Quashie to Buccra
You tas’e petater an’ you say it sweet,
But you no know how hard we wuk fe it;
You want a basketful fe quattiewut,
’Cause you no know how ’tiff de bush fe cut.
De cowitch under which we hab fe ’toop,
De shamar lyin’ t’ick like pumpkin soup,
Is killin’ somet’ing for a naygur man;
Much less de cutlass workin’ in we han’.
De sun hot like when fire ketch a town;
Shade-tree look temptin’, yet we caan’ lie down,
Aldough we wouldn’ eben ef we could,
Causen we job must finish soon an’ good.
De bush cut done, de bank dem we deh dig,
But dem caan’ ’tan’ sake o’ we naybor pig;
For so we moul’ it up he root it do’n,
An’ we caan’ ’peak sake o’ we naybor tongue.
Aldough de vine is little, it can bear;
It wantin’ not’in’ but a little care:
You see petater tear up groun’, you run,
You laughin’, sir, you must be t’ink a fun.
De fiel’ pretty? It couldn’t less ’an dat,
We wuk de bes’, an’ den de lan’ is fat;
We dig de row dem eben in a line,
An’ keep it clean—den so it mus’ look fine.
You tas’e petater an’ you say it sweet,
But you no know how hard we wuk fe it;
Yet still de hardship always melt away
Wheneber it come roun’ to reapin’ day.
1912
Me Bannabees
Run ober mango trees,
’Pread chock to kitchen doo’,
Watch de blue bannabees,
Look how it ben’ down low!
De blossom draw de bees
Same how de soup draw man;
Some call it “broke-pot” peas,
It caan’ bruk we bu’n-pan.
Wha’ sweet so when it t’ick?
Though some call it goat-tud,
Me all me finger lick,
An’ yet no chew me cud.
A mumma plant de root
One day jes’ out o’ fun;
But now look ’pon de fruit,
See wha’ de “mek fun” done.
I jam de ’tick dem ’traight
Soon as it ’tart fe ’pread,
An begin count de date
Fe when de pod fe shed.
Me watch de vine dem grow,
S’er t’row dung a de root:
Crop time look fe me slow,
De bud tek long fe shoot.
But so de day did come,
I ’crub de bu’n-pan bright,
De marnin’ till de night.
An’ Lard! me belly swell,
No ’cause de peas no good,
But me be’n tek a ’pell
Mo’ dan a giant would.
Yet eben after dat
Me nyam it wid a will,
’Causen it mek me fat;
So I wi’ lub it still,
Caan’ talk about gungu,
Fe me it is no peas;
Cockstone might do fe you,
Me want me bannabees.
1912
Lub o’ Mine
Darlin’, though you lub me still,
I feel it so,
To t’ink dat we neber will
Meet soon, you know;
Eben when you tell me say
Dat your dear heart
Did grow ’tronger ebery day
An’ hate fe part.
Feelin’ all you’ lub for me,
I t’ink you press
Your heart, as it use’ to be,
Upon me breas’.
Lubin’ you wid all me soul,
De lub is such
Dat it beat out blood,—de whole,
An’ dat is much.
Lubin’ you as you go ’long
In a you walk;
Also when you chune a song,
An’ as you talk.
An’ a so I hate fe see
You go astray
In those t’ings dat you and me
Can cast away.
Lub, I dyin’ fe you’ smile,
An’ some sweet news
Dat can cheer me heart awhile
Fe wha’ it lose.
Lub me, darlin’—lub, aldough
You are now gone:
You can never leave me so—
Friendless—alone.
1912
Taken Aback
Let me go, Joe, for I want go home:
Can’t stan’ wid you,
For pa might go come;
An’ if him only hab him rum,
I don’t know whateber I’ll do.
I must go now, for it’s gettin’ night
I am afraid,
An’ ’tis not moonlight:
Give me de last hug, an’ do it tight;
Me pa gwin’ go knock off me head.
No, Joe, don’t come!—you will keep me late,
An’ pa might be
In him sober state;
Him might get vex’ an’ lock up de gate,
Den what will becomin’ of me?
Go wid you, Joe?—you don’t lub me den!
I shame’ o’ you—
Gals caan’ trust you men!
An’ I b’en tekin’ you fe me frien’;
Good-night, Joe, you’ve proven untrue.
1911
Little Jim
Me Lard! me caan’ bear it no mo’!
’Twill kill me dead, dis bad sore toe;
All day, all night, ’tis all de same,
Mek me a bawl out Massa name.
O Lard o’ me, a ’fraid to tu’n,
De way de dreadful bluestone bu’n!
A feel it movin’ t’rough me j’ints,
Like million load o’ needle-p’ints.
An’ oh! me schoolmates dem did laugh,
De day I nearly knock’ it off;
Me laugh meself fe sake o’ shame,
An’ didn’ know I’d go so lame.
I didna’ then t’ink what I’d got—
Good Lard, mumma, de bluestone hot!
I tell you, a wi’ lose me head;
You satisfy to kill me dead?
An’ oh! it is a double pain,
For I caan’ go to school again,
To gellop ober fyahn an’ ditch,
An’ ’crew de j’int o’ teacher switch.
No mo’ roas’ corn fe little Jim,
Dem say dat it no good fe him:
Me hide me face, for me caan’ bear
To see dem passin’ wid de pear.
But me a don’t a gwin’ to fret,
De half a toe wi’ better get:
I’ll go to school once more, go bad;
Ay, it ease me a bit, t’ank God!
1912
Jim at Sixteen
Corpy, it pinch me so,
De bloomin’ ole handcuff;
A dunno warra mek
You put it on so rough.
Many a póliceman
Hab come to dis before;
Dem slip same like a me,
An’ pass t’rough lock-up door.
Mumma, no bodder cry,
It should an hotter be;
I wouldn’ heed you when
You use’ fe talk to me.
I run away from you
Same as I tu’n out school,
’Caus’n a didn’ want
To stan’ under no rule.
An’ though you send fe me,
A wouldn’ face de home;
Same as de trouble come.
Mumma, I know quite well
You’ lub fe me is ’trong;
Yet still you don’t a go
Join wid me in a wrong.
An’ so I won’t beg you
To pay fe me to-day;
I’ll bear me punishment,
’Twill teach me to obey.
Mumma, you’ Jim get ’way
An’ come back home to you,
An’ ask you to forgive
Him all o’ whe’ him do.
I want you to feget
Dat I disgrace de name,
An’ cause de ole fam’ly
To look ’pon me wid shame.
You come an’ beg de judge
Before dem call fe me,
An’ walk by de back gate,
T’inkin’ I wouldn’ see.
But ’fore him let me go,
Him lectur’ me, mumma,
Tellin’ me how I mus’
Try no fe bruk de law.
Mumma, I feel it, but
No eye-water caan’ drop:
Yet I wish dat it could,
For me breat’ partly ’top.
Again to be your boy,
An’ ever as before
To fill you’ heart wid joy.
1912
Whe’ fe Do?
Life will continue so for aye,
Some people sad, some people gay,
Some mockin’ life while udders pray;
But we mus’ fashion-out we way
An’ sabe a mite fe rainy day—
All we can do.
We needn’ fold we han’ an’ cry,
Nor vex we heart wid groan and sigh;
De best we can do is fe try
To fight de déspair drawin’ nigh:
Den we might conquer by an’ by—
Dat we might do.
We hab to batter in de sun,
An’ dat isn’t a little fun,
For Lard! ’tis hellish how it bu’n:
Still dere’s de big wul’ to live do’n—
So whe’ fe do?
We nigger hab a tas’ fe do,
To conquer prejudice dat due
To obeah, an’ t’ings not a few
Dat keep we progress back fe true—
But whe’ fe do?
We’ve got to wuk wid might an’ main,
To use we han’ an’ use we brain,
To toil an’ worry, ’cheme an’ ’train
Fe t’ings that bring more loss dan gain;
To stan’ de sun an’ bear de rain,
An’ suck we bellyful o’ pain
Widouten cry nor yet complain—
For dat caan’ do.
And though de wul’ is full o’ wrong,
Dat caan’ prevent we sing we song
All de day as we wuk along—
Whe’ else fe do?
We happy in de hospital;
We happy when de rain deh fall;
We happy though de baby bawl
Fe food dat we no hab at all;
We happy when Deat’ angel call
Fe full we cup of joy wid gall:
Our fait’ in this life is not small—
De best to do.
An’ da’s de way we ought to live,
For pain an’ such we shouldn’ grieve,
But tek de best dat Nature give—
Da’s whe’ fe do.
God mek de wul’ fe black an’ white;
We’ll wuk on in de glad sunlight,
Keep toilin’ on wid all our might,
An’ sleep in peace when it is night:
We must strive on to gain de height,
Aldough it may not be in sight;
An’ yet perhaps de blessed right
Will never conquer in de fight—
Still, whe’ fe do?
We’ll try an’ live as any man,
An’ fight de wul’ de best we can,
E’en though it hard fe understan’
Whe’ we mus’ do.
For da’s de way o’ dis ya wul’;
It’s snap an’ bite, an’ haul an’ pull,
But whe’ fe do?
