My playin' 's only middlin'--tunes I picked up when a boy-- The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy"; "The Old Fat Gal," and "Rye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea," Is the old cowtillions _I_ "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me; And so I plunk and plonk and plink, And rosum-up my bow And play the tunes that makes you think The devil's in your toe! I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth, A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth, And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks That wasn't worth a botton of anybody's thanks! But they tell me, when I ust to plink And plonk and plunk and play, My music seemed to have the kink O' drivin' cares away! That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love! From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above-- From her "apern," over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note! And so I pat her neck, and plink Her strings with lovin' hands,-- And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think She kindo' understands! THE CLOVER Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose, And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days; But what is the lilly and all of the rest Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew? I never set eyes on a clover-field now, Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again; And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above. And so I love clover--it seems like a part Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart; And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now; And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die, To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume. NEGHBORLY POEMS ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE BY BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE