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

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!

The knees of my Sabbath mornin' trousers May not show same ermount of war' As those of Deacon Horatio Sparling, Who's worn holes in his'n at pra'r.

I am not in the habit of tellin' Sinners they'll be left in the lurch, In the last great day when Jerhover comes, If thar not members of the church!

Or skeerin' 'em with brimstone and fire, And the vengeance of thar Maker, If they turn thar backs on the Pascal Lamb, And fail ter be a pertaker!

I do not prerclaim ter all my neighbors Who've not bow'd down in corntrition And jin'd the meetin', that they've cartenly A through ticket ter perdition!

That when the Lord shall come in His glory, If thar not as pure as snow, He will hurl His hot bolts of wrath at 'em, And tell 'em ter git up and go!

That when the ran'som'd have enter'd in, With the Lord ter thar final rest In Heaven, and have put on the white robes Emblermatical of the Blest--

The guilty sinner will be shunted orf Ter lakes of sul-furious fires Whar murderers, burgulars and drunkards Pursue thar unlicens'd desires.

It is true I do not wrench from the poor Part of the proceeds of thar sweat, That my name may look large on subscriptions, And that I may complerments get!

O, no! I will freely own up ter it: This sort of Rerligion don't meet My views of what's right--what Jesus rerquires Of all what come near ter His seat.

My idea of Christianity Is of quite a different type, And all them supercillious ranters Who think for the Harvest thar ripe,

That, through thar pra'r and thar false prerfession, They have been cleans'd of all thar sin, Will find, when they apply for admission, They have a slim chance ter get in!

My Rerligion is not a prerfession That "I am holier than thou!" That a man can not serve his Creator If he don't make a saintly bow!

The follerers of the Blessed Jesus, Who war cradl'd in a menger, Will strive ter love thar neighbor as themselves, And gladden the lonely strenger--

With kindnesses what go home ter the heart In hour of his greatest need, And act the part of the Sermaritan, Of whom we all derlight ter read.

I may be a sinner, and I doubt not Have done heaps of things that war wrong; But I love the example of the Lord, And in secret pour out in song--

My acknolergements for His great bounty; And I strive ter keep His commands, What war written on tablets by Moses, When Jerhover guided his hands!

LITTLE BOOTS.

Wal, neighbor, ye have got me right sure When ye put a question like that: The age of my youngster--"Little Boots," So frolicksome, funny and fat?

Come, strenger; bring yer cheer ter the fire. Here's some juice of the grape. Maybe Ye'll not stand upon manners jist now, For I've no great larnin', ye see.

Ye see, we come down ter Car'lina Five years ago, comin' next Fall,-- Polly and me, and our setter dorg: Without a mule or beast ter haul.

Here I knock'd up a little cabin, And skeer'd up a nigger or so, At odd times ter jine in the plantin', And a startin' the crop ter grow!

Wal, for a time we prosper'd right smart-- Long afore "Little Boots" war born-- But we fretted in vain for a somethin', Though harvestin' cotton and corn.

But the drought spil'd the crops, and one day-- Leavin' Polly ter boss the help-- I kissed her good bye, and dug out Ter rough it a while by myself!

Three years I work'd hard in the gold mines-- 'Way out in the mountains, ye see, Whar a feller don't have sich comforts As a wife and a boy on the knee!

Wal, at last I grew rather homesick, And, 'thout writin' Polly a word, I ti'd up my kit for a journey, And--slop'd for the home I prerferr'd?

The supper war spread on the table, And Polly war pourin' the tea For Tom Smart, who had dropp'd in jist then Ter hear if she'd got word from me.

Now, Tom Smart war an old friend of our'n, Who had shown much friendly corncern In Polly and me, and, heaps of times, Had render'd a neighborly turn!

But, ter come ter the pint; I cornfess, I chuck'd my rerligion erside! And when they decla'r'd this boy war mine, I cussed 'em, and told 'em they lied!

For, strenger, I'd been away three years From Polly and home, yet, forsooth, The youngster they tried ter palm on me, Had only jist cut his first tooth!

But Polly, she kiss'd me so kind-like, And prertested that she had been true, That I tuk "Little Boots" ter my arms,-- Why, strenger, what else could I do?

Since then I've been thinkin' it over: How this youngster chanc'd inter life,-- Durn me, if I don't fear it's the fault Of Tom Smart and Polly, my wife!

I don't like ter suspicion my Polly Who's jist now appearin' in view; But, somehow, I don't think it's nat'ral That our "Boots" should come thus. Do you?