1912
King Banana
Green mancha mek fe naygur man;
Wha’ sweet so when it roas’?
Some boil it in a big black pan,
It sweeter in a toas’.
A buccra fancy when it ripe,
Dem use it ebery day;
It scarcely give dem belly-gripe,
Dem eat it diffran’ way.
Out yonder see somoke a rise,
An’ see de fire wicket;
Deh go’p to heaben wid de nize
Of hundred t’ousan’ cricket.
De black moul’ lie do’n quite prepare’
Fe feel de hoe an’ rake;
De fire bu’n, and it tek care
Fe mek de wo’m dem wake.
Wha’ lef’ fe buccra teach again
Dis time about plantation?
Dere’s not’in’ dat can beat de plain
Good ole-time cultibation.
Banana dem fat all de same
From bunches big an’ ’trong;
Pure nine-han’ bunch a car’ de fame,—
Ole met’od all along.
De cuttin’ done same ole-time way,
We wrap dem in a trash,
So tight dat dem can’t mash.
We re’ch: banana finish sell;
Den we ’tart back fe home:
Some hab money in t’read-bag well,
Some spen’ all in a rum.
Green mancha mek fe naygur man,
It mek fe him all way;
Our islan’ is banana lan’,
Banana car’ de sway.
1912
Pleading
If you lub me, Joanie, only tell me, dear,
Do not be so cold
When my lub is bold;
Do not mek dis burnin’ heart o’ mine get drear,
Tek it for your own,
For ’tis yours alone.
I hab eber lub’d you from I saw your face
On dat Monday morn
’Mongst de peas an’ corn:
Lightly did you trip along wid yout’ful grace,
Wid de kerchief red
Wound about your head.
Durin’ de revival we b’en use’ fe pray,
Spirit we b’en hab,
How we use’ fe sob!
Yet how soon did all of it from we get ’way!
Lub kiver de whole,
We feget we “soul.”
Though I could’n’ see you when you younger b’en,
It was better so,
For we older grow,
An’ I can protect you now from udder men,
If you’ll only be
Fe me one, Joanie.
How I saw you proudly draw up to your height—
As we strolled along
Gay in laugh an’ song,
Passin’ by de peenies sheddin’ greenish light—
’Cos my lips did miss,
Stealin’ one lee kiss!
’Member you de days down by de river-side,
I prevented you
Your washin’ to do,
Teasin’ you at times till you got vex’ an’ cried,
An’ I try de while
To coax you fe smile?
Joanie, when you were me own a true sweetheart,
I lived in de air
’Douten t’ought of care,
Thinkin’, O me Joan, dat’ nuttin’ could we part,
Naught to mek me fear
Fe me own a dear.
When in church on Sunday days we use’ fe sit,
You dressed in light pink,
How we used fe wink!
Wha’ de parson say we cared for not a bit,
Nuttin’ could remove
Our sweet t’oughts from love.
I am thinkn’, Joanie, when de nights were lone,
An’ you were afraid
Of each darkened shade,
An’ I use’ fe guide you over river-stone,
How you trusted me
Fe care you, Joanie.
’Member you de time when many days passed by,
An’ I didn’ come
To your hill-side home,
How you wrote those sad, sad letters to know why,
Till I comfort gave
To my Joanie brave?
In those happy days, me Joan, you loved me then,
An’ I t’ought dat you
Would be ever true;
Never dreamed you would forsake me for strange men,
Who caan’ lub you so
Much as thrown-up Joe.
Joanie, fickle Joanie, give up Squire’s son;
You wi’ soon hate him
An’ his silly whim,
An’ your heart wi’ yearn fe me when I am gone;
So, ’fo’ ’tis too late,
Come back to your mate.
Joanie, when you’re tired of dat worthless man,
You can come back still
Of your own free will:
Nummo girl dis true, true heart will understan’;
I wi’ live so-so,
Broken-hearted Joe.
An’, Joan, in de days fe come I know you’ll grieve
For de foolishniss
Dat you now call bliss:
Dere’s no wrong you done me I would not forgive;
But you choice your way,
So, me Joan, good-day!
1912
“Ole woman a swea’ fe eat calalu: calalu a swea’ fe wuk him gut.”
—Jamaica proverb
Corn an’ peas growin’ t’ick an’ fas’
Wid nice blade peepin’ t’rough de grass;
An’ ratta from dem hole a peep,
T’ink all de corn dem gwin’ go reap.
Ole woman sit by kitchen doo’
Is watchin’ calalu a grow,
An’ all de time a t’inking dat
She gwin’ go nyam dem when dem fat.
But calalu, grow’n’ by de hut,
Is swearin’ too fe wuk him gut;
While she, like some, t’ink all is right
When dey are in some corner tight.
Peas time come roun’—de corn is lef’;
An’ ratta now deh train himse’f
Upon de cornstalk dem a’ night
Fe when it fit to get him bite.
De corn-piece lie do’n all in blue,
An’ all de beard dem floatin’ too
Amongst de yellow grain so gay,
Dat you would watch dem a whole day.
An’ ratta look at ebery one,
Swea’in’ dat dem not gwin’ lef’ none;
But Quaco know a t’ing or two,
An’ swear say dat dem won’t go so.
So him go get a little meal
An’ somet’ing good fe those dat steal,
An’ mix dem up an’ ’pread dem out
For people possess fas’ fas’ mout’.
Now ratta, comin’ from dem nes’,
See it an’ say “Dis food is bes’;”
Dem nyam an’ stop, an’ nyam again,
An’ soon lie do’n, rollin’ in pain.
1912
Out of Debt
De Christmas is finish’;
It was rather skinnish,
Yet still we are happy, an’ so needn’ fret,
For dinner is cookin’,
An’ baby is lookin’
An’ laughin’; she knows dat her pa owe no debt.
De pas’ hab de debtor,
An’ we cannot get her
To come back an’ grin at us as in time gone:
Dere’s no wine fe breakfas’,
An’ no one fe mek fuss,
We all is contented fe suck one dry bone.
No two bit o’ brater
Wid shopkeeper Marter,
I feel me head light sittin’ down by me wife;
No weight lef’ behin’ me
No gungu a line fe
De man who was usual to worry me life.
We’re now out o’ season,
But dat is no reason
Why we shan’t be happy wid heart free and light:
We feel we are better
Dan many dat fetter
Wid burden dey shoulder to mek Christmas bright.
Some ’crape out de cupboard,
Not ’memberin’ no wud
Dat say about fégettin’ when rainy day:
It comes widout warning
’Fo’ daylight a marnin’,
An’, wakin’, de blue cloud ta’n black dat was gay.
De days dat gwin’ follow
No more will be hollow,
Like some dat come after de Christmas before:
We’ll lay by some money
An’ lick at de honey,
An’ neber will need to lock up our front door.
Jes’ look at de brightness
Of dat poor an’ sightless
Old man on de barrel a playin’ de flute:
Wha’ mek him so joyful?
His lap is of toy full,
A pick’ninny play wid de patch on his suit.
Ours too de same blessin’,
An’ we’ve learn’ a lesson
We should have been learnin’ from years long ago
A Christmas ’dout pleasure
Gave dat darlin’ treasure,
An’ duty to Milly is all dat we owe.
1912
The Hermit
Far in de country let me hide myself
From life’s sad pleasures an’ de greed of pelf,
Dwellin’ wid Nature primitive an’ rude,
Livin’ a peaceful life of solitude.
Dere by de woodland let me build my home
Where tropic roses ever are in bloom,
An’ t’rough de wild cane growin’ thick and tall
Rushes in gleeful mood de waterfall.
Roof strong enough to keep out season rain,
Under whose eaves loved swallows will be fain
To build deir nests, an’ deir young birdlings rear
Widouten have de least lee t’ought of fear.
An’ in my study I shall view de wul’,
An learn of all its doin’s to de full;
List to de woodland creatures’ music sweet—
Sad, yet contented in my lone retreat.
1912
Fetchin’ Water
Watch how dem touris’ like fe look
Out ’pon me little daughter,
Wheneber fe her tu’n to cook
Or fetch a pan of water:
De sight look gay;
Dat is one way,
But I can tell you say,
’Nuff rock’tone in de sea, yet none
But those ’pon lan’ know ’bouten sun.
De pickny comin’ up de hill,
Fightin’ wid heavy gou’d,
Won’t say it sweet him, but he will
Complain about de load:
Him feel de weight,
Dem watch him gait;
It’s so some of de great
High people fabour t’ink it sweet
Fe batter in de boilin’ heat.
Dat boy wid de karásene pan,
Sulky down to him toe,
His back was rollin’ in a san’,
For him pa mek him crow:
Near mek him mad,
But teach him he’s a lad;
Go disobey him fader wud,
When he knows dat his back would sud!
But Sarah Jane she wus ’an all,
For she t’row ’way de pan,
An’ jam her back agains’ de wall
Fe fight her mumma Fan:
Feelin’ de pinch,
She mek a wrinch
An’ get ’way; but de wench
Try fe put shame upon her ma,
Say dat she cook de bittle raw.
