For several years Irwin Russell was an interesting and valued contributor to Scribner’s Monthly, and some of his poems have appeared since his death, in The Century. The productions were mostly of the negro dialect order, and occasionally they consisted of Irish sketches in verse. About the last thing published was an Irish dialect poem, entitled Larry’s on the Force, which appeared in The Century. The poem tells in the fourth verse of Larry’s appearance as a policeman: “He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you’d think he owned the town, And houlds his shtick convenient to be tappin’ some wan down-- Aich blissed day, I watch to see him comin’ up the sthrate, For by the greatest bit of luck, our house is on his bate.” Russell’s crowning effort was a piece of dialect verse entitled The First Banjo. It appeared in Scribner’s, and is worthy of reprint here: THE FIRST BANJO. Go ’way fiddle!--folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’. Keep silence fur yo’ betters--don’t you heah de banjo talkin’? About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!-- About de ha’r what isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’. “Dar’s gwine to be an oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn-- For Noah tuk the Herald, an’ he read de ribber column-- An’ so he sot his hands to work a-cl’arin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah “Natchez.” Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’, an’ a-chippin’, an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighboirs kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em--knowin’ what wuz gwine to happen; An’ forty days and forty nights de rain it kept a-drappin’. Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebery sort o’ beas’es-- Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’ it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt, an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle-- An’ drew ’em ’board de ark as soon’s he heared de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby De ribber riz immegitly, an’ bursted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out--’cept Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to work de boat--an’ one to mix de bitters. De ark she kep’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’; De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’-- De sarpints hissed--de painters yelled--tell--what wid all de fussin’, You c’u’d’n’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ roun’ an’ cussin’. Now, Ham, de only niggar what wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, for to amuse he-self, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge, an’ screws, an’ apron; An’ fitted in a proper neck--’twas bery long and tap’rin’; He tuk some tin and twisted him a thimble for to ring it; An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?