have stood and watched the Eagle soar into the Sun,And envied him his swift light-cleaving pinion;And, though I may not soar, at least I mayLift up my feet above the encumbering clay.
There be three things real in all the earth:Mother-love, Death, and a Little Child's mirth.
Little Dolly Dimple,In her green wimple,Knows all the philosophers know:That fire is hotAnd ice is not,And that sun will melt the snow.She has heard that the moon is made of green cheese;But she 's not quite certain of this.She knows if you tickle your nose you will sneeze,And a hurt is made well by a kiss.I wish I were wise as Dolly is wise,For mysteries lie in her deep, clear eyes.
"The Fourteenth Day of February fine:I choose you for my Valentine."
Thus ran the first of the sweet old rhymesOn the Lovers'-Day in the old, sweet times:And so, I follow closely alongTo tell my love in the words of the song.
"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 rareAnd never were pinks a tithing as fairAnd never have they in their garden-bedA 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 vineI '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.
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 niggers '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 nigger 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'dTer lif' a han' for d' self;De niggers use ter be stan'in' roun'Jes' d' same ez leaves when dey fus' fall down;De stable-stalls up heah at homeLooked 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' whiteDey 'peared like clouds on a moonshine night.An' when my ole Mistis use' ter walk—
Jes'ter her kerridge (dat was furEz 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 graceDe 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 knowsHe's de young Marster now;But we heah dat dey tooken he very clo'esTer 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 soulDepart in peaceFor 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 shell hunger, an' shell not lackDe Marster, de young Marster is done come back!
[1] In memory of John Dalmey, of Richmond, Virginia: a man faithful to all trusts.
Yes, suh. 'T was jes' 'bout sundownDad went—two months ago;I always used ter run downDat time, bec'us', you know,I wudden like ter had him die,An' no one nigh.
You see, we cudden git himTer 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 wonderedHow ole he was, he 'd frownAn' 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 seenDe thirteen curlews come in line,An' knowed de sign.
"You know, ole Marster tole meHe 'd come for me 'fo' long;'Fo' you was born, he sole me—But den he pined so strongHe come right arter Little Jack,An' buyed him back.
"I went back ter de kerrigeAn' tuk dem reins ag'in.I druv him ter his marriage;An', nigger, 't was a sinTer see de high an' mighty wayI looked dat day!
"Dat coat had nary button'Skusin' it was ob gole;My hat—but dat warn't nuttin'!'T was noble ter beholeDe 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: raiseDe jice dyar; 'neaf de platin'—De sweat o' many daysIs in dat stockin'—toil an' painIn sun an' rain.
"I worked ter save dem figgersTer buy you; but de LordHe sot free all de niggers,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 JackWorked forty year, dis Chris'mus come,Ter save dat sum;
"An' dat 't was for ole Marster,To buy your time f'om him;But dat de war come farster,An' squandered stock an' lim'—Say you kin work an' don't need none,An' he carn't, son.
"He ain' been use ter diggin'His livin' out de dirt;He carn't drink out a piggin,Like you; an' it 'ud hurtOle Marster's pride, an' make him sw'ar,In glory dyar!"
Den all his strength seemed fallin';He shet his eyes awhile,An' den said: "Heish! he 's callin'!Dyar he! Now watch him smile!Yes, suh— You niggers jes' stan' back!Marster, here 's Jack!"
Well, yes, suh, dat am a comical nameIt are so, an' for a fac'—But I knowed one, down in Ferginyer,Could 'a' toted dat on its back.
"What was it?" I 'm gwine to tell you—'T was mons'us long ago:'T was, "Ashcake," suh; an' all on usUse' ter call 'im jes', "Ashcake," so.
You see, suh, my ole Marster, heWas a pow'ful wealfy man,Wid mo' plantations dan hyahs on you haid—Gre't acres o' low-groun' lan':
Jeems River bottoms, dat used ter stallA fo'-hoss plough, no time;An' he 'd knock' you down ef you jes' had dyaredTer study 'bout guano 'n' lime.
De corn used ter stan' in de row dat thickYou jes' could follow de balk;An' rank! well I 'clar' ter de king, Ise seedFive 'coons up a single stalk!
He owned mo' niggers 'n arr' a manAbout dyar, black an' bright;He owned so many, b'fo' de Lord,He did n' know all by sight!
Well, suh, one evelin', long to'ds dusk,I seen de Marster stan'An' watch a yaller boy pass de gateWid a ashcake in his han'.
He never had no mammy at all—Leastways, she was dead by dat—An' de cook an' de hands about on de placeUsed ter see dat de boy kep' fat.
Well, he trotted along down de parf dat night,An' de Marster he seen him go,An' hollered, "Say, boy—say, what 's yer name?""A—ashcake, suh," says Joe.
It 'peared ter tickle de Marster much,An' he called him up to de do'."Well, dat is a curisome name," says he;"But I guess it suits you, sho'."