Dis water-fetchin’ sweet dem though
When day mek up dem min’,
An’ ’nuff o’ dem ’tart out fe go,
An’ de weader is fine:
De pan might leak,
Dem don’t a ’peak,
Nor eben try fe seek
Some clay or so to mek it soun’;
Dem don’t care ef dem wet all roun’.
Dén all ’bout de road dem ’catter
Marchin’ álong quite at ease;
Dat time listen to deir chatter,
Talkin’ anyt’ing dem please:
Dem don’t a fear,
Neider a care,
For who can interfere?
T’ree mile—five, six tu’n,—an’ neber
W’ary, but could do it for eber.
1912
School-Teacher Nell’s Lub-Letter
If you promise to lub me alway,
I will foreber be true,
An’ you don’t mek me sorry de day
Dat I give myself to you.
How I ’member de night when we meet,
An’ chat fe de first time of lub!
I go home, an’ den neber could eat
None o’ de plateful o’ grub.
An’ de day it was empty to me,
Wakin’, but dreamin’ of you,
While de school it was dull as could be,
An’ me hate me wuk fe do.
Oh, I knew of your lub long before
My school friends tell me of it,
And I watch at you from de school door,
When you pass to de cockpit.
Den I hear too dat you use’ fe talk,
Say, if you caan’ ketch me dark night,
You would sure ketch me as me deh walk
In a de open moonlight.
An’ you’ wud come to pass very soon,
For scarcely a mont’ did gone
When de light of de star an’ de moon
Shine bright as we kiss all alone.
I can neber remember de times
Ma scolded her little Nell;
All day her tongue wuks like de chimes
Dat come from de old school-bell.
I have given up school-life fe you:
Sweetheart, my all is your own;
Den say you will ever be true,
An’ live fe you’ Nellie alone.
1912
Nellie White
(An Answer to the Foregoing)
Sweetheart, I have loved you well,
More than dis lee tongue can tell,
An’ you need not hab no fear,
For I’ll marry you, my dear.
What are you talkin’ about?
Don’t say that I’ll play you out;
Swif’ ole Time, me Nell, will prove
Dat ’tis you alone I love.
Cry not, except ’tis for joy;
Can’t you trus’ dis big-heart boy?
Nell, I hate fe see you weep;
Tek my heart, an’ go to sleep.
How could I deceive you, Nell?
Don’t I love you much too well?
Could I fool dat plump black cheek?
Don’t cry, darlin’—look up—speak!
Nellie of the pretty feet
An’ the palm-like shape so neat,
I have eyes to see but you;
Darling, trust me to be true!
Nell, me dear, you need not fret,
For you are my food, my breat’;
Trust me, trust me, Nellie White,
Kiss me, lee sweetheart—good-night!
1912
De mule dem in de pasture an’ de donkey ’pon red groun’,
An’ we boys mus’ ketch dem all befo’ de evenin’ sun go do’n;
De tas’ it isn’t easy for de whole o’ dem can run,
An’ grass-lice lie do’n set.
Grass-lice dat mek you trimble long time more dan when you meet 5
A man dat mean to fight you who you know you cannot beat;
Dem mek you feel you’ blood crawl from you’ head do’n to you’ feet,
An’ wish dat you b’en wet.
An’, like a ’pite, see all de mule a ’ketter t’rough de grass,
So chupidly a-followin’ de foolish ole jackass;
But when you hea’ we ketch dem, we wi’ serve dem such a sauce
By ridn’ dem to deat’!
We breat’ is partly givin’ out as up de hill we go up;
De beast dem seem to understan’ say “Day longer ’an rope,”
An’ dat de night wi’ come befo’ we ketch dem is deir hope;
But we shall conquer yet.
For though dem t’ink dem hab some sense, dem all run right between
De rocky road above de swamp, where it hab eber been
Our luck to nab dem in de trap dat neber can be seen
By dem—Dey’re in de net!
We hab dem pullin’ on de bit as we race mile ’pon mile,
An’ grass-lice in we back a crawl an’ ’ting us all de while;
But blood is drippin’ from dem mout’, ’twill teach dem not fe vile,
We’ll race dem out o’ breat’.
1912
To E. M. E.
You see me smile: but what is it?
A sweetened pain—a laughin’ fit—
That, passing, stabs my heart,
Yet mek me glad a bit.
You see me dance: ’twas but my feet,
You should have heard my heart a beat!
For none o’ it was real:
It be’n a priceless sale
Of bitter for a sweet.
Dis laughin’ face!—’tis full o’ joy
Because it is a baby’s toy;
But when de child is gone
An’ the darkness comes on,
’Twill be anudder boy.
You hear me sing: what is de tune?
De song of one that’s dyin’ soon,
A whirlin’, tossin’ life
Flung on de wul’ of strife;
I call it “debil’s boon.”
De many pleasures? Wha’s de gain?
I’ll tell you of a grindin’ pain
Dat companies de birt’,
An’ runs wid a vengeance mirt’
De life, till it is slain.
Why do I sleep? My eyes know why,
Same how a life knows why it die:
Dey sleep on in distress,
Knowin’ not why dey res’,
But feelin’ why dey cry.
I’m hungry now, so eat once mo’,
E’en though I’ll soon be like befo’;
For, as in udder t’ings,
De seemin’ pleasure clings,
De cravin’ has no cure.
It always seem so strange to me,
Dat you can satisfy to be
A life whose daily food
Is pain: de only good,
Deat’ dat will set it free.
1912
Hard Times
De mo’ me wuk, de mo’ time hard,
I don’t know what fe do;
I ben’ me knee an’ pray to Gahd,
Yet t’ings same as befo’.
De taxes knockin’ at me door,
I hear de bailiff’s v’ice;
Me wife is sick, can’t get no cure,
But gnawin’ me like mice.
De picknies hab to go to school
Widout a bite fe taste;
And I am working like a mule,
While buccra, sittin’ in de cool,
Hab ’nuff nenyam fe waste.
De clodes is tearin’ off dem back
When money seems noa mek;
A man can’t eben ketch a mac,
Care how him ’train him neck.
De peas won’t pop, de corn can’t grow,
Poor people face look sad;
Dat Gahd would cuss de lan’ I’d know,
For black naygur too bad.
I won’t gib up, I won’t say die,
For all de time is hard;
Aldough de wul’ soon en’, I’ll try
My wutless best as time goes by,
An’ trust on in me Gahd.
1912
Cudjoe Fresh from de Lecture
’Top one minute, Cous’ Jarge, an’ sit do’n ’pon de grass,
An’ mek a tell you ’bout de news I hear at las’,
How de buccra te-day tek time an’ bégin teach
All of us dat was deh in a clear open speech.
You miss somet’ing fe true, but a wi’ mek you know,
As much as how a can, how de business a go:
Him tell us ’bout we self, an’ mek we fresh again,
An’ talk about de wul’ from commencement to en’.
Me look ’pon me black ’kin, an’ so me head grow big,
Aldough me heaby han’ dem hab fe plug an’ dig;
For ebery single man, no car’ about dem rank,
Him bring us ebery one an’ put ’pon de same plank.
Say, parson do de same? Yes, in a diff’ren’ way,
For parson tell us how de whole o’ we are clay;
An’ lookin’ close at t’ings, we hab to pray quite hard
Fe swaller wha’ him say an’ don’t t’ink bad o’ Gahd.
But dis man tell us ’traight ’bout how de whole t’ing came,
An’ show us widout doubt how Gahd was not fe blame;
How change cause eberyt’ing fe mix up ’pon de eart’,
An’ dat most hardship come t’rough accident o’ birt’.
Him show us all a sort o’ funny ’keleton,
Wid names I won’t remember under dis ya sun;
Animals queer to deat’, dem bone, teet’, an’ head-skull,
All dem so dat did live in a de ole-time wul’.
No ’cos say we get cuss mek fe we ’kin come so,
But fe all t’ings come ’quare, same so it was to go:
Seems our lan’ must ha’ been a bery low-do’n place,
Mek it tek such long time in tu’ning out a race.
Yes, from monkey we spring: I believe ebery wud;
It long time better dan f’go say we come from mud:
No need me keep back part, me hab not’in’ fe gain;
It’s ebery man dat born—de buccra mek it plain.
It really strange how some o’ de lan’ dem advance;
Man power in some ways is nummo soso chance;
But suppose eberyt’ing could tu’n right upside down,
Den p’raps we’d be on top an’ givin’ some one houn’.
Yes, Cous’ Jarge, slabery hot fe dem dat gone befo’:
We gettin’ better times, for those days we no know;
But I t’ink it do good, tek we from Africa
An’ lan’ us in a blessed place as dis a ya.
Talk ’bouten Africa, we would be deh till now,
Maybe same half-naked—all day dribe buccra cow,
An’ tearin’ t’rough de bush wid all de monkey dem,
Wile an’ uncibilise’, an’ neber comin’ tame.
I lef’ quite ’way from wha’ we be’n deh talk about,
Yet still a couldn’ help—de wuds come to me mout’;
Just like how yeas’ get strong an’ sometimes fly de cark,
Same way me feelings grow, so I was boun’ fe talk.
