Thanksgiving Poem, A
Then and Now
Thou Art My Lute
Till The Wind Gets Right
Time To Tinker 'Roun'!
To a Captious Critic
To A Dead Friend
To A Lady Playing The Harp
To A Violet Found on All Saint's
To An Ingrate
To Dr. James Newton Matthews
To E. H. K.
To J. Q.
To Miss Mary Britton
To The Eastern Shore
To the Memory of Mary Young
To the Miami
To The Road
To the South
Trouble In De Kitchen
Turning Of The Babies In The Bed, The
Twell De Night Is Pas'
Two Little Boots
I done got 'uligion, honey, an' I's happy ez a king;
Evahthing I see erbout me's jes' lak sunshine in de spring;
An' it seems lak I do' want to do anothah blessid thing
But jes' run an' tell de neighbors, an' to shout an' pray an' sing.
I done shuk my fis' at Satan, an' I's gin de worl' my back;
I do' want no hendrin' causes now a-both'rin' in my track;
Fu' I's on my way to glory, an' I feels too sho' to miss.
W'y, dey ain't no use in sinnin' when 'uligion 's sweet ez dis.
Talk erbout a man backslidin' w'en he's on de gospel way;
No, suh, I done beat de debbil, an' Temptation's los' de day.
Gwine to keep my eyes right straight up, gwine to shet my eahs, an' see
Whut ole projick Mistah Satan's gwineto try to wuk on me.
Listen, whut dat soun' I hyeah dah? 'tain't no one commence to sing;
It's a fiddle; git erway dah! don' you hyeah dat blessid thing?
W'y, dat's sweet ez drippin' honey, 'cause, you knows, I draws de bow,
An' when music's sho' 'nough music, I's de one dat's sho' to know.
W'y, I's done de double shuffle, twell a body could n't res',
Jes' a-hyeahin' Sam de fiddlah play dat chune his level bes';
I could cut a mighty caper, I could gin a mighty fling
Jes' right now, I's mo' dan suttain I could cut de pigeon wing.
Look hyeah, whut's dis I's been sayin'? whut on urf's tuk holt o' me?
Dat ole music come nigh runnin' my 'uligion up a tree!
Cleak out wif dat dah ole fiddle, don' you try dat trick agin;
Did n't think I could be tempted, but you lak to made me sin!