PS 2704 .05 1888 I ^ > ?70< Ofc '.888 01390 3778 CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO ^ifiliif P5 • 0(0 "THE. OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE" AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS. PUBLISHERS' NOTE. This series of Hoosier dialect poems, by James "W. Riley, originally appeared in The Indianapolis Journal, over the pseu- donym of Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone. They commanded such general attention and praise, as to lead the publishers of this volume to place them before the public in their present complete form. 'The Oy ^wimmin-bol®," AMD 'If even ^A\ope J)oerT^, BY Bm P. JoHnsoN, Of Boom, [Jambs Whitcomb Rilky.] SIXTH EDITION INDIANAPOLIS: The Bowen-Merrill Co., Pi'bllshers and Booksellers. 1888. Copyrighted By JAMES W. KlLEl. PREFACE, g,7jS FAR BACK into boyhood as the / writer's memory may intelligently go, the "country poet" is most pleasantly recalled. He was, and is, as common as the "country fiddler," and as full of good old-fashioned music. Not a master of melody, indeed, but a poet, certainly — "Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies." And it is simply the purpose of this series of dialectic Studies to reflect the real worth of this iiomely child of Nature, and to echo faithfully, if possible, the faltering music of his song. Indianapolis, Ind., J. W. R. July, 1883. CONTENTS. The Old Swimmin'-Hole 9 Thoughts Fer The Discdkaged Fakmer . 13 A Summer's Day 17 A Hymb of Faith . . . . . . 20 Worter-Melon-Time ...... 23 My Philosopy 28 When the Frost is on the Punkin . . 31 On the Death of Little Mahala Ashcrafx 34 The Mulberry Tree 37 To My Old Neghbor, William Leachman . 40 My Fiddle 46 The Clover 49 THEOLDSWIMMIN'-HOLEAND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS. THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Para- dise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our control, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole. 10 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE, Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the hajopy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at nie so gay and glorified, It made me love myself, as I leaped to ca- ress My shadder smilin' up at me with such tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the loHg, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plain You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole. THE OLD SWIMMIir-HOLE. 11 But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole. Thare the buUrushes growed, and the cat- tails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it r.U; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Till the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in tlie breeze's control, As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot 12 THE OLD SWIMMIir-HOLE. Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be^ But never again will their shade shelter mel And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the eld Bwimmin'-hole. THOUGHTS FEE THE DISCURAGED FARMER. The summer winds is cniflBn' round tL'; bloomin' locus' trees; And the dorer in the pasttir' is a big day fer the bees. And ther been a~-!«"iggiri' Loney, abov; board and on the sly, Till they stutter in their hxirnn. and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fenee-rail 'j>ear5 to je-- ST'it on his ■wings And rcH tro his feathers, br ti»e eaerr iraT he STTigg; And the h:»=^-fy ii i-«r^^ le^fer :ii And the <- — - ~ t.- - is a-r«ri"- _ iile iLeT is.. ''— '1-jT IwaDd to ^ -dKTT lodkiket and tjjeTT riu: a cazan' iicw; 14 DISCURAGED FARMER. So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing — But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing : And its when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, She's as full of tribbelation as a yaller- jacket's nest; And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right. Seems to kindo-sorto sharpen up a feller's appetite! They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, DISCUBAGED FARMER. 15 "Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet! Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky ? Does the quail set up and whistle in a dis- appinted way, Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'? Does he walk, er does he run ? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've alius done? Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice? Ort a mortal be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot; The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot. Oh ! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, 16 DISCURAGED FARMER. And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sor- row far away I Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, Such fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that di'ips fer me and you. A SU]\rMER'S DAY. The Summer's put the idy in My head that I'm a boy again; And all around's so bright and gay I want to put my team away. And jest git out whare I can lay And soak my hide full of the day! But work is work, and must be done — Yet, as I work, I have my fun, Jest fancyin' these furries here Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear : — And so I walk through medder-lands, And country lanes, and swampy trails Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands; And, tilted on the ridered rails Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White" Whistles his name in high delight, And whirrs away. I wunder still, Whichever way a boy's feet will — Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer Heerin' the acorn as it drops — Q)reth, H'istin' my chin up still as deth, 18 A SUMMER'S DA Y. And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes, The tree whare Mr. Squirrel tries To hide hisse'f above the limb, But lets his ov/n tale tell on him. I wunder on in deeper glooms — Git hungry, hearin' female cries From old farm-houses, whare perfumes Of harvest dinners seem to rise And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane, With memories he can't explain. I wunder through the underbresh, Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick Is picked and printed in the fresh Black-bottom lands, like wimmern pick Their pie-crusts with a fork, some way, When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day. I wunder on and on and on. Till my gray hair and beard is gone, And every wrinkle on my brow Is rubbed clean out, and shaddered now With curls as brown and fair and fine As tenderls of the wild grape-vine That ust to climb the highest tree To keep the ripest ones fer me. I wunder still, and here I am Wadin' the ford below the dam — A SUMMERS DA Y. 19 The worter chucklin' round my knee At hornet-welt and bramble scratch, And me a-slippin' 'crost to see Ef Tyner's plums is rij^e, and size The old man's wortermelon-patch, With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. Then, after sich a day of mirth And happiness as worlds is worth — So tired that heaven seems nigh about,— The sweetest tiredness on earth Is to git home and flatten out — • So tired you can't lay flat enough, And sort o' wish that you could spred Out like molasses on the bed, And jest drip oflfthe aidges in The dreams that never comes again. A HYMB OF FAITH. O, THOU that doth all things devise And fashion fer the best, Help us who sees with mortal eyes To overlook the rest. They's times, of course, we grope in doubt, And in affliction sore; So knock the louder, Lord, without. And we'll unlock the door. Make us to feel, when times looks bad And tears in pitty melts, Thou wast the only help we had When they was nothin' else. Death comes alike to ev'ry man That ever was borned on earth; Then let us do the best we can To live for all life 's worth. Ef storms and tempests dread to see Makes black the heavens o'er, A HYMB OF FAITH. 21 They done the same in Galillee, Two thousand years before. But, after all, the golden sun Poured out its floods on them That watched and waited fer the One Then horned in Bethlyham. Also, the star of holy writ Made noonday of the night, While other stars that looked at it Was envious with delight. 