"Whose son are you?" de Marster axed."Young Jane's," says Joe; "she 's daid."A sperrit cudden 'a' growed mo' pale,An', "By Gord!" I heerd him said.
He tuk de child 'long in de house,Jes' 'count o' dat ar whim;An', dat-time-out, you nuver seeSich sto' as he sot by him.
An' Ashcake swung his cradle, too,As clean as ever you see;An' stuck as close ter ole Marster's heelAs de shader sticks to de tree.
'Twel one dark night, when de river was out,De Marster an' Ashcake JoeWas comin' home an' de skiff upsot,An' bofe wo'd 'a' drowned, sho',
Excusin' dat Ashcake cotch'd ole Marst'rAn' gin him holt o' de boat,An' saved him so; but 't was mo'n a weekB'fo' his body comed afloat.
An' de Marster buried dat nigger, suh,In de white-folks' graveyard, sho!An' he writ 'pon a white-folks' tombstone,"Ashcake"—jes' "Ashcake" so.
An' de Marster he grieved so 'bouten dat thing,It warn' long, suh, befo' he died;An' he 's sleep, 'way down in Perginyer,Not fur from young Ashcake's side.
Mistis, I r'al'y wish you 'd holeA little conversationWid my old Zekyl 'bout his soul.Dat nigger's sitiwationIs mons'us serious, 'deed 'n' 't is,'Skusin' he change dat co'se o' his.
Dat evil sinner 's sot he faceGinst ev'y wud I know;Br'er Gabrul say, he 's fell from grace,An' Hell is got him sho'!
He don' believe in sperits,'Skusin' 't is out a jug!Say 'tain' got no mo' meritsDen a ole half-cured lug;'N' dat white cat I see right late,One evelin' nigh de grave-yard gate,Warn't nuttin' sep some ole cat wharWuz sot on suppin' off old hyah.
He 'oont allow a roosterBy crowin' in folks' do',Kin bring death dyah; and useterSay, he wish mine would crow.An' he even say, a hin mout try,Sep woman-folks would git so spry,An' want to stick deeselves up den,An' try to crow over de men.
'E say 't ain' no good in preachin';Dat niggers is sich fools—Don' know no mo' 'bout teachin''N white-folks does 'bout mules;An' when br'er Gabrul's hollered tellYou mos' kin see right into Hell,An' rambled Scriptures fit to bus',Dat hard-mouf nigger 's wus an' wus.
'E say quality (dis is mainer'N all Ise told you yit)—Says 'tain' no better 'n 'arf-strainer;An' dathismaster 'll gitGood place in Heaven—po'-white-folks, mark!—As y' all whar come right out de ark;An' dat—now jes' heah dis!—dat he,A po'-white-folks' nigger 's good as me!
He 's gwine straight to de deble!An' sarve him jes' right, too!He 's a outdacious rebel,Arter all Ise done do!—Ise sweat an' arguified an' blowedOver dat black nigger mo''N would 'a' teck a c'nal-boat loadOver to Canyan sho'!
Ise triedrefection—'t warn' no whar!Ise wrastled wid de Lord in pra'r;Ise quoiled tell I wuz mos daid;Ise th'owed de spider at his haid—But he ole haid 't wuz so thick th'ooHit bus' my skillit spang in two.
You kin dye black hyah an' meek it light;You kin tu'n de Ethiope's spots to white;You mout grow two or three cubics bigger—But you carn't onchange a po'-white-folks' nigger.
When you 's dwellin' on golden harps an' chunes,A po-white-foiks' nigger's thinkin' bout coons;An' when you 's snifflin' de heaven'y blossoms,A po'-white-folks' nigger 's studyin' 'bout possums.
Yes, yes, you is Marse Phil's son; you favor 'm might'ly, too.We wuz like brothers, we wuz, me an' him.You tried to fool d' ole nigger, but, Marster, 'twouldn' do;Not do yo' is done growed so tall an' slim.
Hi! Lord! Ise knowed yo', honey, sence long befo' yo' born—I mean, Ise knowed defamilydat long;An' dees beenwhitefolks, Marster—dee han 's white ez young corn—An', ef dee want to, couldn' do no wrong.
You' gran'pa bought my mammy at Gen'l Nelson's sale,An' Deely she come out de same estate;An' blood is jes' like pra'r is—hit tain' gwine nuver fail;Hit 's sutney gwine to come out, soon or late.
When I wuz born, yo' gran'pa gi' me to young Marse Phil,To be his body-servant—like, you know;An' we growed up together like two stalks in a hill—Bofe tarslin' an' den shootin' in de row.
Marse Phil wuz born in harves', an' I dat Christmas come;My mammy nussed bofe on we de same time;No matter what one got, suh, de oder gwine git some—We wuz two fibe-cent pieces in one dime.
