-The Old <Wimmin'-bK <3 AN D BY BENJ. F. JQKNSON, OF BOONE, WUITCOMB KII.KV | INDIANAPOLIS. 1NU. GEU ROE C. H ITT & CO. FACSIMILE REPRINT of the first edition of the first book by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Presented with the compliments MARSHALL FIELD AND COMPANY Courtesy THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY as a souvenir of THE MARSHALL FIELD BOOK FAIR 1920 " THE OLD SWIMMINVHOLE," AND XEVEN MORE POEMS. "The Old <Wi mm in'- foK & AND BY BENJ, F, JQHNSON, OF BOONE. [JAMES WHITCOMB RII.EY.] INDIANAPOLIS, IND.: GEORGE C. H IT T & CO. 1883 Copyrighted BY JAMES W RILEY PUBLISHERS' NOTE. This series of Hoosier dialect poems, by James W. Riley, originally appeared in THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, over the pseudonym of Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone. They commanded such general attention and praise, as to lead the pub- lishers of this volume to place them before the public in their present com- plete form. 2038961 PREFACE. MS 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 homely child of Nature, and to echo faithfully, if possible, the faltering music of his song. INDIANAPOLIS, IND. ) J. W. R. Julv, 1 883 CONTENTS: THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOI.E 9 THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED FARMER, 13 A SUMMER'S DAY, . 17 A HYMB OF FAITH 20 WORTER-MELON-TIMK. . . 23 MY PHII.OSOFY, . . ... 28 WHEN THE FROST is ON THE PUNKIN, ... 31 ON THE DEATH OP LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT, 34 THE MULBERRY T.IEE .37 To MY OLD NEGHBOR, WILLIAM LEACHMAN, 40 MY FIDDLE, ... .44 THE CLOVER. 49 THE OLD SWTMMIN'-HOLE AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS. THE OLP SWIMMIN'-HOLE. OH! the-- old swimmin'-hole! wbare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the 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'-holeJ In the happy 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 me 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 long, lazy days When the hum-dcum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet waa 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 SWIMMIN 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 bullrusbes growed, and the cat tails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; 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 the 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 SWJMMIN'-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 me! And I wish in my sorrow 1 could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimniin'-hole! THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER. THE summer winds is sniffiu' round the bloomin 1 locus' trees ; And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees, And they been a-swiggin' honey, above- board and on the sly, Till they stutter in their buzzin', and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to 1 jest - spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings ; And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his fore- legs fer biz, And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is. You can heal .tjie blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow Oh, tHeyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and thuyr not a cariu* how; 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 ! Tney'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, tut 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, Will be on hands onc't more at the'leventh "* hour, I bet I DTSCURAGED FARMER. 15 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- appin.ted way, Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day ? Is the chipmunck's health a-failin'? Does he walk, er does he run ? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they 've allus 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 glorv of the day, And banish ev'ry doubt -and care and sor- row far away ! Whatever be our station, with Providence 1 fer guide, 16 D1SCURAGED FARMER. Such fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; Per the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you. A SUMMER'S DAY. THE Summer's put the idy in My head that I. 'ma 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, ivith lajugled tops Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer Hearin' the acorn as it drops [breath, H'istin' my chin up still as deth, 18 A SUMMERS DA Y. And watchin 1 clos't, with upturned ey* ?. The tree whare Mr. Squirrel tries To hide hisself above the limb, But lets his own tale tell on him. I wur.der on in deeper glooms Git hungry, hearin' female crias From old farm-houses, whare perfumes Of harvest dinners seems to rise And ta'nt a feller, hart and brne, With memories he can 't explain. I wunder through the underbrcsh, Whare pig-tracks. pintin' to'rds thecriok. Is picked and printed in the fresh Black-bottom lands, like wimmern pick Their pie-crusts with a fork, some way, When lkin' fer camp-meetin' day. I wund?r 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 tendrils of the wild grape-vine That ust to climb the highest tree To keep the ripest ones fer me. 1 wunder still, and here I am Wad in' the ford below the dam A SUMMER'S 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 ripe, 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 tked you can't lay flat enough, And sort o' wish that you could spread Out like molasses on the bed, And jest drip off the 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. t 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 fer 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 I But, after all, the golden sun Poured out its floods on them That watched and waited fer the One Then borned in Bethlyham. Also, the star of holy writ Made noonday of the night, While other stars that looked at it Was envious with delight. The sages then in worship bowed, From every clime so fare; 0, sinner, think of that glad crowd That congregated thare 1 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, For the. way I hanker after worter-melons is a sin Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. Oh, its in the sandy soil worter-melons does the best, And it's thare they'll lay and~waller in the sunshine and the dew Till they wear all the green streaks clean, off of their breast, And you bet I ain't a-findin 1 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 SORTER-MELON TIME. And when they're ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you they're 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 " l 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, Especially the children, and watch their high delight As one by one the rines with their pink notches falls, And they holler fer some more, with un- quenched appetite. Boys takes to it natural, and I like to see 'em eat A slice of worter-melon's like a french- harp in their 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. WORTER-MELON TIME. Oh, thcy's more in worter-melons than the purty-colored meat, And the overflowin 1 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 abound 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. Oh, 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, Fcr the way I hanker after worter-melons is a sin Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. \3Ot <"> -r-* 1 - 1 ., i Jh TV J MY PHILOSOFY 1 AIXT, ner don't p'tend to be, Much posted on philosjfy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idtes of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you Pervidin 1 that you don't objtct To listen clos't and rickollect. I allus 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 PIIILOSOFY. 