Yet both horse partly runnin’ in de selfsame gallop,
For it is nearly so de way de buccra pull up:
Him say, how de wul’ stan’, dat right will neber be,
But wrong will eber gwon till dis wul’ en’ fe we.
1912
I t’ink of childhood days again,
An’ wish dat I was free
To res’ me baby head once more
Upon me mudder’s knee:
If we had power to change dis life
An’ live it back again,
We would be children all de time
Nor fret at childhood’s pain.
I look on my school life of old,
Dem sweet days dat are pas’,
An’ wonder how I’d wish to see
Those dear times en’ at las’:
It was because I was a boy,
An’ knew not what b’en good;
All time I tas’e de supple-jack,
Bein’ I was so rude.
An’ o’ de marnings when I woke,
’Fo’ you can see you’ han’,
I mek me way on to de spring
Fe full me bucket-pan:
I t’ought ofttimes dat it was hard
For me to wake so soon;
Dere was no star fe light de way,
Much more de white roun’ moon.
Still, childhood pain could neber las’,
An’ I remember yet
De many sorrows ’cross me pat’
Dat neber mek me fret:
But now me joys are only few,
I live because I’m boun’,
An’ try fe mek my life of use
Though pain lie all aroun’.
1912
Reveille! de reveille soun’,
Depôt p’liceman mus’ wake up;
Some mus’ dress fe go to town,
Some to Parade fe shake-up.
You lazy ones can lay down still,
We have no time fe dat;
De wake-up comin’ roun’, an’ you’ll
Jump as you feel de cat.
For soon de half pas’ dress will blow
Fe we to go a-drillin’;
De time is bery short, an’ so
We mus’ be quick an’ willin’.
A marnin’ bade is sweet fe true,
But we mus’ quick fe done;
It col’ dough, so it’s only few
Can stan’ it how it bu’n.
’Tis quarter warnin’ soun’in’ now,
Our arms mus’ clean an’ soun’;
We will ketch ’port ef we allow
A speck fe lodge aroun’.
Tip blow yet? good Lard! hear “fall in,”
Must double ’pon de grass;
I didn’ know de las’ call be’n
Deh blow on us so fas’.
1912
Old England
I’ve a longin’ in me dept’s of heart dat I can conquer not,
’Tis a wish dat I’ve been havin’ from since I could form a t’o’t,
’Tis to sail athwart the ocean an’ to hear de billows roar,
When dem ride aroun’ de steamer, when dem beat on England’s shore.
Just to view de homeland England, in de streets of London walk, 5
An’ to see de famous sights dem ’bouten which dere’s so much talk,
An’ to watch de fact’ry chimneys pourin’ smoke up to de sky,
An’ to see de matches-children, dat I hear ’bout, passin’ by.
I would see Saint Paul’s Cathedral, an’ would hear some of de great
Learnin’ comin’ from de bishops, preachin’ relics of old fait’; 10
I would ope me mout’ wid wonder at de massive organ soun’,
An’ would ’train me eyes to see de beauty lyin’ all aroun’.
I’d go to de City Temple, where de old fait’ is a wreck,
An’ de parson is a-preachin’ views dat most folks will not tek;
I’d go where de men of science meet togeder in deir hall,
To give light unto de real truths, to obey king Reason’s call.
I would view Westminster Abbey, where de great of England sleep,
An’ de solemn marble statues o’er deir ashes vigil keep;
I would see immortal Milton an’ de wul’-famous Shakespeare,
Past’ral Wordswort’, gentle Gray, an’ all de great souls buried dere.
I would see de ancient chair where England’s kings deir crowns put on,
Soon to lay dem by again when all de vanity is done;
An’ I’d go to view de lone spot where in peaceful solitude
Rests de body of our Missis Queen, Victoria de Good.
An’ dese places dat I sing of now shall afterwards impart
All deir solemn sacred beauty to a weary searchin’ heart;
So I’ll rest glad an’ contented in me min’ for evermore,
When I sail across de ocean back to my own native shore.
1912
Dat Dirty Rum
If you must drink it, do not come
An’ chat up in my face;
Much more to know de tas’e.
What you find dere to care about
I never understan’;
It only dutty up you mout’,
An’ mek you less a man.
I see it throw you ’pon de grass
An’ mek you want no food,
While people scorn you as dey pass
An’ see you vomit blood.
De fust beginnin’ of it all,
You stood up calm an’ cool,
An’ put you’ back agains’ de wall
An’ cuss our teacher fool.
You cuss me too de se’fsame day
Because a say you wrong,
An’ pawn you’ books an’ went away
Widout anedder song.
Your parents’ hearts within dem sink,
When to your yout’ful lip
Dey watch you raise de glass to drink,
An’ shameless tek each sip.
I see you in de dancing-booth,
But all your joy is vain,
For on your fresh an’ glowin’ youth
Is stamped dat ugly stain.
Dat ugly stain of drink, my frien’,
Has cost you your best girl,
An’ mek you fool ’mongst better men
When your brain’s in a whirl.
You may smoke just a bit indeed,
I like de “white seal” well;
Aldough I do not use de weed,
I’m fond o’ de nice smell.
But wait until you’re growin’ old
An’ gettin’ weak an’ bent,
An’ feel your blood a-getting cold
’Fo’ you tek stimulent.
Then it may mek you stronger feel
While on your livin’ groun’;
But ole Time, creepin’ on your heel,
Soon, soon will pull you down:
Soon, soon will pull you down, my frien’,
De rum will help her too;
An’ you’ll give way to better men,
De best dat you can do.
1912
Heart-Stirrings
You axe me as de bell begin fe ’trike,
Me Mikey, ef de wuk a didn’ like;
De queshton, like de bell, soun’ in me heart
Same how de anvil usual mek me ’tart.
You’s a chil’ an’ know naught ’bout de wul’ yet,
But you’ll grow an’ larn t’ings you won’t feget;
You lub you’ life, an’ t’ink dere’s nuttin’ better,
Yet all you’ pickny dream dem soon will ’ketter.
Tek me advice ya, chil’, an’ as you grow
Don’t choose a wuk dat you no like: aldough
You might see money in o’ it, at lengt’
You will get tired o’ it an’ repent.
A suffer, but I t’ink it mek me wise;
It wasn’ fe de money ’trike me yeyes,
But “water mo’ ’an flour” is true wud,
An’ eye-water run too long tu’n to blood.
Hard life caan’ kill me, but annoyance might,
Me lub me right, an’ fe it me wi’ fight:
Me wi’ lef’ beef fe nyam an’ choose cow-lung,
Fe sabe meself from an annoying tongue.
But sometime’, chil’, you jump from fryin’-pan
’Traight in a fire; an’, try as you can,
You caan’ come out, but always wishin’ den
Fe get back in de fryin’-pan again.
Ole Buccra Dabis, libing easy life,
One night get mad an’ kill himself an’ wife;
Den we hear t’ings we neber be’n know yet,
De buccra man was ears an’ han’s in debt.
Miss Laura lean back in her rockin’-chair
So sweet dat we might jes’ t’ink she no care
’Bout naught; yet some say dat ’cos she caan’ get
Mas’ Charley fe him husban’ she deh fret.
Dat’s how life ’tan’, me chil’; dere is somet’ing
Deep down in we dat you can neber bring
People, howeber wise, fe understan’:
Caan’ feel man heart same how you feel dem han’.
Fe lub, me chil’, lub wha’ you natur’ hate!—
You’ll live in misery, prayin’ hard fe fait’,
Which won’t come eben ef you ’crub you’ knees
In fifty quart o’ corn an’ lady-peas.
Fe hate a t’ing you whole min’ come in one:
You try fe keep it back much as you can,
But “flesh caan’ conquer ’perit” Bible say,
You hab fe give it up, an’ den ’top pray.
Me carry hell, me chil’, in a me ches’,
Me laugh, me cry, me couldn’ get no res’;
Eat all de same an’ neber fatter less
Dan now, aldough me min’ was so distress’.
An’ though a feel it hard, a wouldn’ fret;
Me min’ don’t mek so, but it eber set
Fe conquer, yet it couldn’ wash away
De t’oughts dem dat come ’tronger ebery day.
You ’stan’, me chil’? I caan’ explain it mo’:
Life funny bad, so is de ways also;
For what we t’ink is right is often wrong,
We live in sorrow as we journey ’long.
1912
De Dog-Rose
Growin’ by de corner-stone,
See de pretty flow’r-tree blows,
Sendin’ from de prickly branch
A lubly bunch o’ red dog-rose.
An’ de bunch o’ crimson red,
Boastin’ on de dark blue tree,
Meks it pretty, prettier yet
Jes’ as dat dog-rose can be.
Young Miss Sal jes’ come from school:
Freddy, fresh from groun’ an’ grub,
Pick de dog-rose off de tree,
Gib Miss Sal to prove his lub.
Then I watch on as dem kiss
Right aroun’ de corner-stone,
An’ my heart grow vex’ fe see
How dem foolish when alone.