We cotch ole hyahs together, an' possums, him an' me;We fished dat mill-pon' over, night an' day;Rid horses to de water; treed coons up de same tree;An' when you see one, turr warn' fur away.
When Marse Phil went to College, 't wuz, "Sam—Sam 's got to go."Ole Marster said, "Dat boy 's a fool 'bout Sam."Ole Mistis jes' said, "Dear, Phil wants him, an', you know—"Dat "Dear"—hit used to soothe him like a lamb.
So we all went to College—-'way down to Williamsburg—But 't warn' much l'arnin out o' books we got;Dem urrs warn' no mo' to him 'n a ole wormy lug;Yes, suh, we wuz de ve'y top-de-pot.
An' ef he didn' study dem Latins an' sich things,He wuz de popularetis all de whileDe ladies use' to call him, "De angel widout wings";An' when he come, I lay dee use' to smile.
Yo' see, he wuz ole Marster's only chile; an' den,He had a body-servant—at he will;An' wid dat big plantation; dee 'd all like to be brides;Dat is ef dee could have de groom, Marse Phil.
'T wuz dyah he met young Mistis—she wuz yo' ma, of co'se!I disremembers now what mont' it wuz:One night, he comes, an' seys he, "Sam, I needs new clo'es";An' seys I, "Marse Phil, yes, suh, so yo' does."
Well, suh, he made de tailor meek ev'y thing bran' new;He would n' w'ar one stitch he had on han'—Jes' throwed 'em in de chip box, an' seys, "Sam, dem 's fur you."Marse Phil, I tell yo', wuz a gentleman.
So Marse Phil co'tes de Mistis, an' Sam he co'tes de maid—We always sot our traps upon one parf;An' when we tole ole Marster we bofe wuz gwine, he seyd,"All right, we 'll have to kill de fatted calf."
An' dat wuz what dee did, suh—de Prodigal wuz home;Dee put de ring an' robe upon yo' ma.Den you wuz born, young Marster, an' den de storm hit come;An' den de darkness settled from afar.
De storm hit comed an' wrenchted de branches from de tree—De war—you' pa—he 's sleep dyah on de hill;An' do I know, young Marster, de war hit sot us free?I seys, "Dat 's so; but tell me whar 's Marse Phil?"
"A dollar!"—thankee, Marster, you sutney is his son;You is his spitt an' image, I declar'!What sey, young Marster? Yes, suh: you sey, "It 'sfive—not one—"Yo' favors, honey, bofe yo' pa an' ma!
Well, well, I declar'! I is sorry.He 's 'ceasted, yo' say, Marse Joe?—Dat gent'man down in New Orleans,Whar writ 'bout'n niggers so,
An' tole, in all dat poetryYou read some time lars' year,'Bout niggers, an' 'coons, an' 'possums,An' ole times, an' mules an' gear?
Jes' name dat ag'in, seh, please, seh;Destricution's de word yo' said?Dat signifies he wuz mons'us po',Yo' say?—want meat and bread?
Hit mout: I never knowed himOr hearn on him, 'sep' when youRead me dem valentines o' his'n;But I lay you, dis, seh 's, true—
Dat he wuz a rael gent'man,Bright fire dat burns, not smokes;An' ef he did diedestricute,He war n't no po'-white-folks.
Dat gent'man knowed 'bout niggers,Heah me! when niggers wuzEz good ez white-folks mos', seh,I knows dat thing, I does.
An' he could 'a' tetched his hat, seh,To me jes' de same ez you;An' folks gwine to see what a gent'manHe wuz, an' I wuz, too.
He could n' 'a' talked so natchal'Bout niggers in sorrow an' joy,Widdouten he had a black mammyTo sing to him 'long ez a boy.
An' I think, when he tole 'bout black-folksAn' ole-times, an' all so sweet,Some nigh him mout 'a' acted de ravinsAn' gin him a mouf-ful to eat,
An' not let him starve at Christmas,When things ain't sca'ce nowhar—Ef he hed been a dog, young Marster,I 'd 'a feeded him den, I 'clar'!
But wait! Maybe Gord, when thinkin'How po' he 'd been himself,Cotch sight dat gent'man scufflin',An' 'lowed fur to see what wealf
Hit mout be de bes' to gin him,Ez a Christmas-gif', yo' know;So he jes' took him up to heaven,Whar he earn' be po' no mo'.
An' jes' call his name ag'in, seh.How?—IRWIN RUSSELL—so?I 'se gwine fur to tell it to Nancy,So ef I 'd furgit, she 'd know.
An' I hopes dey 'll lay him to sleep, seh,Somewhar, whar de birds will singAbout him de live-long day, seh,An' de flowers will bloom in Spring.
An' I wish, young Marster, you 'd meek outTo write down to whar you said,An' sey, dyar 's a nigger in RichmondWhar 's sorry Marse Irwin 's dead.