Thy wooded lanes with shade and gleam Where bloomed the fragrant asphodel, Now bleak commercially teem With signs "To Let," "To Buy," "To Sell." And Commerce holds them fierce and fell; With vulgar sport she now combines Sweet Nature's piping voice to quell. Arcadia has trolley lines. L'ENVOI. Oh, awful Power whose works repel The marvel of the earth's designs,-- I 'll hie me otherwhere to dwell, Arcadia has trolley lines. SPEAKIN' AT DE COU'T-HOUSE Dey been speakin' at de cou't-house, An' laws-a-massy me, 'T was de beatness kin' o' doin's Dat evah I did see. Of cose I had to be dah In de middle o' de crowd, An' I hallohed wid de othahs, Wen de speakah riz and bowed. I was kind o' disapp'inted At de smallness of de man, Case I 'd allus pictered great folks On a mo' expansive plan; But I t'ought I could respect him An' tek in de wo'ds he said, Fu' dey sho was somp'n knowin' In de bald spot on his haid. But hit did seem so't o' funny Aftah waitin' fu' a week Dat de people kep' on shoutin' So de man des could n't speak; De ho'ns dey blared a little, Den dey let loose on de drums,--. Some one toll me dey was playin' "See de conkerin' hero comes." "Well," says I, "you all is white folks, But you 's sutny actin' queer, What's de use of heroes comin' Ef dey cain't talk w'en dey's here?" Aftah while dey let him open, An' dat man he waded in, An' he fit de wahs all ovah Winnin' victeries lak sin. Wen he come down to de present, Den he made de feathahs fly. He des waded in on money, An' he played de ta'iff high. An' he said de colah question, Hit was ovah, solved, an' done, Dat de dahky was his brothah, Evah blessed mothah's son. Well he settled all de trouble Dat's been pesterin' de lan', Den he set down mid de cheerin' An' de playin' of de ban'. I was feelin' moughty happy 'Twell I hyeahed somebody speak, "Well, dat's his side of de bus'ness, But you wait for Jones nex' week." BLACK SAMSON OF BRANDYWINE "In the fight at Brandywine, Black Samson, a giant negro armed with a scythe, sweeps his way through the red ranks...." C. M. Skinner's "_Myths and Legends of Our Own Land_." Gray are the pages of record, Dim are the volumes of eld; Else had old Delaware told us More that her history held. Told us with pride in the story, Honest and noble and fine, More of the tale of my hero, Black Samson of Brandywine. Sing of your chiefs and your nobles, Saxon and Celt and Gaul, Breath of mine ever shall join you, Highly I honor them all. Give to them all of their glory, But for this noble of mine, Lend him a tithe of your tribute, Black Samson of Brandywine.