An’ I listen to deir talk,
As dey say dey will be true;
“Eber true” I hear dem pledge,
An’ dat naught can part dem two.
Sittin’ on a bamboo low;
Seems him guess, jes’ like mese’f
How de whole t’ing gwin’ fe go.
Time gwon, an’ de rose is not:
I see Fred, wi’ eyes all dim,
Huggin’ up de corner-stone,
For his love has jilted him;
Left him for anedder man
Wid a pile o’ money,
Dat he carried from his land
O’ de Injin coney.
Wonder whe’ de petchary?
De rose-tree is dead an’ gone;
Sal sit in de big great-house,
Cooin’ to her baby son.
1912
A Midnight Woman to the Bobby
No palm me up, you dutty brute,
You’ jam mout’ mash like ripe bread-fruit;
You fas’n now, but wait lee ya,
I’ll see you grunt under de law.
You t’ink you wise, but we wi’ see;
You not de fus’ one fas’ wid me;
I’ll lib fe see dem tu’n you out,
As sure as you got dat mash’ mout’.
I born right do’n beneat’ de clack
(You ugly brute, you tu’n you’ back?)
Don’ t’ink dat I’m a come-aroun’,
I born right ’way in ’panish Town.
Care how you try, you caan’ do mo’
Dan many dat was hyah befo’;
Yet whe’ dey all o’ dem te-day?
De buccra dem no kick dem ’way?
Ko ’pon you’ jam samplatta nose:
’Cos you wear Mis’r Koshaw clo’es
You t’ink say you’s de only man,
Yet fus’ time ko how you be’n ’tan’.
You big an’ ugly ole tu’n-foot
Be’n neber know fe wear a boot;
An’ chigger nyam you’ tumpa toe,
Till nit full i’ like herrin’ roe.
You come from mountain naked-’kin,
An’ Lard a mussy! you be’n thin,
For all de bread-fruit dem be’n done,
Bein’ ’poil’ up by de tearin’ sun:
De coco couldn’ bear at all,
For, Lard! de groun’ was pure white-marl;
An’ t’rough de rain part o’ de year
De mango tree dem couldn’ bear.
An’ when de pinch o’ time you feel
A ’pur you a you’ chigger heel,
You lef you’ district, big an’ coarse,
An’ come join buccra Police Force.
An’ now you don’t wait fe you’ glass,
But trouble me wid you’ jam fas’;
But wait, me frien’, you’ day wi’ come,
I’II see you go same lak a some.
Say wha’?—’res’ me?—you go to hell!
You t’ink Judge don’t know unno well?
You t’ink him gwin’ go sentance me
Widout a soul fe witness i’?
1911
“Husban’, I am goin’—
Though de brooklet is a-flowin’,
An’ de coolin’ breeze is blowin’
Softly by;
Hark, how strange de cow is mooin’,
An’ our Jennie’s pigeons cooin’,
While I feel de water growin’,
Climbing high.
“Akee trees are laden,
But de yellow leaves are fadin’
Like a young an’ bloomin’ maiden
Fallen low;
In de pond de ducks are wadin’
While my body longs for Eden,
An’ my weary breat’ is gledin’
’Way from you.
“See dem John-crows flyin’!
’Tis a sign dat I am dyin’;
Oh, I’m wishful to be lyin’
All alone:
Fait’ful husban’, don’t go cryin’,
Life is one long self-denyin’
All-surrenderin’ an’ sighin’
Livin’ moan.”
“Wife, de parson’s prayin’,
Won’t you listen what he’s sayin’,
Spend de endin’ of your day in
Christ our Lord?”
But de sound of horses neighin’,
Baain’ goats an’ donkeys brayin’,
Twitt’rin’ birds an’ children playin’
Was all she heard.
Things she had been rearin’,
Only those could claim her hearin’,
When de end we had been fearin’
Now had come:
Now her last pain she is bearin’,
Now de final scene is nearin’,
An’ her vacant eyes are starin’
On her home.
Oh! it was heart-rendin’
As we watched de loved life endin’,
Dat sweet sainted spirit bendin’
To de death:
Gone all further hope of mendin’,
With de angel Death attendin’,
An’ his slayin’ spirit blendin’
With her breath.
1912
Kite-Flying
Higher fly, my pretty kite,
Over distant towers;
Paper-made, red, blue an’ white,
All my fav’rite colours.
As up an’ up an’ up you mount
On your way to heaven,
Thoughts come, which I cannot count,
Of the times I’ve striven
Just to soar away like you,
Rising to a happier sphere
Deep within yon skies of blue,
Far from all de strife an’ care.
You have got you’ singer on,
Let me hear your singing,
Hear you’ pleasant bee-like tone
On de breezes ringing.
Wider dash your streamin’ tail,
Keep it still a-dancin’!
As across de ditch you sail,
By the tree-tops glancin’.
Messengers I send along,
Lee round papers of bright red;
Up they go to swell you’ song,
Climbin’ on the slimber t’read.
Higher fly, my pretty kite,
Higher, ever higher;
Draw me with you to your height
Out the earthly mire.
1912
Ione
Say if you lub me, do tell me truly,
Ione, Ione;
For, O me dearie, not’in’ can part we,
Ione, Ione.
Under de bamboo, where de fox-tail grew,
Ione, Ione,
While de cool breeze blew—sweet, I did pledge you,
Ione, Ione.
Where calalu grows, an’ yonder brook flows,
Ione, Ione,
I held a dog-rose under your li’l nose,
Ione, Ione.
There where de lee stream plays wid de sunbeam,
Ione, Ione,
True be’n de love-gleam as a sweet day-dream,
Ione, Ione.
Watchin’ de bucktoe under de shadow,
Ione, Ione,
Of a pear-tree low dat in de stream grow,
Ione, Ione,
Mek me t’ink how when we were lee children,
Ione, Ione,
We used to fishen in old Carew Pen,
Ione, Ione.
Like tiny meshes, curl your black tresses,
Ione, Ione,
An’ my caresses tek widout blushes,
Ione, Ione.
Kiss me, my airy winsome lee fairy,
Ione, Ione;
Are you now weary, little canary,
Ione, Ione?
Then we will go, pet, as it is sunset,
Ione, Ione;
Tek dis sweet vi’let, we will be one yet,
Ione, Ione.
1912
Killin’ Nanny
Two little pickny is watchin’,
While a goat is led to deat’;
Dey are little ones of two years,
An’ know naught of badness yet.
De goat is bawlin’ fe mussy,
An’ de children watch de sight
As de butcher re’ch his sharp knife,
An’ ’tab wid all his might.
An’ one chil’ trimble an’ hide
His face in de mudder’s bosom,
While t’udder look on wide-eyed.
De tears is fallin’ down hotly
From him on de mudder’s knee;
De udder wid joy is starin’,
An’ clappin’ his han’s wid glee.
When dey had forgotten Nanny,
Grown men I see dem again;
An’ de forehead of de laugher
Was brand’ wid de mark of Cain.
1912
My Native Land, My Home
Dere is no land dat can compare
Wid you where’er I roam;
In all de wul’ none like you fair,
My native land, my home.
Jamaica is de nigger’s place,
No mind whe’ some declare;
Although dem call we “no-land race,”
I know we home is here.
You give me life an’ nourishment,
No udder land I know;
My lub I neber can repent,
For all to you I owe.
E’en ef you mek me beggar die,
I’ll trust you all de same,
An’ none de less on you rely,
Nor saddle you wid blame.
Though you may cas’ me from your breas’
An’ trample me to deat’,
My heart will trus’ you none de less,
My land I won’t feget.
An’ I hope none o’ your sons would
Refuse deir strengt’ to lend,
An’ drain de last drop o’ deir blood
Their country to defend.
You draw de t’ousan’ from deir shore,
An’ all ’long keep dem please’;
De invalid come here fe cure,
You heal all deir disease.
Your fertile soil grow all o’ t’ings
To full de naygur’s wants,
’Tis seamed wid neber-failing springs
To give dew to de plants.
You hab all t’ings fe mek life bles’,
But buccra ’poil de whole
Wid gove’mint an’ all de res’,
Fe worry naygur soul.
Still all dem little chupidness
Caan’ tek away me lub;
De time when I’ll tu’n ’gains’ you is
When you can’t give me grub.
1912
Two-an’-Six
Merry voices chatterin’,
Nimble feet dem patterin’,
Big an’ little, faces gay,
Happy day dis market day.
Soon, soon market-people wake;
An’ de light shine from de moon
While dem boy, wid pantaloon
Roll up ober dem knee-pan,
’Tep across de buccra lan’
To de pastur whe’ de harse
Feed along wid de jackass,
An’ de mule cant’ in de track
Wid him tail up in him back,
All de ketchin’ to defy,
No ca’ how dem boy might try.
In de early marnin’-tide,
When de cocks crow on de hill
An’ de stars are shinin’ still,
Mirrie by de fireside
Hots de coffee for de lads
Comin’ ridin’ on de pads
T’rown across dem animul—
Donkey, harse too, an’ de mule,
Which at last had come do’n cool.