Now that is the whole histry of "Boots," A plaguey quar case. It's not clear! How this boy can be mine I can't guess, Or how in the world he reach'd here!

But he's Polly's, that's carten and sure, And I admit him inte my heart, Although he bars a strikin' rersemblance Ter that Tar-heel known as Tom Smart!

THE BUZZIN' BEES OF BERKS.

Boys, ye ask me ter spin ye a story Of adventer by flood or field, Or stand for licker ter bits at the bar,-- Ter the former, of course, I'll yield; For I'm rather short of greenbacks jist now, Havin' been out of work some time. So, hear goes for a yarn, but ye must not Make sport of my effort at rhyme--

For in youth I had no eddercation, 'Cept crumbs pick'd up by the way, A scratchin' figgers on the old school house Of our pedergogue, Milton Gray. Of course, ye know I war one of them chaps What with Sherman march'd ter the sea, From Atlanter, the stronghold we'd captur'd, Ter the forts down on the 'Gechee.

It war on that march the ervent tuk place Of which I am goin' ter tell, Of how I ran inter a nest ef bees, And thar got a foretaste of hell! On the sixth day out we had got well down In Berks county, n'ar the borders, And on that ere raid, ye may bet yer pile, We did not car' much for orders!

But each man dug out upon his own hook, And rush'd for the front and plunder: N'arly all of 'em got thar full of it, But some of the boys went under; For, ye see, thar war stray rebels erbout, Who would swing 'em up by the necks, When they cetch'd 'em totin' erway the grub-- And hundreds parsed in thar checks!

In them days I war not at all skeery-- Impressin' a mule, I lit out For the front, whar the bummers war raidin' And scourin' the country erbout-- Stealin' chickens, or killin' hogs by day, Then at night they would camp for ter eat 'em, With pickets thrown out in advance.

They would coral thar mules in the forest, Unsling knapsacks and build a fire, Of pine logs, dry knots, or rails from the farms; Then, chuck full of pork, they'd rertire Ter slumbers disturb'd by the dyin' squeals Of swine they had slaughter'd for tea, 'Til they thought the devils had come back from Those Jesus druv inter the sea!

As I have told ye, I jin'd the bummers With my mule, my gun and canteen, And the days that I roam'd about with 'em War the jolliest I have seen; But as we pars'd out of Berks one mornin', Far erhead of the "acorn" corps, We soon diskiver'd a fine old homestead, And a fair young gal in the door.

Now while I did not do any stealin', And paid cash for all I seized, If thar's one thing I love it is wimin, And, if thar pretty, I am pleas'd; And when I saw more than a dozen bee hives Lercated right thar in the yerd, And the boys goin' quickly terwards 'em, I felt that it war mighty hard.

I spurr'd up my mule, and then prertested Not one should be tak'n from thar; But the fellers jist snickered right out, And told me ter go comb my ha'r-- And dry up, for they would have them hives If they had ter eat bees berside, And if I did not like it I could jist Crawl out of my pesky old hide.

Objections war no use erbout them days; And, like a cornsumate old fool, I drew rein at the gate ef the house, and Watch'd 'em from the back of my mule. Then them soldiers made a sortie on the bees With thar ponchos, and tuk 'em quick Ter the stream near by whar they drowned them, And lifted the hives from the creek.

While this war doin' I sat on that mule, Till Dick Mullens upset a hive, And a swarm of mad bees came tearin' out, And, soarin' around, made a dive Right squar for my mule; they lit on his flanks, And his neck, his ears and back:-- He rear'd and snorted, threw his head in air, Then quickly tuk a le'ard tack!

And erway on a fearful race he broke Over fences, lorgs, ditches and rocks, Headin' for the water under the hill-- He near shook me out of my socks! On his break-neck race for that brook berlow It war needless ter pull on the rein, For that ugly mule war dead set upon Gittin' rid of his bitin' pain!

With me the siteration war quite bad-- That mule's hide war thicker than mine; And when they lit on me I fit a while: Then foller'd the mule's bee line! We reach'd the creek--ye may not berlieve it-- But that mule went down on his knees In that ere stream, and roll'd over on me, Jist ter rid himself of the bees!

For the critter war much better prepar'd With his tail ter banish his foes, While I had not a durn'd thing erbout me Ter aid him the battle ter close. I had had quite ernough of that skirmish, And erway up the hill I run As quickly as my shanks would carry me, In sarch of my knapsack and gun.

THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR'N.

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