Riley Farm-Rhymes | Page 9

In and on betwixt the trees
'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo' curdled with the breeze
And the yallerhammer's tune;
And the smokin', chokin' dust
O' the turnpike at its wusst--

SATURD'YS, say, when it seems
Road's jes jammed with country
teams!--

Whilse the old town, fur away
'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o' day
Peaceful' as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor
O' the old bridge!--grind and roar

With yer blame percession-line--
Up and down old Brandywine!
Souse me and my new straw-hat
Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?--
Fist shoved in the crown o' that--
Like the old Clown ust to wear.
Wouldn't swop it fer a' old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!--
Keep
yer KING ef you'll gim me
Jes the boy I ust to be!
Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal
My best "goggle-eye!"--but you
Can't lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin' like they ust to do!
So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my "cork" and
saggin' line,
Up and down old Bradywine!
There the logs is, round the hill,
Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
Dewfall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift"
And give US a chance--and then
Kindo' fish back home again,

Ketchin' 'em jes left and right
Where WE hadn't got "a bite!"
Er, 'way windin' out and in,--

Old path th'ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin--
Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds
And cat-tails, smack into where
Them--air woods--hogs ust to scare

Us clean 'crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
But the dim roar o' the dam
It 'ud coax us furder still
To'rds the old race, slow and ca'm,
Slidin' on to Huston's mill--
Where, I'spect, "The Freeport crowd"
Never WARMED to us er
'lowed
We wuz quite so overly
Welcome as we aimed to be.
Still it 'peared like ever'thing--
Fur away from home as THERE--
Had more RELISH-like, i jing!--
Fish in stream, er bird in air!
O them rich old bottom-lands,
Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse
stands!
Wortermelons--MASTER-MINE!
Up and down old
Brandywine!
And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw
Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough
With ripe yaller--like you've saw
Custard-pie with no crust to:
And jes GORGES o' wild plums,
Till a feller'd suck his thumbs

Clean up to his elbows! MY!--
ME SOME MORE ER LEM ME
DIE!
Up and down old Brandywine! ...

Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!--
Flick me with a pizenvine
And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose!
--Old now as I then wuz young,
'F I could sing as I HAVE sung,

Song 'ud surely ring DEE-VINE
Up and down old Brandywine!
WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY
When country roads begin to thaw
In mottled spots of damp and dust,
And fences by the margin draw
Along the frosty crust
Their graphic silhouettes, I say,
The Spring is
coming round this way.
When morning-time is bright with sun
And keen with wind, and both
confuse
The dancing, glancing eyes of one
With tears that ooze and ooze--
And nose-tips weep as well as they,

The Spring is coming round this way.
When suddenly some shadow-bird
Goes wavering beneath the gaze,

And through the hedge the moan is heard
Of kine that fain would graze
In grasses new, I smile and say,
The
Spring is coming round this way.
When knotted horse-tails are untied,
And teamsters whistle here and
there.
And clumsy mitts are laid aside
And choppers' hands are bare,
And chips are thick where children
play,
The Spring is coming round this way.
When through the twigs the farmer tramps,
And troughs are chunked
beneath the trees,
And fragrant hints of sugar-camps

Astray in every breeze,--
When early March seems middle May,

The Spring is coming round this way.
When coughs are changed to laughs, and when
Our frowns melt into
smiles of glee,
And all our blood thaws out again
In streams of ecstasy,
And poets wreak their roundelay,
The Spring
is coming round this way.
A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS
Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days--
Of the times as they ust to be;

"Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakespeare's Plays"
Is a' most too deep fer me!

I want plane facts, and I want plane words,
Of the good
old-fashioned ways,
When speech run free as the songs of birds

'Way back in the airly days.
Tell me a tale of the timber-lands--
Of the old-time pioneers;

Somepin' a pore man understands
With his feelins's well as ears.

Tell of the old log house,--about
The loft, and the puncheon flore--

The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out,
And the latch-string
thrugh the door.
Tell of the things jest as they was--
They don't need no excuse!--

Don't tech 'em up like the poets does,
Tel theyr all too fine fer use!--

Say they was 'leven in the fambily--
Two beds, and the chist,
below,
And the trundle-beds that each helt three,
And the clock and
the old bureau.
Then blow the horn at the old back-door
Tel the echoes all halloo,

And the childern gethers home onc't more,
Jest as they ust to do:

Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes,
With Tomps and Elias, too,

A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums
And the old Red White and
Blue!

Blow and blow tel