On de bit dem hol’ dem full:
Racin’ ober pastur’ lan’,
See dem comin’ ebery man,
Comin’ fe de steamin’ tea
Ober hilly track an’ lea.
Hard-wuk’d donkey on de road
Trottin’ wid him ushal load,—
Hamper pack’ wi’ yam an’ grain,
Sour-sop, an’ Gub’nor cane.
Cous’ Sun sits in hired dray,
Drivin’ ’long de market way;
Whole week grindin’ sugar-cane
T’rough de boilin’ sun an’ rain,
Now, a’ter de toilin’ hard,
He goes seekin’ his reward,
While he’s thinkin’ in him min’
Of de dear ones lef’ behin’,
Of de loved though ailin’ wife,
Darlin’ treasure of his life,
An’ de picknies, six in all,
Whose ’nuff burdens ’pon him fall:
Seben lovin’ ones in need,
Seben hungry mouths fe feed;
On deir wants he thinks alone,
Neber dreamin’ of his own,
But gwin’ on wid joyful face
Till him re’ch de market-place.
Sugar bears no price te-day,
Though it is de mont’ o’ May,
When de time is hellish hot,
An’ de water-cocoanut
An’ de cane bebridge is nice,
Mix’ up wid a lilly ice.
Big an’ little, great an’ small,
Afou yam is all de call;
Sugar tup an’ gill a quart,
Yet de people hab de heart
Wantin’ brater top o’ i’,
Want de sweatin’ higgler fe
Ram de pan an’ pile i’ up,
Yet sell i’ fe so-so tup.
Cousin Sun is lookin’ sad,
As de market is so bad;
’Pon him han’ him res’ him chin,
Quietly sit do’n thinkin’
Of de loved wife sick in bed,
An’ de children to be fed—
What de labourers would say
When dem know him couldn’ pay;
Also what about de mill
Whe’ him hire from ole Bill;
So him think, an’ think on so,
Till him t’oughts no more could go.
Then he got up an’ began
Pickin’ up him sugar-pan:
In his ears rang t’rough de din
“Only two-an’-six a tin!”
What a tale he’d got to tell,
How bad, bad de sugar sell!
Tekin’ out de lee amount,
Him set do’n an’ begin count;
All de time him min’ deh doubt
How expenses would pay out;
Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks,
Sugar sell fe two-an’-six!
So he journeys on de way,
Feelin’ sad dis market day;
No e’en buy a little cake
To gi’e baby when she wake,—
Passin’ ’long de candy-shop
’Douten eben mek a stop
To buy drops fe las’y son,
For de lilly cash nea’ done.
So him re’ch him own a groun’,
An’ de children scamper roun’,
Each one stretchin’ out him han’,
Lookin’ to de poor sad man.
Oh, how much he felt de blow,
As he watched dem face fall low,
When dem wait an’ nuttin’ came
An’ drew back deir han’s wid shame!
But de sick wife kissed his brow:
“Sun, don’t get down-hearted now;
Ef we only pay expense
We mus’ wuk we common-sense,
Cut an’ carve, an’ carve an’ cut,
Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut’;
We mus’ try mek two ends meet
Neber mind how hard be it.
We won’t mind de haul an’ pull,
While dem pickny belly full.”
An’ him felt an inward peace,
As he blessed his better part
For her sweet an’ gentle heart:
“Dear one o’ my heart, my breat’,
Won’t I lub you to de deat’?
When my heart is weak an’ sad,
Who but you can mek it glad?”
So dey kissed an’ kissed again,
An’ deir t’oughts were not on pain,
But was ’way down in de sout’
Where dey’d wedded in deir yout’,
In de marnin’ of deir life
Free from all de grief an’ strife,
Happy in de marnin’ light,
Never thinkin’ of de night.
So dey k’lated eberyt’ing;
An’ de profit it could bring,
A’ter all de business fix’,
Was a princely two-an’-six.
1912
Compensation
Dere is a rest-place for de weary feet,
An’ for de bitter cup a conquering sweet:
For sore an’ burdened hearts dere’ll be a balm,
And after days of tempest comes a calm.
For every smallest wrong dere is a right,
An’ t’rough de dark shall gleam a ray of light:
Oppression for a season may endure,
But ’tis true wud, “For ebery ill a cure.”
Den let me not t’ink hard of those who use
Deir power tyrannously an’ abuse:
Let me remember always while I live,
De noblest of all deeds is to forgive.
This, not revenge, is sweet: this lif’s de soul
An’ meks it wort’ while in a empty wul’:
Far better than an old an’ outworn creed
’Tis each day to do one such noble deed.
1912
Heartless Rhoda
Kiss me, as you want it so;
Lub me, ef it wort’ de while;
Yet I feel it an’ I know
Dat, as t’rough de wul’ you go,
You will oft look back an’ smile
At de t’ings which you now do.
Tek me to de church te-day,
Call me wife as you go home;
Hard fate, smilin’ at us, say
Dat de whole is so-so play;
Soon de ushal en’ will come,
An’ we both will choice our way.
Spare you’ breat’, me husban’ true,
I be’n marry you fe fun:
Lub dat las’ long is a few,
An’ I hadn’ much fe you.
I be’n tell you it would done,
All whe’ come is wha’ you do.
Life I only care to see
In de way dat udders live;
I experiment to be
All dat fate can mek o’ me:
For I’m hopin’ to be free.
1912
A Dream
The roosters give the signal for daybreak,
And through my window pours the grey of morn;
Refreshing breezes fan me as I wake,
And down the valley sounds the wesly horn.
Day broadens, and I ope the window wide,
And brilliant sunbeams, mixing, rush between
The gaping blinds, while down at my bedside
I kneel to utter praise to the Unseen.
The torch-light glistens through the wattle-pane,
And clouds of smoke wreathe upward to the skies;
My brother at the squeezer juices cane,
And visions of tea-hour before me rise.
Leaving the valley’s cup the fleeting fog
Steals up the hill-sides decked with sunbeams rare,
Which send their search-rays ’neath the time-worn log,
And drive the sleeping majoes from their lair.
But there are some that yest’reve was the last
For them to sleep into their watery bed;
For now my treacherous fish-pot has them fast,
Their cruel foe which they had so long dread’.
Right joyfully I hear the school-bell ring,
And by my sister’s side away I trot;
I’m happy as the swee-swees on the wing,
And feel naught but contentment in my lot.
I lightly gambol on the school-yard green,
And where the damsels by the bamboo grove
In beautiful and stately growth are seen,
For tiny shiny star-apples I rove.
The morning wind blows softly past my door,
And we prepare for work with gladsome heart;
Sweetly the wesly horn resounds once more,
A warning that ’tis time for us to start.
I scamper quickly ’cross the fire-burnt soil,
And the coarse grass-tufts prick my tender feet;
I watch my father at his honest toil,
And wonder how he stands the sun’s fierce heat.
A winding footpath down the woodland leads,
And through the tall fox-tails I wend my way
Down to the brooklet where the pea-dove feeds,
And bucktoes in the water are at play.
And watching as the bubbles rise and fall,
I hear above the murmur of the dale
The tropic music dear to great and small,
The joyous outburst of the nightingale.
Gone now those happy days when all was blest,
For I have left my home and kindred dear;
In a strange place I am a stranger’s guest,
The pains, the real in life, I’ve now to bear.
No more again I’ll idle at my will,
Running the mongoose down upon the lea;
No more I’ll jostle Monty up the hill,
To pick the cashews off the laden tree.
I feel the sweetness of those days again,
And hate, so hate, on the past scenes to look;
All night in dreaming comes the awful pain,
All day I groan beneath the iron yoke.
In mercy then, ye Gods, deal me swift death!
Ah! you refuse, and life instead you give;
You keep me here and still prolong my breath,
That I may suffer all the days I live.
’Tis home again, but not the home of yore;
Sadly the scenes of bygone days I view,
And as I walk the olden paths once more,
My heart grows chilly as the morning dew.
But see! to-day again my life is glad,
My heart no more is lone, nor will it pine;
A comfort comes, an earthly fairy clad
In white, who guides me with her hand in mine.
Her lustrous eyes gleam only tender love,
And viewing her, an angel form I see;
I feed my spirit on my gentle dove,
My sweetheart Lee, my darling Idalee.
And where the peenies glow with greenish fire,
We kiss and kiss and pledge our hearts as true;
Of sweet love-words and hugs we never tire,
But felt more sorry that they were so few.
I leave my home again, wand’ring afar,
But goes with me her true, her gentle heart,
Ever to be my hope, my guiding star,
And whisperings of comfort to impart.
Methinks we’re strolling by the woodland stream,
And my frame thrills with joy to hear her sing:
But, O my God! ’tis all—’tis all a dream;
This is the end, the rude awakening.
1912
Dey read ’em again an’ again,
An’ laugh an’ cry at ’em in turn;
I felt I was gettin’ quite vain,
But dere was a lesson fe learn.
My poverty quickly took wing,
Of life no experience had I;
I couldn’ then want anyt’ing
Dat kindness or money could buy.
