There in the heat of the battle, There in the stir of the fight, Loomed he, an ebony giant, Black as the pinions of night. Swinging his scythe like a mower Over a field of grain, Needless the care of the gleaners, Where he had passed amain. Straight through the human harvest, Cutting a bloody swath, Woe to you, soldier of Briton! Death is abroad in his path. Flee from the scythe of the reaper, Flee while the moment is thine, None may with safety withstand him, Black Samson of Brandywine. Was he a freeman or bondman? Was he a man or a thing? What does it matter? His brav'ry Renders him royal--a king. If he was only a chattel, Honor the ransom may pay Of the royal, the loyal black giant Who fought for his country that day. Noble and bright is the story, Worthy the touch of the lyre, Sculptor or poet should find it Full of the stuff to inspire. Beat it in brass and in copper, Tell it in storied line, So that the world may remember Black Samson of Brandywine. THE LOOKING-GLASS Dinah stan' befo' de glass, Lookin' moughty neat, An' huh purty shadder sass At huh haid an' feet. While she sasshay 'roun' an' bow, Smilin' den an' poutin' now, An' de lookin'-glass, I 'low, Say: "Now, ain't she sweet?" All she do, de glass it see, Hit des see, no mo', Seems to me, hit ought to be Drappin' on de flo'. She go w'en huh time git slack, Kissin' han's an' smilin' back, Lawsy, how my lips go smack, Watchin' at de do'. Wisht I was huh lookin'-glass, Wen she kissed huh han'; Does you t'ink I 'd let it pass, Settin' on de stan'? No; I'd des' fall down an' break, Kin' o' glad 't uz fu' huh sake; But de diffunce, dat whut make Lookin'-glass an' man. A MISTY DAY Heart of my heart, the day is chill, The mist hangs low o'er the wooded hill, The soft white mist and the heavy cloud The sun and the face of heaven shroud. The birds are thick in the dripping trees, That drop their pearls to the beggar breeze; No songs are rife where songs are wont, Each singer crouches in his haunt. Heart of my heart, the day is chill, Whene'er thy loving voice is still, The cloud and mist hide the sky from me, Whene'er thy face I cannot see. My thoughts fly back from the chill without, My mind in the storm drops doubt on doubt, No songs arise. Without thee, love, My soul sinks down like a frightened dove. LI'L' GAL Oh, de weathah it is balmy an' de breeze is sighin' low. Li'l' gal, An' de mockin' bird is singin' in de locus' by de do', Li'l' gal; Dere 's a hummin' an' a bummin' in de lan' f'om eas' to wes', I 's a-sighin' fu' you, honey, an' I nevah know no res'. Fu' dey 's lots o' trouble brewin' an' a-stewin' in my breas', Li'l' gal.