29 Per cui in' of 'em. But he'd say He kind o' thought they'd go away Without no meclicin', 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 wundered 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. 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 all us 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 bouse, 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' hearty-like about the atmosphere 32 FROST ON THE PUN KIN. 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 strawstackvin the medder, and the reaper in the sb7ed ; The bosses in their stalls below the clover overhead ! FROST ON THE PUN KIN. 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 MAHAL A ASHCRAFT. "LITTLE HALT! Little Haly !" cheeps the robin in the tree ; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee; " Little Haly I 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, L ITTL E MA HA LA ASHCRA FT. 35 When any one comes nigh it, acts so lone- some-like and queer ; And the little Baqty chickens kind o' cut- ters faint and low Like the hand that now was feedin' 'era 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 I" The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass. Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet a's she passed ; And the old pin In the gate-post seems to kindo-sorto' doubt That Efaly'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 M AHA LA ASHCEAFT. 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 I" moans the bee ; " Little Haly I Little Haly I" calls the kill- deer at twilight, And the katydids and crickets hollers " Haly " all the night. .THE MULBERRY TREE. 0, ITS many's the scen'es 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 mofnin'-glories thatgrowed round the door ; The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off 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 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 too-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. 30 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-climbin' the fence of that pastur 1 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. FER forty year and better you have been a friend to me, Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, You allus had a kind word of counsel to impart, Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart. When I burried 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 snow-flakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a 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 ; 1 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 ! 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 $T arthy " with my finger in the snow ! illiam Leachman, I can see you jest as plain as I could then ; 42 WILLIA M L EA CHMA N. 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 1" 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 we had to go on boss-back, and sometimes on " Shan ks's mare," And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare. And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike, WILLIAM LEACHMAN. 43 In a big two-boss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like Two of us on the front seat, and our wim- ern-folks behind, A-settin 1 in their Winsor cheers in perfect peace of mind!. And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight: Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach ; thare Gash Morgan had the fight With the old stag-deer that pronged him how he battled fer his life, And lived to prove the story by the handle of his 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 the way, And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day. Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the " Travelers' Rest," 44 WILLIA M LEA CHMA N. And thare, beyent the covered bridge, " The Counterfeiters' Nest " Whare th.ej claimed the house was ha'nted that a man was murdered thare, And burried underneath the floor, er round the place somewhare. And the old Plank Road 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 Leach man, that me and you has past; But as 1 found you true at first, I find you true at last, And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end, J 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, WILLIAM LEACH MAN. 45 And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane, I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name, For the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same! 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 " Rye-straw,", and " My Sailyor's on the Sea," Is the old cowtillions I "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me; MY 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 allus a romuncin', do-less boy, to tell the truth, A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth, And a nctin' and a cuttin'-up all sorts o" silly pranks That wasn't wo'th 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 kink 0' drivin* cares away ! That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's enduriri' love! From the strings acrost her middle to the schreechin' keys above From her " aperh," over bridge, and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin 1 " Love me" ev'ry note! 48 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 throws In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays Blinkin' up at the skies 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 brimmi-n' 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 I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, 50 THE CLOVER Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm weepin' above. And so 1 love clover it seems like a part Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my hart; And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow And thank the good God as I'm thanUin' Him now; And 1 pray to Him still fer the stren'th. when I die, To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye. And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom While my soul slips away on a breth of perfume. A 000103704 3