You' gran'pa bought my mammy at Gen'l Nelson's sale, An' Deely she come out de same estate; An' blood is jes' like pra'r is--hit tain' gwine nuver fail; Hit 's sutney gwine to come out, soon or late.
When I wuz born, yo' gran'pa gi' me to young Marse Phil, To be his body-servant--like, you know; An' we growed up together like two stalks in a hill-- Bofe tarslin' an' den shootin' in de row.
Marse Phil wuz born in harves', an' I dat Christmas come; My mammy nussed bofe on we de same time; No matter what one got, suh, de oder gwine git some-- We wuz two fibe-cent pieces in one dime.
We cotch ole hyahs together, an' possums, him an' me; We fished dat mill-pon' over, night an' day; Rid horses to de water; treed coons up de same tree; An' when you see one, turr warn' fur away.
When Marse Phil went to College, 't wuz, "Sam--Sam 's got to go."
Ole Marster said, "Dat boy 's a fool 'bout Sam."
Ole Mistis jes' said, "Dear, Phil wants him, an', you know--"
Dat "_Dear_"--hit used to soothe him like a lamb.
So we all went to College---'way down to Williamsburg-- But 't warn' much l'arnin out o' books we got; Dem urrs warn' no mo' to him 'n a ole wormy lug; Yes, suh, we wuz de ve'y top-de-pot.
An' ef he didn' study dem Latins an' sich things, He wuz de popularetis all de while De ladies use' to call him, "De angel widout wings"; An' when he come, I lay dee use' to smile.
Yo' see, he wuz ole Marster's only chile; an' den, He had a body-servant--at he will; An' wid dat big plantation; dee 'd all like to be brides; Dat is ef dee could have de groom, Marse Phil.
'T wuz dyah he met young Mistis--she wuz yo' ma, of co'se!
I disremembers now what mont' it wuz: One night, he comes, an' seys he, "Sam, I needs new clo'es"; An' seys I, "Marse Phil, yes, suh, so yo' does."
Well, suh, he made de tailor meek ev'y thing bran' new; He would n' w'ar one stitch he had on han'-- Jes' throwed 'em in de chip box, an' seys, "Sam, dem 's fur you."
Marse Phil, I tell yo', wuz a gentleman.
So Marse Phil co'tes de Mistis, an' Sam he co'tes de maid-- We always sot our traps upon one parf; An' when we tole ole Marster we bofe wuz gwine, he seyd, "All right, we 'll have to kill de fatted calf."
An' dat wuz what dee did, suh--de Prodigal wuz home; Dee put de ring an' robe upon yo' ma.
Den you wuz born, young Marster, an' den de storm hit come; An' den de darkness settled from afar.
De storm hit comed an' wrenchted de branches from de tree-- De war--you' pa--he 's sleep dyah on de hill; An' do I know, young Marster, de war hit sot us free?
I seys, "Dat 's so; but tell me whar 's Marse Phil?"
"A dollar!"--thankee, Marster, you sutney is his son; You is his spitt an' image, I declar'!
What sey, young Marster? Yes, suh: you sey, "It 's _five_--not one--"
Yo' favors, honey, bofe yo' pa an' ma!
ONE MOURNER
(FOR IRWIN RUSSELL, WHO DIED IN NEW ORLEANS IN GREAT DESTITUTION, ON CHRISTMAS EVE, 1879)
Well, well, I declar'! I is sorry.
He 's 'ceasted, yo' say, Marse Joe?-- Dat gent'man down in New Orleans, Whar writ 'bout'n niggers so,
An' tole, in all dat poetry You read some time lars' year, 'Bout niggers, an' 'coons, an' 'possums, An' ole times, an' mules an' gear?
Jes' name dat ag'in, seh, please, seh; _Destricution_ 's de word yo' said?
Dat signifies he wuz mons'us po', Yo' say?--want meat and bread?
Hit mout: I never knowed him Or hearn on him, 'sep' when you Read me dem valentines o' his'n; But I lay you, dis, seh 's, true--
Dat he wuz a rael gent'man, Bright fire dat burns, not smokes; An' ef he did die _destricute_, He war n't no po'-white-folks.
Dat gent'man knowed 'bout niggers, Heah me! when niggers wuz Ez good ez white-folks mos', seh, I knows dat thing, I does.
An' he could 'a' tetched his hat, seh, To me jes' de same ez you; An' folks gwine to see what a gent'man He wuz, an' I wuz, too.
He could n' 'a' talked so natchal 'Bout niggers in sorrow an' joy, Widdouten he had a black mammy To sing to him 'long ez a boy.
An' I think, when he tole 'bout black-folks An' ole-times, an' all so sweet, Some nigh him mout 'a' acted de ravins An' gin him a mouf-ful to eat,
An' not let him starve at Christmas, When things ain't sca'ce nowhar-- Ef he hed been a dog, young Marster, I 'd 'a feeded him den, I 'clar'!
But wait! Maybe Gord, when thinkin'
How po' he 'd been himself, Cotch sight dat gent'man scufflin', An' 'lowed fur to see what wealf
Hit mout be de bes' to gin him, Ez a Christmas-gif', yo' know; So he jes' took him up to heaven, Whar he earn' be po' no mo'.
An' jes' call his name ag'in, seh.
How?--IRWIN RUSSELL--so?
I 'se gwine fur to tell it to Nancy, So ef I 'd furgit, she 'd know.
An' I hopes dey 'll lay him to sleep, seh, Somewhar, whar de birds will sing About him de live-long day, seh, An' de flowers will bloom in Spring.
An' I wish, young Marster, you 'd meek out To write down to whar you said, An' sey, dyar 's a nigger in Richmond Whar 's sorry Marse Irwin 's dead.