'C- The sages then in worship bowed. From every clime so fare; O, sinner, think of that glad crowd That congregated thare ! They was content to fall in ranks With One that knowed the way From good old Jurden's stormy banks Clean up to Judgment Day. No matter, then, how all is mixed In our near-sighted eyes, All things is fer the best, and fixed Out straight in Paradise. 22 A HYMB OF FAITH. Then take things as God sends 'em here, And, ef we live or die, Be more and more contenteder, Without a-asking why. 0, thou that doth all things devise And fashion fer the best, Help us who sees with mortal eyes To overlook the rest. WORTER-MELON TIME. Old worter-melon time is a-comin' round again. And they ain't no man a-livin' any tick- leder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after worter-melons is a sin — Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. Oh, it's in the sandy soil worter-melons does the best. And its thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Till they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast. And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you? They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows ; 24 WORTER-MELON TIME. And when theyr ripe and ready far to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows. It's some likes the yaller-core, and some likes the red, And it's some says "The little Californy" is the best; But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head. Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west. You don't want no punkins nigh your wor- ter-melon vines — 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore; — I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines, Which may be a fact you have heerd of before. But your melons that's raised right, and 'tended to with care, You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy. And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air WORTER-MELON TIME. 25 As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy. I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two, And the friends you love the best is geth- ered all around — ■ And you says unto your sweetheart, "Oh here's the core fer you!" And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all, Espeshally the children, and watch theyr high delight As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls. And they holler fer some more, with un- quenched appetite. Boys take to it natchural, and I like to see 'em eat — A slice of worter-melon's like a french- harp in theyr hands. And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat — 'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands. 26 WORTER-MELON TIME. Oh, they's more in worter-melons than the purty-coloi'ed meat, And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squashed betwixt The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth. And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed. Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away To the summertime of youth, and again I see the dawn, And the fadin' afternoon of the long sum- mer day, And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin' on. And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees. And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the worter-melons on our hands and knees, And the new moon hangin' o'er us like a yaller-cored slice. 0, it's worter-melon time is a-comin' round again, WORTER-MELON TIME. 27 And they ain't no man a-livin' any tick- leder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after worter-melons is a sin — Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. MY PHILOSOFY. I AiNT, ner don't p'tend to be. Much posted on philosofy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idees of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you — Pervidin' that you don't object To listen clos't and rickoUect. I alius argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enough to suit This lower mundane institute — No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him ! I knowed a feller onc't that had The yaller-janders mighty bad, And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet Would stop and give him a receet MY PHILOSOFY. 29 Fer curin' of em. But he'd say- He kind o' thought they'd go away Without no medicin', and boast That he'd git well without one doste. He kep' a yallerin' on — and they Perdictin' that he'd die some day Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed, The feller did, and lost his head, And wandered in his mind a spell- — Then rallied, and, at last, got well; But ev'ry friend that said he'd die Went back on him eternaly I Its natchural enough, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it aint a fair divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late. To ketch some feller they could hate Fer goin' at a faster gait. The signs is bad when folks commence A findin' fault with Providence, And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake At ev'ry prancin' step they take. 30 MY PHILOSOFY. No man is great till he can see How less than little he would be Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare He hung his sign out anywhare. My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That follers that, counts jest the same. I've alius noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more or less And its the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN. When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens. And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence ; its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmosphere 32 FROST ON THE PUNKIN. When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here — Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin' -birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the land- scape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the_colorin' to mock — When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries — kindo' lone- some-like, but still A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The bosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead I — FROST ON THE PUNKIN. 33 0, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock] ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT. "Little Halt! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee; "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill- deer at twilight; And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly" all the night. The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence; The old path down the gardenwalks still holds her footprints' dents; And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum. The bee-hives all is quiet, and the little Jersey steer, LITTLE MAHAL A ASHCRAFT. 35 When any one comes nigh it, acts so lone- some like and queer; And the little Banty chickens kind o' cut- ters faint and low, Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know. They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees; And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze; And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed; And all the song her red-bird sings is " Lit- tle Haly's dead!" The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass, Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed; And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo-sorto' doubt That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out. Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me, Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tenderly ? 