The Old Cotton Gin

[There have been so many requests for copies of this poem that it is reproduced. It has been adopted in all the public schools of Alabama and recited on Alabama Day, December 14, each year.—E. E. Sweetland.]

It lies alone in the rank June corn,A relic of days that are numbered and gone;The June wind sings a song in its throat,The June clouds lovingly over it float,And through its skeleton ribs of steelThe moth-flies dance in a drowsy reel.For its saws are rustWith canker and crust,They hum no more from dawn to dusk—And the lizard is ginner,And out and in,The spider is spinnerAt the Old Cotton Gin.Ay, many a day for the old, old South,He spun his fleece from a fiery mouth,And wove his woof in a fabric of gold—As a picture is painted, a tale that is told.And he sat in his might, this fallen thing,A hoary monarch, an uncrowned king,And over the landWith an iron hand,He flung his wealth with a gesture grand,And Might was the ginner—Of barn and of binThere was never a winnerLike the Old Cotton Gin.Broad was the kingdom he ruled in his might,Brave were the armies he rallied for fight,Bright were the wings of his ships on the seas,Bold were his merchantmen—kingly his ease.True were his women in hut or in hall,Sweet the soft sunshine that fell over all.From banjo and bowAnd the cotton’s long row,Free-song and slave-song would mingle and flow.And Pride was the ginner—(Unpardonable sin!)Was there ever a sinnerLike the Old Cotton Gin?Alas, for his weavings—ay, tears for the dayWhen out from his loom came the jackets of gray,And the locks that were plucked in despair from his headWere woven to crimson in shrouds for his dead.They died for the Sin the centuries had given,And their blood is the pledge on the lintels of heaven.By river and plainThey march not again,And wet was his fleece with the blood of his slain—For Death was the ginner—And Riot and Din—And Sorrow the spinner,At the Old Cotton Gin.He buried his dead, and a tenderer toneCrept into his song, for he sang it alone;But he wove as he sang and the pattern was bright—The tapestry of stars that come with the night—And he built his waste places and conquered by toilAnd garnered in peace what was gathered in spoil,And all the day longHe wove in his songThe patience of right in the pillage of wrong—And Faith was the ginner,The fabric to spin,And Hope was the spinnerAt the Old Cotton Gin.With his Hope in the future, his Heart in the past,He worked for his people and wove to the last;And, tottering, he stood through the rift and the reelAnd he died as he lived—with his hand on the wheel,And sighing, his soul passed peacefully through,As pure as the last lock of lint in the flue.The Heart, whose beatWas the Century’s feet,Was willing to cease, but not to retreat.And the New South was ginner,The New Age was in,The New Century spinner—A New Cotton Gin.Rear him—O sons of a generous sire—Aloft on a monument, not on a pyre;Base-stone of valor, column of youth,Shaft-stone of chivalry, cap-stone of truth—Honor him, sons of a land that is fair,Let him not lie in the rank weeds there,For see! from his nightHe rises all bright,He wakens! He wakens—a loom of new light—With Fame for his ginner,His kith and his kin,And the world is the winnerIn the Old Cotton Gin.JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

It lies alone in the rank June corn,

A relic of days that are numbered and gone;

The June wind sings a song in its throat,

The June clouds lovingly over it float,

And through its skeleton ribs of steel

The moth-flies dance in a drowsy reel.

For its saws are rust

With canker and crust,

They hum no more from dawn to dusk—

And the lizard is ginner,

And out and in,

The spider is spinner

At the Old Cotton Gin.

Ay, many a day for the old, old South,He spun his fleece from a fiery mouth,And wove his woof in a fabric of gold—As a picture is painted, a tale that is told.And he sat in his might, this fallen thing,A hoary monarch, an uncrowned king,And over the landWith an iron hand,He flung his wealth with a gesture grand,And Might was the ginner—Of barn and of binThere was never a winnerLike the Old Cotton Gin.

Ay, many a day for the old, old South,

He spun his fleece from a fiery mouth,

And wove his woof in a fabric of gold—

As a picture is painted, a tale that is told.

And he sat in his might, this fallen thing,

A hoary monarch, an uncrowned king,

And over the land

With an iron hand,

He flung his wealth with a gesture grand,

And Might was the ginner—

Of barn and of bin

There was never a winner

Like the Old Cotton Gin.

