American poetry -- 19th century; American poetry -- 20th century
All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last,—
The Movastar was a better boat,
But the Belle she _wouldn’t_ be passed.
And so she came tearin’ along that night—
The oldest craft on the line—
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clar’d the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned and made
For that wilier-bank on the right.
Thar was runnin’ and cussin’, but Jim yelled out,
Over all the infernal roar,
“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot’s ashore.”
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boat
Jim Bludso’s voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,—
And Bludso’s ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He warn’t no saint,—but at jedgement
I’d run my chance with Jim,
’Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn’t shook hands with him.
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,—
And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain’t a goin’ to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
BANTY TIM
(_Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the White Man’s Committee of Spunky
Point, Illinois_)
I reckon I git your drift, gents,—
You ’low the boy sha’n’t stay;
This is a white man’s country;
You’re Dimocrats, you say;
And whereas, and seein’, and wherefore,
The times bein’ all out o’ j’int,
The nigger has got to mosey
From the limits o’ Spunky P’int!
Le’s reason the thing a minute:
I’m an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,
Though I laid my politics out o’ the way
For to keep till the war was through.
But I come back here, allowin’
To vote as I used to do,
Though it gravels me like the devil to train
Along o’ sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats ef I kin see,
In all the light of the day,
What you’ve got to do with the question
Ef Tim shill go or stay.
And furder than that I give notice,
Ef one of you tetches the boy,
He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime
Than he’ll find in Illanoy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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