'Tis fine to play
In the fragrant hay,
And romp on the golden load;
To ride old Jack
...
'LIAS! 'Lias! Bless de Lawd!
Don' you know de day's erbroad?
Ef you don' git up, you scamp,
Dey'll be trouble in dis camp.
...
He was a poet who wrote clever verses,
And folks said he had a fine poetical taste;
But his father, a practical farmer, accused him
Of letting the strength of his arm go to waste.
...
THE trees bend down along the stream,
Where anchored swings my tiny boat.
The day is one to drowse and dream
...
Oh for the breath of the briny deep,
And the tug of the bellying sail,
With the sea-gull's cry across the sky
...
FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits.
Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys,
Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.
...
WHO dat knockin' at de do'?
Why, Ike Johnson, -- yes, fu' sho!
Come in, Ike. I's mighty glad
You come down. I t'ought you's
...
This is the debt I pay
Just for one riotous day,
Years of regret and grief,
Sorrow without relief.
...
Heart of my heart, the day is chill,
The mist hangs low o'er the wooded hill,
The soft white mist and the heavy cloud
...