Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

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      The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' 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,

      Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.

      The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to 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 forelegs fer biz,

      And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

      You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow —

      Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how;

      So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing —

      But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:

      And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,

      She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-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!

      They'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, but 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!

      Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry

      Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?

      Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,

      Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?

      Is the chipmuck'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 mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice?

      Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;

      The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot.

      Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,

      Any banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!

      Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,

      Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;

      Fer 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.

      The Summer's put the idy in

      My head that I'm a 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 —

      Yit, as I work, I have my fun,

      Jest fancyin' these furries here

      Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear: —

      And as 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"

      Whissels his name in high delight,

      And whirrs away. I wunder still,

      Whichever way a boy's feet will —

      Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops

      Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth,

      Heerin' the acorn as it drops —

      H'istin' my chin up still as deth,

      And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes,

      The СКАЧАТЬ