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Read Ebook: Tar-Heel Tales in Vernacular Verse by Doyle J E P John Edward Parker Bonar Illustrator
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Ebook has 164 lines and 13916 words, and 4 pages
PAGE. THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT 9 BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD 16 MY RERLIGION 24 LITTLE BOOTS 32 THE BUZZIN' BEES OF BERKS 39 THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR'N 49 OLD TOM GIN 57 THE SIGN OF JOE BALL 66
PLANTING THE THISTLES 13 BOB MUNN'S TRANSFIGURATION 21 DEACON SPARLING'S DEVOTION 26 THE TAR HEEL'S RETURN 35 A MULE'S BAPTISM 46 JONAH'S LANDLORD 50
THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT.
That's a question I don't like ter speak of: How these pesky thistles come here; But, boys, if ye will listen attentervely, I will breathe a strenge tale in yer ear.
But afore I bergin I would warn ye, Ye may fix yer faces ter blush; So jist let thar be silence all around And I'll spin the yarn with a rush.
Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it-- The days when a youngster I sat On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house, And din'd orf the rim of my hat!
The other boys war bigger than I war, And studied thar lesson right well, While I ermus'd myself as I wish'd ter In quar tricks on which I'll not dwell.
I war ter young ter learn my letters,-- They let me 'tend school for all that; And then when I run short of ermusement I jerk'd at the tail of the cat!
As I increas'd in years and mischief, Sich as hazin' our neighbor's pig, Pourin' ink on the floor, or applyin' Powder'd chalk ter the master's wig--
Richard Scott--that war the pedergogue's name-- Declar'd in wrath he'd be killin' Me, if I did not be quiet and sit Bertween ter gals--I war willin'!
Young as I war I lik'd that ye may swar On the hilts of yer bowie knives; And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh For a plurality of wives!
Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar At the picter I've painted you; But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott War a pleasure ter them gals, too!
Nearly every day I got the ferule Jist for winkin' at Sue Minals; But very soon I had so far prergress'd I war plighted ter sev'ral gals!
I had not been ter school quite a twelvemonth When I'd whal'd each boy in the class, Kiss'd and hugg'd every gal, eaten Scott's lunch, And ten rivals had sent ter grass!
I put toads in Scott's pockets, and dead mice Scatter'd everywhar in his desk, Till he froth'd at the mouth in his madness, And cuss'd me for a little pest.
All this tuk place over in Canada, Whar my gov'ner had gone ter preach The Gospel of Jesus ter them sinners, As successor ter Elder Beech.
But don't tire at th' length of my story: I'm drawin' erlong ter the close, Whar I gather'd the seeds that have blarsted, And fill'd a whole nation with woes.
An hour and a half he held me thar, While the barbs pen'trated the skin! Havin' planted the crop, the pedergogue, With my trousers harrer'd it in!
That harrerin' event I can't forget, For it fairly set me rantin': I wood not car'd had the agricult'rist Chosen higher soil ter plant in!
But that war cruel, and for months I felt Them bull thistle seeds takin' root, And creepin' about in the tender flesh From hat crown ter toe of my boot.
After that I went back on old Dick Scott, And lit out for York State ye bet; But each Spring I war sowin' the thistles, No rest anywhar could I get.
I have toted them thistles all over, And planted 'em in every field, Whar I've halted ter rest; but dog on it! Thar seems a ter bounterful yield!
Now, neighbors, that is a right true story I've told ye, and is it not queer That I cannot get shut of 'em? That is How Canada thistles reached here!
BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD.
I berlieve it's cornceeded on all sides That of all the cute bipeds made Since the world war created, the Yankee Allers gets the best in a trade!
It's a boast that no race can match 'em In expedients sure ter win: And all others must get up right early If they would n't be taken in!
As a proof of this ere declaration They tell of one up at Cape Cod, Who's so all-fir'd smart he endeavor'd Ter play a trump kerd at his God!
The court would not listen ter the motion, But this action did not appall: He fix'd up a merchine ter uterlize The rerfulgent rays of old Sol.
With powerful glasses he center'd The rays on his cargoes of cod, And chuckl'd right smart at his success In stealin' the smiles of his God!
For a time his merchine work'd ter a charm, And his sackerlege war endur'd; While his rivals in trade war astonish'd At the many quintals he cur'd.
But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice, And the splendid march he had stole Upon his Creator and his rivals, E'en at the expense of his soul.
He had read in the Scripters of Lot's wife Who ter salt war chang'd in a night, As a punershment for diserbedience And exercizin' wimin's right--
But, endin' he aposterphe, I must Return ter the exploits of Munn, Who ignor'd the bounty of Jerhover, And corntiner'd ter steal the sun!
The story of Lot's wife impress'd him With a more avericious wish-- The diskivery of arter-fish-al means For ter salt his catches of fish.
On the shores of Cape Cod in them days Many old maids sigh'd alone For the lips of a man ter caress 'em, And the means ter sercure a home.
They had been doom'd ter sore diserpointment, The girlish bloom had diserpear'd, Leavin' a shad-er of thar lost beauty On the features so dry and sear'd.
Bob Munn, he long ponder'd on the subject Of testin' that ere recerpe, What work'd ter a charm at old Gomorrer, And set a poor hen-peck'd man free!
God had smil'd upon his undertakin's, And he felt he might tempt him still, With a more ingenious expererment, Ter bring a fresh grist ter his mill.
Then he sent out many invertations-- Corlected the maids at his board, And while they war gossippin' o'er thar tea In his chamber he ask'd the Lord--
Ter merakerlously chenge 'em ter salt The cheaper ter cure his fresh cod; Then in faith he erose from his marrers, And his sinful tamp'rin' with God!
Now Bob Munn in his folly expected On rejinin' his guests ter find The work he'd mapped out for the Master, Perform'd by His Infernite mind.
Bob Munn soon diskiver'd it war wrongful, And, chagrin'd tuk ter the water: Becomin' an amphibious anermal, The first mermaid war his daughter.
Two centuries have pars'd away since then; The mermaids have multerplied, And, old mariners say, it all comes from Lovin' fish premerturely dri'd!
Whenever ye hear tell of a mermaid Be warn'd by the sin of poor Bob, Who attempted ter stock the kerds upon His Maker, but--botch'd the job!
MY RERLIGION.
I do not gamble much on Rerligion, Nor show a sanctermonious look Down here under my hat when they mention The Bible--that spiritu'l book--
What's a guide-board ter every stray traveler In the pathway leadin' ter God; I do not clasp my hands in dervotion, And at the church minister nod,--
Extollin' his favorite utterances; Nor jine in the fervent "Amen," That the folks in the meetin' may think me One of them most pious laymen.
Nor go down on my marrers durin' pr'ar, Raise my eyes ter Heaven and cry Ter God ter pour out His Holy Spirit, And bless me with grace from on High!
In meetin' I do not yell out "Glory!" "Bless the Lord who died for sinners!" "Come down, dear Jesus; I'll clasp ye right here!" Nor 'nvite the parson ter dinners.
I've sarch'd from Gen'ses ter Reverlation For a precerdent, but I can't Find that Christ and His Erpostles have spent The Sabbath in boisterous rant!
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