Fifty years & Other Poems Part 11

THE SEASONS

W'en de leaves begin to fall, An' de fros' is on de ground, An' de 'simmons is a-ripenin' on de tree; W'en I heah de dinner call, An' de chillen gadder 'round, 'Tis den de 'possum is de meat fu' me.

W'en de wintertime am pas'

An' de spring is come at las', W'en de good ole summer sun begins to s.h.i.+ne; Oh! my thoughts den tek a turn, An' my heart begins to yearn Fo' dat watermelon growin' on de vine.

Now, de yeah will sholy bring 'Round a season fu' us all, Ev'y one kin pick his season f'om de res'; But de melon in de spring, An' de 'possum in de fall, Mek it hard to tell which time o' year am bes'.

'POSSUM SONG

(_A Warning_)

'Simmons ripenin' in de fall, You better run, Brudder 'Possum, run!

Mockin' bird commence to call, You better run, Brudder 'Possum, git out de way!

You better run, Brudder 'Possum, git out de way!

Run some whar an' hide!

Ole moon am sinkin'

Down behin' de tree.

Ole Eph am thinkin'

An' chuckelin' wid glee.

Ole Tige am blinkin'

An' frisky as kin be, Yo' chances, Brudder 'Possum, Look mighty slim to me.

Run, run, run, I tell you, Run, Brudder 'Possum, run!

Run, run, run, I tell you, Ole Eph's got a gun.

Pickaninnies grinnin'

Waitin' fu' to see de fun.

You better run, Brudder 'Possum, git out de way!

Run, Brudder 'Possum, run!

Brudder 'Possum take a tip; You better run, Brudder 'Possum, run!

'Tain't no use in actin' flip, You better run, Brudder 'Possum, git out de way!

You better run, Brudder 'Possum, git out de way!

Run some whar an' hide.

Dey's gwine to houn' you All along de line, W'en dey done foun' you, Den what's de use in sighin'?

Wid taters roun' you.

You sholy would tase fine-- So listen, Brudder 'Possum, You better be a-flyin'.

Run, run, run, I tell you, Run, Brudder 'Possum, run!

Run, run, run, I tell you, Ole Eph's got a gun.

Pickaninnies grinnin'

Waitin' fu' to see de fun.

You better run, Brudder 'Possum, git out de way!

Run, Brudder 'Possum, run!

BRER RABBIT, YOU'S DE CUTES' OF 'EM ALL

Once der was a meetin' in de wilderness, All de critters of creation dey was dar; Brer Rabbit, Brer 'Possum, Brer Wolf, Brer Fox, King Lion, Mister Terrapin, Mister B'ar.

De question fu' discussion was, "Who is de bigges' man?"

Dey 'pinted ole Jedge Owl to decide; He polished up his spectacles an' put 'em on his nose, An' to the question slowly he replied:

"Brer Wolf am mighty cunnin', Brer Fox am mighty sly, Brer Terrapin an' 'Possum--kinder small; Brer Lion's mighty vicious, Brer B'ar he's sorter 'spicious, Brer Rabbit, you's de cutes' of 'em all."

Dis caused a great confusion 'mongst de animals, Ev'y critter claimed dat he had won de prize; Dey 'sputed an' dey arg'ed, dey growled an' dey roared, Den putty soon de dus' begin to rise.

Brer Rabbit he jes' stood aside an' urged 'em on to fight.

Brer Lion he mos' tore Brer B'ar in two; W'en dey was all so tiahd dat dey couldn't catch der bref Brer Rabbit he jes' grabbed de prize an' flew.

Brer Wolf am mighty cunnin', Brer Fox am mighty sly, Brer Terrapin an' Possum--kinder small; Brer Lion's mighty vicious, Brer B'ar he's sorter 'spicious, Brer Rabbit, you's de cutes' of 'em all.

AN EXPLANATION

Look heah! 'Splain to me de reason Why you said to Squire Lee, Der wuz twelve ole chicken thieves In dis heah town, includin' me.

Ef he tole you dat, my brudder, He said sump'n dat warn't true; W'at I said wuz dis, dat der wuz Twelve, _widout_ includin' you.

Oh!...!--

DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP

Cuddle down, ma honey, in yo' bed, Go to sleep an' res' yo' little head, Been a-kind o' ailin' all de day?

Didn't have no sperit fu' to play?

Never min'; to-morrer, w'en you wek, Daddy's gwine to ride you on his bek, 'Roun' an' roun' de cabin flo' so fas'-- Der! He's closed his little eyes at las'.

De little pickaninny's gone to sleep, Cuddled in his trundle bed so tiny, De little pickaninny's gone to sleep, Closed his little eyes so bright an' s.h.i.+ny.

Hus.h.!.+ an' w'en you walk across de flo'

Step across it very sof' an' slow.

De shadders all aroun' begin to creep, De little pickaninny's gone to sleep.

Mandy, w'at's de matter wid dat chile?

Keeps a-sighin' ev'y little w'ile; Seems to me I heayhd him sorter groan, Lord! his little han's am col' as stone!

W'at's dat far-off light dat's in his eyes?