Dey tek me away from me lan’,
De gay o’ de wul’ to behold,
An’ roam me t’rough palaces gran’,
An’ show’red on me honour untold.
I went to de ballroom at night,
An’ danced wid de belles of de hour;
Half dazed by de glitterin’ light,
I lounged in de palm-covered bower.
I flirted wid beautiful girls,
An’ drank o’ de wine flowin’ red;
I felt my brain movin’ in whirls,
An’ knew I was losin’ my head.
But soon I was tired of it all,
My spirit was weary to roam;
De life grew as bitter as gall,
I hungered again for my home.
Te-day I am back in me lan’,
Forgotten by all de gay throng,
A poorer but far wiser man,
An’ knowin’ de right from de wrong.
1912
We sit beneat’ de yampy shade,
My lee sweetheart an’ I;
De gully ripples ’cross de glade,
Tom Rafflins hurry by.
Her pa an’ ma about de fiel’
Are brukin’ sugar-pine;
An’ plenty, plenty is de yiel’,
Dem look so pink an’ fine.
We listen to a rapturous chune
Outpourin’ from above;
De swee-swees, blithesome birds of June,
They sing to us of love.
She plays wid de triangle leaves,
Her hand within mine slips;
She murmurs love, her bosom heaves,
I kiss her ripe, ripe lips.
De cockstones raise deir droopin’ heads
To view her pretty feet;
De skellions trimble in deir beds,
Dey grudge our lub so sweet—
Love sweeter than a bridal dream,
A mudder’s fondest kiss;
Love purer than a crystal stream,
De height of eart’ly bliss.
We hear again de swee-swees’ song
Outpourin’ on de air;
Dey sing for yout’, an’ we are young
An’ know naught ’bouten care.
We sit beneat’ de yampy shade,
We pledge our hearts anew;
De swee-swees droop, de bell-flowers fade
Before our love so true.
1912
To Inspector W. E. Clark
(On the Eve of His Departure for England)
Farewell, dear Sir, a sad farewell!
An’ as across the deep you sail,
Bon voyage we wish you:
We love you deepest as we can,
As officer an’ gentleman,
With love sincere an’ true.
Though often you have been our judge,
We never owed you one lee grudge,
For you were always fair:
So, as the sad farewell we say,
May Neptune guide you, Sir, we pray,
With ever watchful care.
But as you travel to our home,
Sad are the strange thoughts which will come,
Bringin’ an aching pain;
That as this is a fitful life,
With disappointments ever rife,
We may not meet again.
Yet while our hearts are filled with grief,
The god of hope brings sweet relief
An’ bids us not despair:
Of all our thoughts we cannot tell,
But wish you, Sir, a fond farewell,
A farewell of good cheer.
1912
To Clarendon Hills and H. A. H.
Loved Clarendon hills,
Dear Clarendon hills,
Oh! I feel de chills,
Yes, I feel de chills
Coursin’ t’rough me frame
When I call your name,
Dear Clarendon hills,
Loved Clarendon hills.
Wand’rin’, wand’rin’ far,
Weary, wan’drin’ far
’Douten guidin’ star,
Not a guidin’ star,
Still my love’s for you
Ever, ever true,
Though I wander far,
Weary wander far.
H. A. H., my frien’,
Ever cherished frien’,
I’ll return again,
Yes, return again:
Think, O think of me
Tossed on life’s dark sea,
H. A. H., my frien’,
Dearest, fondest frien’.
Ah, dear frien’ o’ mine,
Love me, frien’ o’ mine,
Wid that love of thine
Passin’ love of womenkin’,
More dan love of womenkin’:
Clasp me to your breast,
Pillow me to rest,
Fait’ful frien’ o’ mine,
Truest frien’ o’ mine.
Sorrowin’ an’ sad,
Never min’ dat, lad,
Don’t you min’ dat, lad!
Live, O live your life,
Trample on de strife,
Though you may be sad,
Always, always sad.
Loved Clarendon hills,
Cherished frien’ o’ mine,
Oh, my bosom thrills,
Soul an’ body pine:
T’rough de wul’ I rove,
Pinin’ for your love,
Blest Clarendon hills,
Dearest frien’ o’ mine.
1912
When You Want a Bellyful
When you want a bellyful,
Tearin’ piece o’ one,
Mek up fire, wash you’ pot,
Full i’ wid cockstone.
Nuttin’ good as cockstone soup
For a bellyful;
Only, when you use i’ hot,
You can sweat no bull.
An’ to mek you know de trut’,
Dere’s anedder flaw;
Ef you use too much o’ i’,
It wi’ paunch you’ maw.
Growin’ wid de fat blue corn,
Pretty cockstone peas—
Drawin’ wuker bees—
We look on dem growin’ dere,
Pokin’ up dem head,
Lilly, lilly, t’rough de corn,
Till de pod dem shed.
An’ we watch de all-green pods
Stripin’ bit by bit;
Green leaves gettin’ yellow coat,
Showin dey were fit.
So we went an’ pull dem up,
Reaped a goodly lot,
Shell some o’ de pinkish grain,
Put dem in a pot.
But I tell you, Sir, again,
Cockstone soup no good;
From experience I t’ink
’Tis de wus’ o’ food.
When de reapin’-time come roun’,
I dry fe me part;
Sellin’ i’, when it get scarce,
For a bob a quart.
When you need a bellyful,
Gripin’ piece o’ one,
Shub up fire under pot,
Put in dry cockstone.
1912
Strokes of the Tamarind Switch
I dared not look at him,
My eyes with tears were dim,
Of man’s depravity,
I hurried through the gate.
I went but I returned,
While in my bosom burned
The monstrous wrong that we
Oft bring upon ourselves,
And yet we cannot see.
Poor little erring wretch!
The cutting tamarind switch
Had left its bloody mark,
And on his legs were streaks
That looked like boiling bark.
I spoke to him the while:
At first he tried to smile,
But the long pent-up tears
Came gushing in a flood;
He was but of tender years.
With eyes bloodshot and red,
He told me of a father dead
And lads like himself rude,
Who goaded him to wrong:
He for the future promised to be good.
The mother yesterday
Said she was sending him away,
Away across the seas:
She told of futile prayers
Said on her wearied knees.
I wished the lad good-bye,
And left him with a sigh:
Again I heard him talk—
His limbs, he said, were sore,
He could not walk.
A mother’s pride, a mother’s joy,
I too was very rude:
They beat me too, though not the same,
And has it done me good?
1912
My Pretty Dan
I have a póliceman down at de Bay,
An’ he is true to me though far away.
I love my pólice, and he loves me too,
An’ he has promised he’ll be ever true.
My little bobby is a darlin’ one,
An’ he’s de prettiest you could set eyes ’pon.
When he be’n station’ up de countryside,
Fus’ time I shun him sake o’ foolish pride.
But as I watched him patrolling his beat,
I got to find out he was nice an’ neat.
More still I foun’ out he was extra kin’,
An’ dat his precious heart was wholly mine.
Den I became his own a true sweetheart,
An’ while life last we’re hopin’ not fe part.
He wears a truncheon an’ a handcuff case,
An’ pretty cap to match his pretty face.
Dear lilly p’liceman stationed down de sout’,
I feel your kisses rainin’ on my mout’.
I could not give against a póliceman;
For if I do, how could I lub my Dan?
Prettiest of naygur is my dear police,
We’ll lub foreber, an’ our lub won’t cease.
I have a póliceman down at de Bay,
An’ he is true to me though far away.
1912
Ribber Come-Do’n
From de top o’ Clarendon hill
Chock down to Clarendon plain
De ribber is rushin’ an’ tearin’
’Count o’ de showers o’ rain.
An’ a mudder, anxious an’ sad,
Two whole days be’n gone away,
A-buyin’ fresh fish fe tu’n han’
Slap do’n at Old Harbour Bay.
But de dark ribber kept her back,
Dat night she couldn’ get home,
While a six-week-old baby wailed,
An’ wailed for a mudder to come.
An’ a fader too was away
’Cross de Minha wukin’ him groun’,
So him couldn’ get home dat night
Sake o’ de ribber come-do’n.
Dere were four udder little ones
’Sides de babe of six weeks old,
An’ dey cried an’ looked to no use,
An’ oh dey were hungry an’ cold!
So de lee fourteen-year-old gal,
De eldest one o’ de lot,
Was sad as she knelt by the babe
An’ byaed her on de cot.
Baby want go sleepy.”
She look ’pon de Manchinic tree,
Not a piece of mancha fe eat;
De Jack-fruit dem bear well anuff,
But dere wasn’t one o’ dem fit.
Nor puppa nor mumma could come,
Aldough it be’n now nightfall;
De rain pour do’n an’ de wind blow,
An’ de picknanies dem still bawl.
So de poo’ Milly ’tarted out
To whe’ a kin’ neighbour lib,
Fe see ef a bite o’ nenyam
Dem couldn’ p’raps manage fe gib.
“Ebenin’, cousin Anna,
Me deh beg you couple banna,
For dem tarra one is berry hungry home;
We puppa ober May, ma,
We mumma gone a Bay, ma,
An’ we caan’ tell warra time dem gwin’ go come.”