Broad was the kingdom he ruled in his might,Brave were the armies he rallied for fight,Bright were the wings of his ships on the seas,Bold were his merchantmen—kingly his ease.True were his women in hut or in hall,Sweet the soft sunshine that fell over all.From banjo and bowAnd the cotton’s long row,Free-song and slave-song would mingle and flow.And Pride was the ginner—(Unpardonable sin!)Was there ever a sinnerLike the Old Cotton Gin?

Broad was the kingdom he ruled in his might,

Brave were the armies he rallied for fight,

Bright were the wings of his ships on the seas,

Bold were his merchantmen—kingly his ease.

True were his women in hut or in hall,

Sweet the soft sunshine that fell over all.

From banjo and bow

And the cotton’s long row,

Free-song and slave-song would mingle and flow.

And Pride was the ginner—

(Unpardonable sin!)

Was there ever a sinner

Like the Old Cotton Gin?

Alas, for his weavings—ay, tears for the dayWhen out from his loom came the jackets of gray,And the locks that were plucked in despair from his headWere woven to crimson in shrouds for his dead.They died for the Sin the centuries had given,And their blood is the pledge on the lintels of heaven.By river and plainThey march not again,And wet was his fleece with the blood of his slain—For Death was the ginner—And Riot and Din—And Sorrow the spinner,At the Old Cotton Gin.

Alas, for his weavings—ay, tears for the day

When out from his loom came the jackets of gray,

And the locks that were plucked in despair from his head

Were woven to crimson in shrouds for his dead.

They died for the Sin the centuries had given,

And their blood is the pledge on the lintels of heaven.

By river and plain

They march not again,

And wet was his fleece with the blood of his slain—

For Death was the ginner—

And Riot and Din—

And Sorrow the spinner,

At the Old Cotton Gin.

He buried his dead, and a tenderer toneCrept into his song, for he sang it alone;But he wove as he sang and the pattern was bright—The tapestry of stars that come with the night—And he built his waste places and conquered by toilAnd garnered in peace what was gathered in spoil,And all the day longHe wove in his songThe patience of right in the pillage of wrong—And Faith was the ginner,The fabric to spin,And Hope was the spinnerAt the Old Cotton Gin.

He buried his dead, and a tenderer tone

Crept into his song, for he sang it alone;

But he wove as he sang and the pattern was bright—

The tapestry of stars that come with the night—

And he built his waste places and conquered by toil

And garnered in peace what was gathered in spoil,

And all the day long

He wove in his song

The patience of right in the pillage of wrong—

And Faith was the ginner,

The fabric to spin,

And Hope was the spinner

At the Old Cotton Gin.

With his Hope in the future, his Heart in the past,He worked for his people and wove to the last;And, tottering, he stood through the rift and the reelAnd he died as he lived—with his hand on the wheel,And sighing, his soul passed peacefully through,As pure as the last lock of lint in the flue.The Heart, whose beatWas the Century’s feet,Was willing to cease, but not to retreat.And the New South was ginner,The New Age was in,The New Century spinner—A New Cotton Gin.

With his Hope in the future, his Heart in the past,

He worked for his people and wove to the last;

And, tottering, he stood through the rift and the reel

And he died as he lived—with his hand on the wheel,

And sighing, his soul passed peacefully through,

As pure as the last lock of lint in the flue.

The Heart, whose beat

Was the Century’s feet,

Was willing to cease, but not to retreat.

And the New South was ginner,

The New Age was in,

The New Century spinner—

A New Cotton Gin.

Rear him—O sons of a generous sire—Aloft on a monument, not on a pyre;Base-stone of valor, column of youth,Shaft-stone of chivalry, cap-stone of truth—Honor him, sons of a land that is fair,Let him not lie in the rank weeds there,For see! from his nightHe rises all bright,He wakens! He wakens—a loom of new light—With Fame for his ginner,His kith and his kin,And the world is the winnerIn the Old Cotton Gin.

Rear him—O sons of a generous sire—

Aloft on a monument, not on a pyre;

Base-stone of valor, column of youth,

Shaft-stone of chivalry, cap-stone of truth—

Honor him, sons of a land that is fair,

Let him not lie in the rank weeds there,

For see! from his night

He rises all bright,

He wakens! He wakens—a loom of new light—

With Fame for his ginner,

His kith and his kin,

And the world is the winner

In the Old Cotton Gin.

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

TROTWOOD’S MONTHLYDevoted to Farm, Horse and Home.

TROTWOOD PUBLISHING CO., Nashville, Tenn. Office 150 Fourth Ave., North.

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE,Editor-in-Chief.

TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION:One Year, $1.00; Single Copy, 10 cents.Advertising Rates on application.

NASHVILLE, TENN., April, 1906.

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