36 LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT. I question — and what answer? — only tears, and tears alone, And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear drops as my own. "Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee; "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill- deer at twilight. And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly" all the night. THE MULBERRY TREE. O, ITS many's the scenes which is dear to my mind As I think of my childhood so long left behind ; The home of my birth, with its old pun- cheon floor, And the bright mornin'-glories that growed round the door; The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run oflT Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft, Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me. And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree. And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake, I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake, 38 THE MULBERRY TREE. And the long purple berries that rained on the ground Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommped it around. And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade, I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee To foller them off to the mulberry tree. Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail, And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail, And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands, The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants. But that rail led to glory, as certain and shore As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more — What was all the green laurels of Fame unto me. With my brows in the boughs of the mul- berry tree? THE MULBERRY TREE. 39 Then its who can fergit the old mulberry tree That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about? 0, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay. Is a-clunbin' the fence of that pastur' to- day, And a pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be, They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree. TO MY OLD NEGHBOR, WILLIAM LEACHMAN. Feb forty year and better you have been a friend to me, Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, You alius had a kind word of counsel to impart. Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart. When I hurried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you Had the only consolation that I could lis- ten to — Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow, And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know. But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare — WILLIAM LEACHMAN. 41 Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air — And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fieldsa frozen glare, And the neghbors' sleds and wagons con- gregatin ev'rywhare. I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away ; I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray; And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two — And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you I We set thare by the smoke-house — me and you out thare alone — • Me a-thinkin' — you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone — You a-talkin' — me a-thinkin' of the sum- mers long ago, And a-writin' "Marthy — Marthy" with my finger in the snow ! William Leachman, I can see you jest as plain as I could then; 42 WILLI A M LEA CHMAN. And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again; And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say: "Be reconciled and bear it — we but linger fer a day!" At the last Old Settlers' Meetin', we went j'intly, you and me — Your bosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be; And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here. In all sich friendly actions you have double- done your sheer. It was better than the meetin', too, that 9-mile talk we had Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad; When w-e had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare," And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare. And now we was a-trottin' 'long a leve' gravel pike. WILLIAM LEACH MAN. 43 In a big two-boss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like — Two of us on tbe front seat, and our wim- ern-folks bebind. A-settin' in tbeir Winsor cbeers in perfect peace of mind! And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight : — Tbare they ust to rob tbe stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan bad the fight With tbe old stag-deer that pronged him — bow he battled fer his life, And lived to prove tbe story by tbe handle of bis knife. Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the settlement, and we Had tuck our grindin' to it in the fall of Forty-three — When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all tbe way, And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day. Tbare ust to stand tbe tavern that they called tbe "Travelers' Eest," 44 WiJbZ^IAM LEACHMAN. And thare, beyent the covered bridge, " The Counterfitters' Nest"— Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted — that a man was murdered thare, And hurried underneath the floor, er round the place somewhare. And the old Plank Eoad they laid along in Fifty-one er two — You know we talked about the times when that old road was new: How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't dimonstrate? Ways was devious, William Leachman, that me and you has past; But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last, And, now the time's a-comin'" mighty nigh our jurney's end, I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend. With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane. WILLIA M LEA CHMAN. 45 And ev'ry livn' drop of blood in artery and vane, I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name, Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the samel MY FIDDLE. My fiddle? — Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know! Though I aint so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry, And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry ; Yet I can plonk and plunk and plink, And tune her up and play, And jest lean back and laugh and wink At ev'ry rainy day! My playin's only middlin' — tunes I picked up when a boy — The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin, that the folks calls "cordaroy;" "The Old Fat Gal," and "Eye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea," Is the old cowtillions I "saw" when the eh' ice is left to me; 3IY FIDDLE. 47 And so I plunk and plonk and plink. And rosum-up my bow, And play the tunes that makes you think The devil's in your toe! I was alius a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth, A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a wastin of my youth, And a actin' and a cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks That wasn't worth a button of anybody's thanks! But they tell me, when I ust to plink And plonk and plunk and play, My music seemed to have the kmk 0' drivin' cares away ! That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love! From the strings acrost her middle to the schreechin' keys above — From her "apern," over bridge, and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note! is MY FIDDLE. And so I pat her neck, and plink Her strings with lovin' hands, And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think She kindo' understands! THE CLOVER. Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, And the pansies and pinks that the sum- mertime tnrows In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sun- shiny days; But what is the lily, and all of the rest Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his breast That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew ? I never set eyes on a clover-field now, Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plain As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again; And 1 wunder away in a bare-footed dream, 60 THE CLOVER. Wliaro I tangle my iocs in tlio lUObSO/ns that gleam "With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love Ere it ^vept o'er the graves that I'm weepin' above. Aud so I love clover — it seems like a part Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my hart; Anil wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let mo bow And thank tlie good Clod as I'm thankin' ITim now; And I pray to llini still fer the stren'tli, when I die. To go out in the clover and tell it good-b> •^ UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 251 826 4