The kind district mother thought
Of her own boy far away,
An’ wondered much how he fared
In a foreign land that day.
She opened de cupboard door
An’ took from it warra be’n sabe,
A few bits o’ yam an’ lee meal,
An’ a pint o’ milk fe de babe.
De parents dat night couldn’ come,
De howlin’ wind didn’ lull,
But de picknanies went to bed
Wid a nuff nuff bellyful.
1912
“Lelia gal, why in this town do you stay?
Why, tell me, why did you wander away?
Why will you aimlessly foolishly roam,
Won’t you come back to your old country home?”
“Country life, Fed, has no pleasures for me,
I wanted de gay o’ de city to see,
To wear ebery Sunday a prettier gown,
Da’s why I came to de beautiful town.”
“Well, have you gotten de joys dat you sought?
If so, were not all o’ dem too dearly bought?
Yes, Liel, you do wear a prettier dress,
But have you not suffered, my girl, more or less?
“Hold up your head! look not down, tell me truth,
Have you not bartered your innocent youth?
Are you de Lelia, true Lelia, of old,
Or have you swopped out your honour for gold?”
“Fed, it was horrid de lone country life!
I suffered—for sometimes e’en hunger was rife;
An’ when I came, Fed, to try my chance here,
I thought there would be no more troubles to bear.
“But troubles there were an’ in plenty, my lad,
Oh, dey were bitter, an’ oh, I was sad!
Weary an’ baffled an’ hungry an’ lone,
I gave up my spirit to sigh an’ to moan.
“After dat?—O, Feddy, press me not so:
De truth?—well, I sank to de lowest of de low;
I gave up all honour, I took a new name
An’ tried to be happy, deep sunk in de shame.
“Dere was no, other way, Fed, I could live,
Dat was de gift dat a gay town could give;
I tried to be glad in de open daylight,
But sorrowed an’ moaned in de deep o’ de night.
“No, Fed, I never could go home again:
‘Worse than I left it?’ ah, there was de pain,
To meet up wid some o’ my former schoolmates
An’ listen to all o’ deir taunts an’ deir hates.
“Dere now, you bound me to tell you o’ all,
Of all de sad suff’rings dat led to my fall;
I’m gone past reclaiming, so what must I do
But live de bad life an’ mek de good go?”
“Lelia, I want you to come out de sin,
Come home an’ try a new life fe begin;
Mek up you min’, gal, fe wuk wid you’ han’,
Plant peas an’ corn in de fat country lan’.
“Dere is no life, gal, so pleasant, so good,
Contented and happy you’ll eat your lee food;
No one at home know ’bout wha’ you’ve jes’ said,
So, Liel, of exposure you needn’t be ’fraid.”
“Don’t t’ink I care ’bout exposure, my boy!
Dat which you call sin is now fe me joy;
Country for Lelia will have no more charm,
I’ll live on de same way, ’twill do me no harm.
“And after all, many gals richer than me,
Pretty white girlies of better degree,
Live as I do, an’ are happy an’ gay,
Then why should not I be as happy as they?”
1912
My Soldier-Lad
See yonder soldier-lad
In Zouave jacket clad?
His heart so bright an’ glad;
My soul an’ spirit combine
To love my soldier-lad.
O my dear lilly soldier-lad,
I am true an’ so are you;
And oh, my lovin’ heart is glad,
For I know that you are true.
My pretty soldier-boy,
He is my only joy:
He loves me with his might,
A love without alloy,
My one, my true delight,
My pretty soldier-boy.
O my dear lilly soldier-lad, etc.
My own lee soldier true,
He is a bandsman too;
An’ when he’s in the stand,
His sweet eyes playin’ blue,
He carries off the band,
My handsome soldier true.
O my dear lilly soldier-lad, etc.
My precious lilly pet,
He plays a clarinet:
De gals dem envy me,
But him they cannot get;
Dem hate we both to see,
Me an’ my precious pet.
O my dear lilly soldier-lad, etc.
Where coolin’ breezes blow,
An’ silvery gullies flow
Do’n t’rough de bamboo grove,
The amorous pea-doves coo:
While freshenin’ breezes blow.
O my dear lilly soldier-lad, etc.
My dear Bermudan lad
In baggy trousies clad,
I love you wid whole heart,
A heart that’s true an’ glad;
Our love can never part,
My darlin’ bandsy lad.
O my dear lilly soldier-lad, etc.
1912
My Mountain Home
De mango tree in yellow bloom,
De pretty akee seed,
De mammee where de John-to-whits come
To have their daily feed,
Show you de place where I was born,
Of which I am so proud,
’Mongst de banana-field an’ corn
On a lone mountain-road.
One Sunday marnin’ ’fo’ de hour
Fe service-time come on,
Ma say dat I be’n born to her
Her little las’y son.
Those early days be’n neber dull,
My heart was ebergreen;
How I did lub my little wul’
Surrounded by pingwin!
An’ growin’ up, with sweet freedom
About de yard I’d run;
An’ tired out I’d hide me from
De fierce heat of de sun.
So glad I was de fus’ day when
Ma sent me to de spring;
I was so happy feelin’ then
Dat I could do somet’ing.
De early days pass quickly ’long,
Soon I became a man,
An’ one day found myself among
Strange folks in a strange lan’.
My little joys, my wholesome min’,
Dey bullied out o’ me,
And made me daily mourn an’ pine
An’ wish dat I was free.
Dey taught me to distrust my life,
Dey taught me what was grief;
For months I travailed in de strife,
’Fo’ I could find relief.
But I’ll return again, my Will,
An’ where my wild ferns grow
An’ weep for me on Dawkin’s Hill,
Dere, Willie, I shall go.
An’ dere is somet’ing near forgot,
Although I lub it best;
It is de loved, de hallowed spot
Where my dear mother rest.
Look good an’ find it, Willie dear,
See dat from bush ’tis free;
Remember that my heart is near,
An’ you say you lub me.
An’ plant on it my fav’rite fern,
Which I be’n usual wear;
In days to come I shall return
To end my wand’rin’s dere.
1912
To Bennie
(In Answer to a Letter)
You say, dearest comrade, my love has grown cold,
But you are mistaken, it burns as of old;
And no power below, dearest lad, nor above,
Can ever lessen, frien’ Bennie, my love.
Could you but look in my eyes, you would see
That ’tis a wrong thought you have about me;
Could you but feel my hand laid on your head,
Never again would you say what you’ve said.
Naught, O my Bennie, our friendship can sever,
Dearly I love you, shall love you for ever;
Moment by moment my thoughts are of you,
Trust me, oh, trust me, for aye to be true.
1912
Hopping Off the Tram
It would not stop,
So I took a hop,
An’, Lard oh, my foot a miss!
It sent me do’n
Slam on de groun’,
An’ I had a dusty kiss.
With its hummin’ song,
An’ I too went my way;
But the sudden fall
I did recall,
And shall for many a day.
1912
To a Comrade
Little comrade, never min’
Though another is unkin’;
“Of de pain o’ dis ya wul’
We must suck we bellyful.”
Little comrade, moan not so,
Oh, you fill my heart with woe!
Sad I listen to your cries,
Can’t you ope your burnin’ eyes?
Little comrade, though ’tis hot,
Say you will revenge him not:
Talk not thus, you mek me grieve,
Promise me you will forgive.
Little comrade, never min’
Though a brother is unkin’;
Treat him kindest as you can,
Show yourself the better man.
1912
Jubba
My Jubba waiting dere fe me;
Me, knowin’, went out on de spree,
An’ she, she wait deh till midnight,
Bleach-bleachin’ in de cold moonlight:
An’ when at last I did go home
I found out dat she had just come,
An’ now she tu’n her back away,
An’ won’t listen a wud I say.
Forgive me, Jubba, Jubba dear,
As you are standing, standing there,
An’ I will no more mek you grieve,
My Jubba, ef you’ll but forgive.
I’ll go to no more dancing booth,
I’ll play no more wid flirty Ruth,
I didn’ mean a t’ing, Jubba,
I didn’ know you’d bex fe da’;
I only took two set o’ dance
An’ at de bidding tried me chance;
I buy de big crown-bread fe you,
An’ won’t you tek it, Jubba?—do.
Forgive me, Jubba, Jubba dear, etc.
It was a nice tea-meeting though,
None o’ de boy dem wasn’ slow,
An’ it was pack’ wid pretty gal,
So de young man was in dem sall;
But when I ’member you a yard
I know dat you would t’ink it hard,
Aldough, Jubba, ’twas sake o’ spite
Mek say you wouldn’ come te-night.
Forgive me, Jubba, Jubba dear, etc.
I lef’ you, Jub, in such a state,
I neber knew dat you would wait;
Yet all de while I couldn’ res’,
De t’ought o’ you was in me breas’;
So nummo time I couldn’ was’e,
But me go get me pillow-case
An’ put in deh you bread an’ cake—
Forgive me, Jubba, fe God sake!
Forgive me, Jubba, Jubba dear, etc.
1912