Ain't-Lawdy! it's GREEN! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! come on

wi' dat switch!

Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n watermillion! who ever heerd tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green;

But when dey go punk, now you mine me, dey's ripe-en dat's des wut I mean.

E nex' time you hooks watermillions-you heered me, you ign'ant young hunk,

Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk!"

Harrison Robertson [1856

A PLANTATION DITTY

De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top:
"Who-who-is-you-oo?"

En I say: "Good Lawd, hit's des po' me,
En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea;
I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be;

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morrer!"

De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree:

"Who-who-is-you-oo?”

En I say: "Good Lawd, ef you look you'll see
Hit ain't nobody but des po' me,

En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free;

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morrer!"

Frank Lebby Stanton [1857

ANGELINA

WHEN de fiddle gits to singin' out a ol' Vahginny reel,
An' you 'mence to feel a ticklin' in yo' toe an' in yo' heel;
Ef you t'ink you got 'uligion an' you wants to keep it, too,
You jes' bettah tek a hint an' git yo'self clean out o' view.
Case de time is mighty temptin' when de chune is in de swing,
Fu' a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing.
An' you couldn't he'p f'om dancin' ef yo' feet was boun' wif
twine,

When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

Don't you know Miss Angelina? She's de da'lin' of de place. W'y, dey ain't no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs an' sich grace.

She kin move across de cabin, wif its planks all rough an' wo',

Jes' de same's ef she was dancin' on ol' mistus' ball-room flo'. Fact is, you do' see no cabin-evaht'ing you see look grand, An' dat one ol' squeaky fiddle soun' to you jes' lak a ban’; Cotton britches look lak broadclof an' a linsey dress look fine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

Some folks say dat dancin's sinful, an' de blessed Lawd, dey

say,

Gwine to punish us fu' steppin' w'en we hyeah de music play.

But I tell you I don' b'lieve it, fu' de Lawd is wise and good, An' he made de banjo's metal an' he made de fiddle's wood, An' he made de music in dem, so I don' quite t'ink he'll keer Ef our feet keeps time a little to de melodies we hyeah. W'y, dey's somep'n downright holy in de way our faces shine,

When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line.

Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low,

An' she lif' huh sku't so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely show:

An' dem teef o' huh'n a-shinin', ez she tek you by de han'Go 'way, people, d' ain't anothah sich a lady in de lan'! When she's movin' thoo de figgers er a-dancin' by huhse'f, Folks jes' stan' stock-still a-sta'in', an' dey mos' nigh hol's dey bref;

An' de young mens, dey's a-sayin', "I's gwine mek dat damsel mine,"

When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Paul Laurence Dunbar [1872-1906]

LAY OF ANCIENT ROME

Oн, the Roman was a rogue,

He erat was, you bettum;

He ran his automobilis

And smoked his cigarettum;

He wore a diamond studibus
And elegant cravattum,
A maxima cum laude shirt,
And such a stylish hattum!

He loved the luscious hic-hæc-hoc,
And bet on games and equi;
At times he won; at others, though,
He got it in the nequi;

He winked (quo usque tandem?)
At puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes even made
Those goo-goo oculorum!

He frequently was seen
At combats gladiatorial,

And ate enough to feed

Ten boarders at Memorial;

He often went on sprees

And said, on starting homus,

"Hic labor-opus est,

Oh, where's my hic-hic-domus?"

Although he lived in Rome

Of all the arts the middle

He was (excuse the phrase)
A horrid individ’l;

Ah! what a different thing

Was the homo (dative, hominy)

Of far away B. C.

From us of Anno Domini.

Thomas Ybarra [1880

THE WISDOM OF FOLLY

THE Cynics say that every rose
Is guarded by a thorn that grows
To spoil our posies:

But I no pleasure therefore lack;
I keep my hands behind my back
When smelling roses.

'Tis proved that Sodom's appletarts
Have ashes as component parts

For those that steal them:

My soul no disillusion seeks;

I love my apples' rosy checks,
But never peel them.

Though outwardly a gloomy shroud,
The inner half of every cloud

Is bright and shining:

I therefore turn my clouds about
And always wear them inside out
To show the lining.

Our idols' feet are made of clay;
So stony-hearted critics say

With scornful mockings:

My images are deified

Because I keep them weil supplied
With shoes and stockings.

My modus operandi this

To take no heed of what's amiss;
And not a bad one:

Because as Shakespeare used to say
A merry heart goes twice the way
That tires a sad one.

Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler [1873

THE POST THAT FITTED

Though tangled and twisted the course of true love.

This ditty explains

No tangle's so tangled it cannot improve

If the Lover has brains.

ERE the steamer bore him Eastward, Sleary was engaged to

marry

An attractive girl at Tunbridge, whom he called "my little

Carrie."

Sleary's pay was very modest; Sleary was the other way.

Who can cook a two-plate dinner on eight paltry dibs a day?

Long he pondered o'er the question in his scantly furnished

quarters

Then proposed to Minnie Boffkin, eldest of Judge Boffkin's

daughters.

Certainly an impecunious Subaltern was not a catch,

But the Boffkins knew that Minnie mightn't make another match.

So they recognized the business, and, to feed and clothe the bride,

Got him made a Something Something somewhere on the
Bombay side,

Anyhow, the billet carried pay enough for him to marry--
As the artless Sleary put it: "Just the thing for me and
Carrie."

Did he, therefore, jilt Miss Boffkin-impulse of a baser mind?

No! He started epileptic fits of an appalling kind.

(Of his modus operandi only this much I could gather:"Pears' shaving sticks will give you little taste and lots of lather.")

Frequently in public places his affliction used to smite
Sleary with distressing vigor-always in the Boffkins' sight.
Ere a week was over, Minnie weepingly returned his ring,
Told him his "unhappy weakness" stopped all thought of
marrying.

Sleary bore the information with a chastened holy joy,—
Epileptic fits don't matter in Political employ,-

Wired three short words to Carrie-took his ticket, packed his kit

Bade farewell to Minnie Boffkin in one last, long, lingering fit.

Four weeks later, Carrie Sleary read-and laughed until she wept

Mrs. Boffkin's warning letter on the "wretched epilept." Year by year, in pious patience, vengeful Mrs. Boffkin sits Waiting for the Sleary babies to develop Sleary's fits.

Rudyard Kipling [1865